THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 


COMMODORE  BYRON  MCCANDLESS 


•  *« 


THE 


POETS   AND   POETRY 


AMERICA. 


WITH   AN  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 


BY  RUFUS  WILMOT  GKISWOLD. 


HERE  THE   FREE  SPIRIT   OP   MANKIND   AT   LENGTH 
THROWS  ITS  LAST   FETTERS   OFF  J    AND  WHO   SHALL  PLACE 
A  LIMIT  TO  THE   GIANT'S   UNCHAINED   STRENGTH? 

BRYANT. 

ERE  LONG,  THINE   EVERY   STREAM   SH4LL  FIND   A  TONGTJK, 
LAND   OF   THE  MANY   WATERS!  HOFFMAN. 

THIS   BE  THE  POET'S   PRAISE, 
THAT   HE   HATH   EVER   BEEN   OF   LIBERTY 
THE  STEADIEST   FRIEND  j   OF   JUSTICE  AND   OK  TRUTH 
FIRMEST    OF   ALL  SUPPORTERS;   OF   HIGH  THOUGHTS, 
AND   ALL  THE  BEAUTY   OF  THE  INNER   WORLD, 
CREATOR.  AMERICAN  PROSPECTS— 11^3 


EIGHTH   EDITION,    REVISED    AND   ENLARGED,    WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY  AND  HART,  CHESNUT   STREET. 
1847. 


ENTERED,  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  YEAR  1842,  BY  CAREY  Sf  HART,  IN  THE  OFFICE  OJ  THE 
CLERK  OF  THE  DISTRICT  COURT  OF  THE  EASTERN  DISTRICT  OF  PENNSYLVANI> 


STEREOTYPED    BY    L.    JOHNSON    &  CO. 

PHILADELPHIA. 
PRINTED  BY  T.  K.  &  P.  O.  COLLIXS. 


g 


TO 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON, 


THE    ELDEST    OF    THE    LIVING    POETS    OF    AMERICA, 


AND     THE 


MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  OF  HER  PAINTERS, 


<EI)ts  tDork 


IS    RESPECTFULLY    DEDICATED. 


ill 


*>- 


THE  fact  that  an  eighth  edition  of  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America"  is 
demanded  within  five  years  from  the  time  of  its  first  publication  is  a  gratifying 
evidence  of  the  increasing  interest  felt  in  our  literature. 

The  work  was  in  the  first  place  too  hastily  prepared.  There  was  difficulty 
in  procuring  materials,  and  in  deciding,  where  so  many  had  some  sort  of  claim 
to  the  title,  whom  to  regard  as  Poets.  There  had  been  published  in  this  country 
about  five  hundred  volumes  of  rhythmical  compositions,  of  various  kinds  and 
degrees  of  merit,  nearly  all  of  which  I  read  with  more  or  less  attention.  From 
the  mass  I  chose  about  one-fifth,  as  containing  writings  not  unworthy  of  notice 
in  such  a  survey  of  this  part  of  our  literature  as  I  proposed  to  make.  I  have 
been  censured,  perhaps  justly,  for  the  wide  range  of  my  selections.  But  I 
did  not  consider  all  the  contents  of  the  volume  genuine  Poetry.  I  aimed 
merely  to  show  what  had  been  accomplished  toward  a  Poetical  Literature  in  the 
first  half  century  of  our  national  existence.  With  much  of  the  first  order  of 
excellence  I  accepted  more  that  was  comparatively  poor.  But  I  believe  I 
admitted  nothing  inferior  to  passages  in  the  most  celebrated  foreign  works  of 
like  character.  I  have  also  been  condemned  for  omissions.  But  on  this  score  I 
have  no  regrets.  I  can  think  of  no  name  not  included  in  the  first  edition  which  I 
would  now  admit  without  better  credentials  than  were  before  me  when  that 
edition  was  printed. 

Since  the  year  1841  new  poets  have  appeared,  and  some  of  our  old  writers 
have  produced  new  poems.  In  revising  this  work  I  have  made  such  improve- 
ments as  were  thus  rendered  possible  and  necessary.  I  trust  it  will  be  found 
more  than  ever  to  merit  the  favour  with  which  it  has  been  received. 

PHILADELPHIA,  April,  1847. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


THIS  book  is  designed  to  exhibit  the  progress  and  condition  of  Poetry  in 
the  United  States.  It  contains  selections  from  a  large  number  of  authors,  all  of 
whom  have  lived  in  the  brief  period  which  has  elapsed  since  the  establishment 
of  the  national  government.  Considering  the  youth  of  the  country,  and  the  many 
circumstances  which  have  had  a  tendency  to  retard  the  advancement  of  letters 
here,  it  speaks  well  for  the  past  and  present,  and  cheeringly  for  the  future. 

Although  America  has  produced  many  eminent  scholars  and  writers,  we 
have  yet  but  the  beginning  of  a  National  Literature.  EDWARDS  and  MARSH, 
in  metaphysics ;  DWIGHT,  EMMONS,  ALEXANDER,  STUART,  BUSH,  WILLIAMS, 
ROBINSON,  NORTON,  HODGE  and  BARNES,  in  Theology  ;  HAMILTON,  MADISON, 
WEBSTER  and  CALHOUN,  in  Politics  ;  STORY,  KENT  and  WHEATON,  in  Ju- 
risprudence ;  PRESCOTT  and  BANCROFT,  in  History ;  BROWN,  COOPER,  IRVING, 
KENNEDY,  BIRD,  WARE,  HOFFMAN  and  HAWTHORNE,  in  Romantic  Fiction  ; 
BRYANT,  DANA,  HALLECK,  LONGFELLOW,  WHITTIER,  and  others  whose  names 
are  in  this  volume,  in  Poetry ;  and  AUDUBON,  CHANNING,  EVERETT,  EMERSON, 
BROWNSON,  VERPLANCK,  and  many  more,  in  the  various  departments  of  Lite- 
rature, have  written  for  the  coming  ages.  But  too  few  of  them,  it  must  be 
confessed,  are  free  from  that  vassalage  of  opinion  and  style  which  is  produced 
by  a  constant  study  of  the  Literature  of  the  country  from  which  we  inherit 
our  language,  our  tastes,  and  our  manners. 

It  is  said  that  the  principles  of  our  heroic  age  are  beginning  to  be  re- 
garded with  indifference ;  that  patriotism  is  decaying ;  that  the  affections 
of  the  people  are  passing  from  the  simplicity  of  a  democracy  to  the  gilded 
shows  of  an  aristocracy.  If  it  is  so,  it  is  because  our  opinions  and  feelings 
are  controlled  by  foreigners,  ignorant  of  our  condition  and  necessities,  and 
hostile  to  our  government  and  institutions.  And  it  will  continue  to  be  the  case 
until,  by  an  honest  and  judicious  system  of  RECIPROCAL  COPYRIGHT,  such 
protection  is  given  to  the  native  author  as  will  enable  our  best  writers  to  de- 
vote more  attention  to  letters,  which,  not  less  than  wealth,  add  to  a  nation's 


PREFACE    TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION. 


happiness  and  greatness  ;    and  should   receive  as  much  of  the  fostering  care 
of  government  as  is  extended  to  the  agriculturist  or  manufacturer. 

There  is  nothing  in  our  country  to  prevent  the  successful  cultivation  of 
literature  and  the  arts,  provided  the  government  places  our  own  authors 
upon  an  equality  with  their  foreign  rivals,  by  making  it  possible  to  publish 
their  works  at  the  same  prices.  A  National  Literature  is  not  necessarily 
confined  to  local  subjects ;  but  if  it  were,  we  have  no  lack  of  themes  for 
romance,  poetry,  or  any  other  sort  of  writing,  even  though  the  new  relations 
which  man  sustains  to  his  fellows  in  these  commonwealths  did  not  exist. 
The  perilous  adventures  of  the  Northmen  ;  the  noble  heroism  of  Columbus ; 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  Peruvian  and  Mexican  empires  ;  the  colonization  of 
New-England  by  the  Puritans ;  the  witchcraft  delusion  ;  the  persecution  of 
the  Quakers  and  Baptists  ;  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  French  dominion  in  the 
Canadas ;  the  overthrow  of  the  great  confederacy  of  the  Five  Nations  ;  the 
settlement  of  New- York,  Pennsylvania,  Maryland  and  Virginia,  by  people  of 
the  most  varied  and  picturesque  characters ;  the  beautiful  and  poetical  my- 
thology of  the  aborigines ;  and  that  revolution,  resulting  in  our  independence 
and  equal  liberty,  which  forms  a  barrier  between  the  traditionary  past  and  the 
'familiar  present:  all  abound  with  themes  for  imaginative  literature.  Turning 
from  these  subjects  to  those  of  a  descriptive  character,  we  have  a  variety  not  less 
extensive  and  interesting.  The  chains  of  mountains  which  bind  the  continent ; 
the  inland  seas  between  Itasca  and  the  ocean  ;  caverns,  in  which  whole  nations 
might  be  hidden ;  the  rivers,  cataracts,  and  sea-like  prairies ;  and  all  the 
varieties  of  land,  lake,  river,  sea  and  sky,  between  the  gulfs  of  Mexico  and 
Hudson,  are  full  of  them. 

The  elements  of  power  in  all  sublime  sights  and  heavenly  harmonies 
should  live  in  the  poet's  song.  The  sense  of  beauty,  next  to  the  miraculous 
divine  suasion,  is  the  means  through  which  the  human  character  is  purified 
and  elevated.  The  creation  of  beauty,  the  manifestation  of  the  real  by  the 
ideal,  in  "  words  that  move  in  metrical  array,"  is  the  office  of  the  poet. 

This  volume  embraces  specimens  from  a  great  number  of  authors ;  and 
though  it  may  not  contain  all  the  names  which  deserve  admission,  the  judi- 
cious critic  will  be  more  likely  to  censure  me  for  the  wide  range  of  my 
selections  than  for  any  omissions.  In  regard  to  the  number  of  poems  I  have 
given  from  particular  writers,  it  is  proper  to  state  that  considerations  uncon- 
nected with  any  estimates  of  their  comparative  merit  have  in  some  cases 
guided  me.  The  collected  works  of  several  poets  have  been  frequently 


PREFACE    TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION. 


printed  and  are  generally  familiar,  while  the  works  of  others,  little  less  deserving 
of  consideration,  are  comparatively  unknown. 

There  is  in  all  the  republic  scarcely  a  native  inhabitant  of  Saxon  origin  who 
cannot  read  and  write.  Every  house  has  its  book  closet  and  every  town  its 
public  library.  The  universal  prevalence  of  intelligence,  and  that  self-respect 
and  confidence  arising  from  political  and  social  equality,  have  caused  a  great 
increase  of  writers.  Owing,  however,  to  the  absence  of  a  just  system  of  copy- 
right, the  rewards  of  literary  exertion  are  so  precarious  that  but  a  small  number 
give  their  exclusive  attention  to  literature.  A  high  degree  of  excellence,  espe- 
cially in  poetry,  is  attained  only  by  constant  and  quiet  study  and  cultivation. 
Our  poets  have  generally  written  with  too  little  preparation,  and  too  hastily,  to 
win  enduring  reputations. 

In  selecting  the  specimens  in  the  work,  I  have  regarded  humorous  and 
other  rhythmical  compositions,  not  without  merit  in  their  way,  as  poetry,  though 
they  possess  few  of  its  true  elements.  It  is  so  common  to  mistake  the  form  for 
the  divine  essence,  that  I  should  have  been  compelled  to  omit  the  names  of 
many  who  are  popularly  known  as  poets,  had  I  been  governed  by  a  more 
strict  definition. 

PHILADELPHIA,  March,  1842. 


CONTENTS. 


l-REFACE  TO  THE    EIGHTH    EDITION  ........  6 

GENERAL  PREFACE      ................  6 

HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION   .............  17 

PHILIP  FRF.NEAU      .................  31 

The  Dying  Indian     .................  32 

Tbe  Indian  Burying-Ground  .............  32 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Americans  who  fell  a(  Eu'aw    .....  33 

To  an  Old  Man    .................  33 

Columbus  to  Ferdinand     .....    .........  34 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle     ...............  34 

Human  Frailty    .........'•.             .......  35 

The  Prospect  of  Peace      ...............  35 

To  a  Night-Fly,  approaching  a  Candle     .........  f.  35 

JOHN  TRUMBULL  .................  36 

(Me  to  Sleep    .........    v  .........  37 

The  Country  Clown,  from  "  The  Progress  of  Outness"  .....  39 

Thi  fop,  from  the  same     ...............  39 

Character  of  McFin?al,  from  "  McFingal"  .........  40 

Extreme  Humanity,  from  the  same      ...........  31 

The  Decayed  Coquette  ................  42 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  .................  43 

An  Indian  Temple   ..................  44 

England  and  America  ................  45 

Tbe  Social  Visit  ..................  45 

The  Country  Pastor  .................  46 

The  Country  Schoolmaster    ..............  47 

The  Baltic  of  Ai,  from  "  The  Conquest  of  Canaan"  ......  47 

The  Lamentation  of  Selima,  from  the  same     ........  48 

Prediction  to  Joshua  relative  to  America,  from  the  same     ....  48 

Evening  after  a  Battle,  from  the  same     ..........  49 

Columbia    ....................  49 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS  .................  60 

On  the  Prospect  of  Peace  ...............  51 

Western  Emigration     ................  61 

American  Winter     ..............    ...61 

Revolutionary  Soldier*       ...............  51 

JOEL  BARLOW  .............    ......  5-2 

The  Hasty  Pudding  .................  54 

Burning  of  the  New  England  Villages,  from  *  The  Colambiad"  .    .  67 

To  Freedom,  from  the  same  ..............  68 

Morgan  and  Tell,  from  the  same    ............  58 

The  Zones  of  America,  from  the  same     .........  58 


n  THARD  ALSOP  ......... 

From  a  Monody  on  the  Death  of  Washington 


ST.  JOHN  HONEYWOOD    ...............  80 

Crimes  and  Punishments  ...............  60 

A  Radical  Song  of  1786      ...............  62 

Reflections  on  seeing  a  Bull  slain  in  the  Country  .......  62 

Impromptu  on  an  Order  to  kill  the  Dogs  in  Albany   ......  62 

WILLIAM  CLIFFTON    ................  63 

Epistle  to  William  Gifforcl,  Esq  .............  63 

Mary  will  smile  ..................  64 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON  ...............  65 

The  Paint  King     ..................  66 

The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons     ..............  68 

America  to  Great  Britain  ..............  72 

The  Spanish  Maid    ....    ........    ....72 

On  Greenough's  Group  of  the  Angel  and  Child  .......  73 

Sonnets      ....................  73 

OnaFallingGroupintheLastJudgmentofMicbael  Angelo  .  73 

On  Rembrant  :  occasioned  by  his  Picture  of  Jacob's  Dream  .    .  73 

On  the  Pictures  by  Rubens  in  the  Luxembourg  Gallery  ...  73 

To  my  venerable  friend  Benjamin  West  ........  73 

On  seeing  the  Picture  of  .Solus,  by  Peligrino  Tibaldi     ...  74 

On  the  Death  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge    .......  74 

The  Tuscan  Maid  .................  74 

Rosalie  .....................  74 

2 


Page 

JAMES  KIRKE  PAULDING 75 

Ode  to  Jamestown ...75 

Passage  down  the  Ohio, from  "The  Backwoodsman" 76 

Evening,  from  the  same 76 

Crossing  the  Alleghanies 77 

The  Old  Man's  Carousal 77 

LEVI  FRISBE 78 

A  Castle  in  the  Air 78 

JOHN  PIERPONT 79 

Passing  Away ' 80 

Ode  for  the  Charlestown  Centennial  Celebration 81 

My  Child 81 

Ode  for  the  Massachusetts  Mechanics'  Charitable  Association  ...  82 

Her  Chosen  Spot 82 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 83 

Plymouth  Dedication  Hymn 83 

The  Exile  at  Rest 83 

Jerusalem 84 

The  Power  of  Music,  from  "Airs  of  Palestine" 85 

Obsequies  of  Spurzheim 85 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Seaman's  Bethel,  in  Boston  .  .  86 

The  Sparkling  Bowl 86 

Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July 86 

SAMUEL  WOODWORTH 87 

The  Bucket 87 

The  Needle 87 

ANDREWS  NORTON ' 88 

To ,  on  the  Death  of  a  young  Friend 88 

Lines  written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Eliot 88 

A  Summer  Shower 89 

Hymn .    .  89 

To  Mrs. ,  on  her  Departure  for  Europe 89 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  a  Church 90 

Fortitude 90 

The  Close  of  the  Year 90 

To  Mrs. ,  just  after  her  Marriage 91 

Funeral  Hymn 91 

A  Winter  Morning 91 

RICHARD  H.  DANA 92 

The  Buccaneer 93 

The  Ocean,  from  "  Factitious  Life" 101 

Daybreak 101 

Extract  from  "  The  Husband's  and  Wife's  Grave" 102 

The  Little  Beach-Bird 102 

The  Moss  Supplicateth  for  the  Poet 103 

Washington  Allston 103 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 104 

Ode  to  Ease 106 

Solomon  and  the  Genius 106 

A  Farewell  to  America 107 

Napoleon's  Grave 108 

"My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose'- 108 

To  Lord  Byron 108 

To  the  Mocking-Bird 108 

JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE 109 

The  Judgment HI 

Hadad's  Description  of  the  City  of  Jerusalem 117 

Untold  Love,  from  "  Demetria" 117 

Scene  from  "  Hadad" 118 

Arthur's  Soliloquy,  from  "Percy's Masque" 119 

CHARLES  SPRAGCE 130 

Curiosity     .  '. 121 

Sbakspeare  Ode 127 

The  Brothers 128 

Art,  an  Ode 129 

«  Look  on  this  Picture" 1» 

The  Winged  Worshippers 130 

Dedication  Hymn 130 

9 


12 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN 

Love  and  Politics 312 

What  is  Solitude? 312 

Indian  Summer,  1828 313 

Town  Repining* •    ....  313 

To  a  Lady  Blushing 313 

The  Farewell -\ 313 

"  I  will  love  her  no  more— 't  is  »  wute  of  the  heart" 313 

"  They  are  mockery  all" 314 

Melody 314 

Morning  Hymn 314 

The  Western  Hunter  to  his  Mistress 314 

Thy  Name 314 

Rosalie  Clare 315 

«  Think  of  me,  dearest" 315 

"  We  parted  in  sadness" 315 

The  Origin  of  Mint  Juleps 315 

Sparkling  and  Bright 316 

"  Why  seek  her  heart  to  understand" 316 

"  Ask  me  not  why  I  should  love  her" 316 

"  She  loves,  but  'tis  not  me  she  loves" 316 

"I  know  I  share  thy  smiles  with  many" 316 

N.  P.  WILLIS 317 

Melanie 318 

The  Confessional 321 

Linn  on  Leaving  Europe 322 

Spring 323 

To  Ermengarde 323 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness 324 

Thouehts  while  making  a  Grave  for  a  first  Child,  born  dead  .    .    .325 

The  Belfry  Pigeon 325 

April 326 

The  Annoyer 326 

To  a  Face  beloved 326 

EDWARD  SANFORD 327 

Address  to  Black-Hawk 327 

To  a  Musquito 328 

J.  O.  ROCKWELL 329 

The  Sum  of  Life 330 

To  Ann 330 

The  Lost  at  Sea 330 

1  he  Death-bed  of  Beauty 331 

To  the  ke  Mountain 331 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 331 

To  a  Wave 331 

THOMAS  WARD 332 

Musings  on  Rivers 332 

To  the  Magnolia 333 

To  an  Infant  in  Heaven 333 

JOHN  H.  BRYANT 334 

The  New  England  Pilgrim's  Funeral 334 

A  Recollection 335 

My  Native  Village •    .  335 

The  Indian  Summer 336 

The  Blind  Restored  to  Sight 336 

Two  Sonnets 336 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 337 

Nuremberg 338 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 339 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour 339 

A  Ps.lin  of  Life 341 

The  Light  of  Stars 341 

Endymion 341 

Footsteps  of  Angels 342 

The  Beleaguered  City 342 

It  is  not  always  May 342 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year 343 

The  Village  Blacksmith 343 

Eicelsior 344 

The  rainy  Day 344 

Maidenhood  .  .  .  .  • 344 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 345 

The  Slain  Eagle 347 

The  Brooklet 348 

The  Shaded  Water 348 

To  the  Breeze •  ....  349 

The  Lost  Pleiad 349 

The  Edge  of  the  Swamp  .  •. 350 

Changes  of  Home 350 

GEORGE  LUNT 351 

Autumn  Musings  . 3.11 

Jejvish  Battle-Song 352 

"Pass  on,  relent  lets  world" 352 


Page 

GEORGE  LUNT. 

Hampton  Beach ,  353 

Pil?rim  Song 353 

The  Lyre  and  Sword 353 

JONATHAN  LAWRENCE 354 

Thoughts  of  a  Student 354 

Sea-Song 355 

Look  Aloft 355 

To  May 355 

LOUISA  J.  HALL 356 

A  Scene  from  "  Miriam" 356 

Prayer    359 

Miriam  to  Paulu 359 

EMMA  C.  EMBURY 360 

Autumn  Evening 360 

The  Old  Man's  Lament 360 

.    .    .    .361 
.    .  361 


S'.i 


on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Reichstadt 


Madame  de  Stael  .....    ....    .........  362 

Ballad     ....    ...........    ......  302 

Sonn«<    .....................  362 

JOHN  GREENI.EAF  WHITTIER    ............  J63 

Lines  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend    ..........  364 

Democracy  ....................  355 


Raphael 


Memories    ....................  368 

To  a  Friend  on  her  Return  from  Europe  ..........  367 

The  Ballad  of  Cassandra  Southwick    ...........  368 

New  England  ...................  370 

The  Female  Martyr      ................  370 

The  Frost  Spirit   ..................  371 

The  Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon  ..............  372 

The  Worship  of  Nature    ...............  312 

The  Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokia  ............  373 

Palestine      ....................  374 

Pentucket    ....................  374 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torrey,  of  Boston     .....    .375 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt  ................  376 

The  Merrimack   ..................  375 

St.  John  .....................  377 

ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH  ..............  379 

The  Acorn  ....................  3SO 

The  Drowned  Mariner  ................  382 

To  the  Hudson     ..................  382 

Sonnets  ........    .    ............  333 

Poesy   ....................  383 

The  Bard  ...................  333 

An  Incident  ..............    ....  383 

The  Unattained  ................  383 

The  Wife  ...................  383 

Religion    ................    ...  383 

The  Dream   ...............    ...  388 

Wayfarers     ..................  3S3 

Midsummer,  from  "The  Sinless  Child"  ..........  384 

Guardian  Angels,  from  the  same     ............  384 

Conscience,  from  the  same     ..............  384 

Flower?,  from  the  same     ...............  384 

Field-Elves,  from  the  same          .............  384 

Superstition,  from  the  same    ..............  384 

Infant  Slumber,  from  the  same  .............  384 

Sympathy,  from  the  same  ...............  384 

OLIVER  WENDKLL  HOLMES    ............       385 

The  Cambridge  Churchyard  ..............  3S6 

An  Evening  Thought   ................  387 

LaGrisette      ..................     -387 

The  Treadmill  Song     ................  387 

Departed  Days      ..................  388 

The  Dilemma      ..................  388 

The  Star  and  the  Water-Lily     ..........    ...  388 

The  Music  Grinders  .................  389 

Tin-  Philosopher  to  his  Love  .....   '.    ........  389 

L'lnC'inuue      ...................  390 

The  Last  Reader  ..................  390 

The  Last  Leaf      ..................  390 

Old  Ironsides   ...................  391 

"Slrange!  that  one  lightly-whisper'd  tone"      ........  391 

*Thf  Steamboat     ..................  391 

ALBERT  PIKE    ...................  3U2 

Hymns  to  the  Gods  .................  393 

To  Neptune  ..................  393 

To  Apollo    ..................  393 

To  Venus  ...................  394 

To  Diana  .    .  .    .  395 


CONTENTS. 


13 


ALBERT  PIKE  Page 

Hymns  to  the  Gods. 

To  Mercury 395 

To  Bacchu 396 

ToSomnus 397 

To  Cere. 397 

To  the  Planet  Jupiter 398 

To  the  Mocking-bird 400 

To  Spring 401 

Lines  written  on  the  Rocky  Mountains 401 

PARK  BENJAMIN 402 

Gold 403 

Upon  seeing  a  Portrait  of  a  Lady 403 

The  Stormy  Petrel 403 

The  Nautilus 403 

To  one  Beloved 404 

The  Tired  Hunter 405 

The  Departed 405 

I  am  not  old 405 

The  Dove's  Errand 408 

"  How  cheery  are  the  Mariners" 406 

Lines  spoken  by  a  Blind  Boy 407 

The  Elysian  Isle 407 

Sonnets 408 

RALPH  HOYT 409 

Old 409 

New 410 

Sal 412 

Snow 412 

Extract  from  the  Chaunt  of  Life 413 

WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK 414 

A  Lament 415 

Memory 415 

Song  of  May 416 

Death  of  the  First-Born 416 

Summer 417 

The  Early  Dead 417 

The  Signs  of  God 417 

Euthanasia 418 

An  Invitation 418 

The  Burial-place  at  Laurel  Hill 418 

A  Contrast 419 

The  Faded  One 419 

A  Remembrance ' 419 

WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER 420 

To  the  West 420 

August 421 

Spring  Verses 421 

May 422 

Our  Early  Days 422 

The  Labourer 423 

The  Mothers  of  the  West 423 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE 424 

Hymn  and  1'nyer 424 

The  Poet 424 

Jacob's  Well 425 

The  Violet 425 

To  a  Bunch  of  Flower. 425 

ANNA  PEYRE   DINNIES 426 

Wedded  Love 426 

The  Wife .    .  426 

JAMES  ALDRICH 427 

Mom  at  Sea     .    .  -427 

A  Dea'h-Bed 427 

My  Mother's  Grave 427 

A  SpriD?.Day  Walk 428 

To  one  far  away 428 

Beatrice 428 

"  Underneath  this  marble  cold" 428 

The  Dreaming  Girl 428 

WILLIAM  H.  C.  HOSMER 429 

A  Forest  Scene,  from  "  Yonnondio" 429 

Woods  by  Moonlight,  from  the  same 429 

A  M"ck  Indian  Fight,  from  the  same 429 

An  Indian  March,  from  the  same 430 

On  a  Ruin,  from  the  Same 430 

The  F.nand  of  Wan-nut-hay,  from  the  same 430 

A  Floridian  Scene 430 

EDGAR  A.  POE 431 

Coliseum -431 

The  Raven 432 

The  Conqueror  Worm 433 

The  Haunted  Palace 434 

The  Sleeper 434 


Page 

ISAAC  McLELLAN,  JR. 435 

New  England's  Dead 435 

The  Death  of  Napoleon 435 

The  Notes  of  the  Bird 430 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Picture  by  Washington  Allslon 438 

JONES  VERY 437 

To  the  Painted  Columbine 437 

Lines  10  a  Withered  Leaf  reen  on  a  Poet's  Table 4.17 

The  Heart 437 

Sonnets 438 

ALFRED  B.  STREET 440 

The  Gray  Forest-Eagle 441 

Fowling 442 

A  Forest  Walk ,    .  443 

winler 444 

The  Settler 444 

An  American  Forest  in  Spring 445 

The  Lost  Hunter 445 

WILLIAM  H.  BUHLEIGH 447 

Elegiac  Stanzas 447 

"  Let  there  be  Light" _  443 

June 448 

Spring , 419 

Stanzas  written  on  visiting  my  Birth-place 449 

To  H.  A.  B 450 

To 450 

"  Believe  not  the  slander,  my  dearest  Katrine !" 451 

Sonnets .    .  451 

LOUIS  LEGBJND  NOBLE 453 

The  Cripple  Boy  . 


Toa  Swan  flying  at  midnight  in  the  vale  of  the  Huron 4.53 

C.  P.  CRANCH 454 

The  music  of  the  Spheres 454 

The  Blind  Seer 454 

The  Hours ' _  .    .    .    .  455 

"  Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech" 455 

My  Thought 455 

On  hearing  Triumphant  Music 456 

HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN 457 

Mary 457 

The  Rinulet 457 

To  an  Elm 459 

Tri  Mountain  ...................  458 

Love  and  Fame 459 

Greenough's  Washington 459 

"  Are  we  not  exiles  here  P 460 

Alone  once  more 400 

The  Law  of  Beauty,  from  "  The  Spirit  of  Poetry" 460 

Columbus,  from  the  same 46! 

Florence,  from  the  same 461 

Poetry  Immortal,  from  the  same 461 

WILLIAM  JEWETT  PABODIB 462 

"  Go  forth  into  the  fields" 462 

To  the  Autumn  Forest 4  :2 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend 463 

Our  Country 463 

"  I  hear  thy  voice,  0  Spring  !" 4'3 

*•  I  stood  beside  the  grave  of  him"  • 453 

FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD 464 

The  Unexpected  Declaration .164 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry 463 

"  Your  heart  is  a  music-box,  dearest !» 465 

To 465 

Labour 4fc6 

"  I  loved  an  idea  !— I  sought  it  in  thee" 466 

Lines  on  a  Deaf  and  Dumb  Boy  .  .  .  • 466 

She  loves  him  yet 466 

PHILIP  P.  COOKE 467 

Emily :  Proem  to  the  "  Froissart  Ballads"  467 

Life  in  the  Autumn  Woods 469 

Florence  Vane 470 

EPES  SARGENT 471 

Records  of  a  Summer-Voyage  to  Cuba 471 

The  Days  that  are  Past 473 

The  Martyr  of  the  Arena 473 

Summer  in  the  Heart 474 

The  Fugitive  from  Love :  4"4 

The  Night-Storm  at  Sea 474 


14 


CONTENTS. 


Ptge 

LUCY  HOOPER 476 

Oieola 475 

The  Daughter  of  Herodiai 475 

«  Time,  Faiih,  Energy" 476 

«  Give  me  Armour  of  Proof" 476 

Linn  suggested  by  a  scene  in  "  Matter  Humphrey's  Clock"  .  .  .477 
Life  mid  Death 477 

THOMAS  Vf.  PARSONS ° 478 

The  Shadow  of  the  Obelisk 478 

Hudson  River 479 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante 480 

On  »  Magdalen,  by  Guido 480 

ELIZABETH  F.  ELLETT 481 

The  Delaware  Water-Gap 481 

Suiquehanna 482 

Ijke  Ontario 482 

Sodus  Bay 483 

To  a  Waterfall 483 

To  the  Condor 484 

The  Isle  of  Rest 484 

Tiie  Vanity  of  the  Vulgar  Great 484 

A  Parallel 485 

Lake  George 485 

To  the  Whip-poor-will 485 

"  Come,  fill  a  pledge  to  sorrow" 485 

WILLIAM  WALLACE 486 

The  Gods  of  Old 486 

The  Statuary 487 

A  Letter  to  Madeline 489 

WILLIAM  W.  LORD 490 

Keatt 490 

To  my  Sister 490 

The  Brook 491 

A  Rime 491 

ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE 492 

Manhood 493 

Old  Churches 493 

The  Heart's  Song 494 

The  Chimes  of  England 494 

March 494 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 495 

Rosaline 495 

The  Beggar 496 

"  Lift  up  the  curtains  of  thine  eyes" 496 

Sonnets 497 

The  Poet 498 

Extract  from  A  Legend  of  Brittany 499 

The  Syrens 499 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car 500 

The  Heritage 501 

To  the  Future 502 

AMELIA  B.  WELBY 503 

The  Presence  of  God 503 

To  the  memory  of  a  Friend 504 

To  a  Sea-Shell 504 

My  Sisters 505 

"  I  know  that  thy  spirit" 605 

LUCRETIA  AND.  MARGARET  DAVIDSON 506 

A  Prophecy 507 

To  Mrs.  Townsend 507 

«  I  would  fly  from  the  city" 50? 

To  my  Mother 508 

VARIOUS  AUTHORS 509 

Dir»c  of  Alaric,  the  Visijoih.— Edward  Everett 611 

To  a  bereaved  Mother.— John  Quincy  Jilamt 512 

To  the  Frinjilla  Melodia  —  Henry  Pickering 512 

M  arks  of  Time.— Katharine  A.  Wan     ' 513 

Geehile.     An  Indian  Lament  —Henry  Rowe  Schonlcraft    .    .     .    .  513 

The  Song  of  the  Prairie.-j:  K.  Mitchell 514 

The  Incomprehensibility  of  God.— Elizabeth  Tovmsend     .    .    .    .514 


VARIOUS  AUTHORS  Page 

The  Dying  Archer.— R.  C.  Waterston 615 

The  Villager*  Winter  Evening  Sou?.— Jama  T.  Fields     ....  615 

Dirge  for  a  young  Girl.— Jama  T.  Fieldt 615 

Saco  Falli — Jama  T.  Fitldt 615 

" Twelve  years  have  flown. "— Proiper  M.  Wetmort 516 

The  Banner  of  Mural.— Protptr  M.  Wetmare 516 

Marius  amid  the  Ruins  of  Carthage.— Mrt.  Lydia  tf.  Child   .    .    .616 
The  Twenty  Thousand  Children  of  the  Sabbath  Schools  in  New 

York,  celebrating  together  the  Fourth  of  July,  1839.— William  B. 

Tappan 517 

To  the  Ship  of  the  Line  Pennsylvania — William  B.  Tappan     .    .517 

Spring  is  Coming.— Jama  Naek 517 

To  my  sick  and  suffering  Brother,  on  his  fifteenth  Birth-day.— George 

B.  Cheever 5I8 

Anacreontic. — Alexander  H.  Bogart 519 

Brother,  come  home.— Catherine  H.  Elling 619 

Joshua  commanding  the  Sun  and  Moon  to  stand  Ml.— John  B.  Van 

Schaick 620 

The  Devoted.— Elizabeth  Margaret  Chandler 620 

A  Good-night  to  Connecticut.— Hugh  Peteri 521 

T  i>  said  that  absence  conquers  Love—  Frederick  W.  Thomal     .    .521 

The  Wliip  poor-will.— Robert  Montgomery  Bird 522 

The  Silent  Girl.— Samuel  Oilman 622 

The  Huma.— Sarah  Louisa  P.  Smith 522 

"  Who  has  robb'd  the  ocean  cave."— John  Shaw 523 

"  He  came  too  late."— Elizabeth  Bofert 523 

The  Sleeping  Wif.-.— Thomas  Mackellar 523 

The  Hymns  my  Mother  Sur,g.— Thomas  MackeUar 523 

The  Philosophy  of  Whist.— Charles  Wetl  Thompson 524 

TotheRiverOReechee.— Robert  M.  Charllan 524 

The  Burial  of  the  Wilhlacochee.— Horatio  Halt 624 

Agriculture.— Charltt  W.  Everett 525 

"  Minstrel,  sing  that  song  again."— Chark*  W.  Everett      ....  525 

To S.  T.  P—  George  W.  Patten.. 525 

Lines  on  passing  II  e  Grave  of  my  Sister.— Micah  P.  Flint      .    .    .526 

The  Free  Mind  —  WiUiam  Lloyd  Garrison 526 

The  Armies  of  the  Eve.— Oltoay  Curry 526 

The  Green  Hills  of  my  Fatherhnd.— Inura  if. .TVrurrton      .    .    .527 

Mysterious  Music  of  Orean.— F  S  Eckard 527 

"Give  me  the  old." — Anonymous 528 

A  September  evening  on  the  banks  of  the  Mooshassuck.— Sarah 

Helen  Whitman 528 

The  Lover  Student.— Benjamin  D.  fPinslow 529 

A  Midsummer  Day  Scene.— C.  G.  Eastman     ........  629 

Lake  Erie.— Ephraim  Peabody 530 

Thi  Backwoodsman.— Ephraim  Peabody 530 

On  a  Friend.— John  M.  Hamey 530 

My  Child.— Julia  H.  Scott 531 

The  Warrior's  Dirge.— Caroline  M.  Sawyer 531 

The  Einh  of  Thunder.—  W.J.SncUmg 632 

To  my  Wife.— Lindley  Murray 533 

Faded  Hours.— John  Rudolph  Sutrrmeister 533 

The  Bird  of  the  Bastile.— Btnjamin  B.  Thatcher 534 

The  Aached  Stream.— W.  £.  Charming 534 

To  a  Shower.— James  WiUiam  Miller    . , 535 

To  an  Infant.— William  B.  Walter 535 

To  Pneuma — Jama  Wallit  Eastburn 536 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood.— Jama  N.  Barker 536 

The  Light  of  Home.— Sarah  Jofepha  Halt 538 

The  mother  perishing  in  a  Snow-storm.— Seba  Smith 538 

Wedded  Love's  First  Home.— Jama  HaU 538 

The  IJeal — Anne  C.  Lynch 53!> ' 

The  Ideal  Found.— Anne  C.  Lynch 639 

Astarte.— Henry  B.  Hint 539 

Life.— Jamn  Bayard  Taylor 540 

The  Father's  Death.— H.  R.  Jacktm 540 

The  City  of  the  Heart.—  T.  Buchanan  Reed 541 

The  Journalist.— Cornelius  Mathews 541 

My  Native  Land.— Theodore  S.  Fay 642 

From  a  Father  to  his  Children.-CZfmen(  C.  Moore 543 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner.— Francis  S.  Key 543 

Hail,  Columbia.— Jottph  Hapkinton 544 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA. 


FROM  THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS  TO  THE  REVOLUTION. 


HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 


THE  earliest  specimens  of  poetry  which  I 
have  presented  in  the  body  of  this  work  are 
from  the  writings  of  PHILIP  FRENEAU,  one  of 
those  worthies  who  with  both  lyre  and  sword 
aided  in  the  achievement  of  the  independence 
of  the  United  States.  Before  his  time  but 
little  poetry  was  written  in  this  country,  al- 
though from  the  landing  of  the  pilgrims  at 
Plymouth  there  was  at  no  period  a  lack  of  can- 
didates for  the  poetic  laurel.  Many  of  the 
early  colonists  were  men  of  erudition,  deeply 
versed  in  scholastic  theology,  and  familiar 
with  the  best  ancient  literature;  but  they 
possessed  neither  the  taste,  the  fancy,  nor 
the  feeling  of  the  poet,  and  their  elaborate 
metrical  compositions  are  forgotten  by  all 
save  the  antiquary,  and  by  him  are  regarded 
as  among  the  least  valuable  of  the  relics  of 
the  first  era  of  civilization  in  America. 

It  is  unreasonable  to  compare  the  quaint  and 
grotesque  absurdities  of  FOLGER,  MATHER,  and 
WIGGLESWORTH  with  the  productions  of  the 
first  cultivators  of  the  art  in  older  nations ;  for 
literature — mental  development — had  here,  in 
truth,  no  infancy.  The  great  works  of  CHAU- 
CER, SPENSER,  SHAKSPEARE,  and  MILTON  were 
as  accessible  in  their  time  as  now,  and  the 
living  harmonies  of  DRYDEN  and  POPE  were 
borne  on  every  breeze  that  then  fanned  the 
cheek  of  an  Englishman.  The  bar  to  pro- 
gress was  that  spirit  of  bigotry — at  length  bro- 
ken down  by  the  stronger  spirit  of  freedom — 
which  prevented  the  cultivation  of  elegant 
learning,  and  regarded  as  the  fruits  of  profane 
desire  the  poet's  glowing  utterance,  strong 
feeling,  delicate  fancy,  and  brilliant  imagina- 
tion. Our  fathers  were  like  the  labourers  of 
an  architect;  they  planted  deep  and  strong  in 
religious  virtue  and  useful  science  the  founda- 
tions of  an  edifice,  not  dreaming  how  great  and 
magnificent  it  was  to  be.  They  did  well  their 
part;  it  was  not  meet  for  them  to  fashion  the 
capitals  and  adorn  the  arches  of  the  temple. 

The  first  poem  composed  in  this  country  was 
a  description  of  New  England,  in  Latin,  by 
the  Reverend  WILLIAM  MORRELL,  who  came  to 
Plymouth  Colony  in  1623,  and  returned  to 
London  in  the  following  year.  It  has  been 
reprinted,  with  an  English  translation  made 
by  the  author,  in  the  collections  of  the  Massa- 

3 


chusetts  Historical  Society.  The  first  verses 
by  a  colonist  were  written  about  the  year  1630. 
The  name  of  the  author  has  been  lost : 

New  England's  annoyances,  you  that  would  know  them, 
Fray  ponder  these  verses  which  briefly  do  show  them. 

The  place  where  we  live  is  a  wilderness  wood, 
Where  grass  is  much  wanting  that's  fruitful  and  good  : 
Our  mountains  and  hills  and  our  valleys  below 
Being  commonly  cover'd  with  ice  and  with  snow: 
And  when  the  northwest  wind  with  violence  blows, 
Then  every  man  pulls  his  cap  over  his  nose  : 
But  if  any  's  sti  hardy  and  will  it  withstand, 
He  forfeits  a  finger,  a  foot,  or  a  hand. 

But  when  the  spring  opens,  we  then  take  the  hoe, 
And  make  the  ground  ready  to  plant  and  to  sow ; 
Our  corn  being  planted  and  seed  being  sown, 
The  worms  destroy  much  before  it  is  grown ; 
And  when  it  is  growing  some  spoil  there  is  made 
By  birds  and  by  squirrels  that  pluck  up  the  blade  ; 
And  when  it  is  come  to  full  corn  in  the  ear, 
It  is  often  destroy'd  by  raccoon  and  by  deer. 

And  now  do  our  garments  begin  to  grow  thin, 
And  wool  is  much  wanted  to  card  and  to  spin  ; 
If  we  can  get  a  garment  to  cover  without, 
Our  other  in-garments  are  clout  upon  clout : 
Our  clothes  we  brought  with  us  are  apt  to  be  torn, 
They  need  to  be  clouted  soon  after  they  're  worn  ; 
But  clouting  our  garments  they  hinder  us  nothing, 
Clouts  double  are  warmer  than  single  whole  clothing. 

If  fresh  meat  be  wanting,  to  fill  up  our  dish, 

We  have  carrots  and  pumpkins  and  turnips  and  fish : 

And  is  there  a  mind  for  a  delicate  dish, 

We  repair  to  the  clarn  banks,  and  there  we  catch  fish. 

Instead  of  pottage  and  puddings  and  custards  and  pies, 

Our  pumpkins  and  parsnips  are  common  supplies; 

We  have  pumpkins  at  morning  and  pumpkins  at  noon; 

If  it  was  not  for  pumpkins  we  should  be  undone. 

If  barley  be  wanting  to  make  into  malt, 
We  must  be  contented  and  think  it  no  fault; 
For  we  can  make  liquor  to  sweeten  our  lips 
Of  pumpkins  and  parsnips  and  walnut  tree  chips. 

Now  while  some  are  going  let  others  be  coming, 
For  while  liquor  's  boiling  it  must  have  a  scumming ; 
But  I  will  not  blame  them,  for  birds  of  a  feather, 
By  seeking  their  fellows,  are  flocking  together. 
But  you  whom  the  LORD  intends  hither  to  bring, 
Forsake  not  the  honey  for  fear  of  the  sting; 
But  bring  both  a  quiet  and  contented  mind, 
And  all  needful  blessings  you  surely  will  find. 

The  first  book  published  in  British  America 
was  "The  Psalms  in  Metre,  faithfully  Trans- 
lated, for  the  Use,  Edification,  and  Comfort 
of  the  Saints,  in  Public  and  Private,  especially 
in  New  England,"  printed  at  Cambridge,  in 
1640.  The  version  was  made  by  THOMAS 
WELDE,  of  Roxbury,  RICHARD  MATHER,  of 
Dorchester,  and  JOHN  ELIOT,  the  famous  apos- 
tle to  the  Indians.  The  translators  seem 


XV111 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


to  have  been  aware  that  it  possessed  but  little 
poetical  merit.  "If,"  say  they,  in  their  pre- 
face, "  the  verses  are  not  always  so  smooth 
and  elegant  as  some  may  desire  and  expect, 
let  them  consider  that  GOD'S  altar  needs  not 
our  polishings;  for  we  have  respected  ra- 
ther a  plain  translation,  than  to  smooth  our 
verses  with  the  sweetness  of  any  paraphrase, 
and  so  have  attended  to  conscience  rather  than 
elegance,  and  fidelity  rather  than  poetry,  in 
translating  Hebrew  words  into  English  lan- 
guage, and  DAVID'S  poetry  into  English  me- 
tre." COTTON  MATHER  laments  the  inele- 
gance of  the  version,  but  declares  that  the  He- 
brew was  most  exactly  rendered.  After  a 
second  edition  had  been  printed,  President 
DUNSTER,*  of  Harvard  College,  assisted  by 
Mr.  RICHARD  LYON,  a  tutor  at  Cambridge,  at- 
tempted to  improve  it,  and  in  their  advertise- 
ment to  the  godly  reader  they  state  that  they 
"had  special  eye  both  to  the  gravity  of  the 
phrase  of  sacred  writ  and  sweetness  of  the 
verse."  DUNSTER'S  edition  was  reprinted 
twenty-three  times  in  America,  and  several 
times  in  Scotland  and  England,  where  it  was 
long  used  in  the  dissenting  congregations. 
The  following  specimen  is  from  the  second 
edition : 

PSALM  CXXXVII. 

The  rivers  on  of  Babilon, 

There  when  wee  did  sit  downe, 
Yea.  even  then,  wee  mourned  when 

Wee  remembered  Sion. 
Our  harp  wee  did  hang  it  amid, 

Upon  the  willow  tree, 
Because  there  they  that  us  away 

Led  in  captivitee 

Requir'd  of  us  a  song,  and  thus 

Askt  mirth  us  waste  who  laid, 
Sing  us  among  a  Sion's  song, 

Unto  us  then  they  said. 
The  LORD'S  song  sing  can  wee,  being 

In  stranger's  land  1  then  let 
Lose  her  skill  my  right  hand  if  I 

Jerusalem  forget. 

Let  cleave  my  tongue  my  pallate  on 

If  mind  thee  doe  not  I, 
If  r.hiefe  joyes  o're  I  prize  not  more 

Jerusalem  my  joy. 

Remember,  LORD,  Edom's  sons'  word, 

Unto  the  ground,  said  they, 
It  rase,  it  rase,  when  as  it  was 

Jerusalem  her  day. 
Blest  shall  he  be  that  paycth  thee, 

Daughter  of  Babilon, 
Who  must  be  waste,  that  which  thou  hast 

Rewarded  us  upon. 

O  happie  hee  shall  surely  bee 

That  takcth  up,  that  nke 
Thy  little  ones  against  the  stones 

Doth  into  pieces  breake. 

Mrs.  ANNE  BRADSTREET,  "  the  mirror  of  her 


*  THOMAS  DUNSTER  was  the  first  president  of  Harvard 
College,  and  was  inaugurated  on  the  twenty-seventh  of 


age,  and  glory  of  her  sex,"  aa  she  is  styled 
by  JOHN  NORTON,  of  excellent  memory,  came 
to  America  with  her  husband,  SIMON  BRAD- 
STREET,  governor  of  the  colony,  in  1630,  when 
she  was  but  sixteen  years  of  age.  She  was  a 
daughter  of  Governor  DUDLEY,  a  miserly, 
though  a  "valorous  and  discreet  gentleman," 
for  whom  Governor  BELCHER  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing epitaph : 

"  Here  lies  THOMAS  DUDLEY,  that  trusty  old  stnd— 
A  bargain  'a  a  bargain,  and  must  be  made  good." 

Mrs.  BRADSTREET'S  verses  were  printed  at 
Cambridge,  in  1640.  The  volume  was  enti- 
tled, "  Several  Poems,  compiled  with  great 
variety  of  wit  and  learning,  full  of  delight; 
wherein  especially  is  contained  a  compleat 
discourse  and  description  of  the  four  Elements, 
Constitutions,  Ages  of  Man,  and  Seasons  of  the 
Year,  together  with  an  exact  Epitome  of  the 
Three  First  Monarchies,  viz :  the  Assyrian, 
Persian,  Grecian;  and  Roman  Commonwealth, 
from  the  beginning,  to  the  end  of  the  last 
King  ;  with  divers  other  Pleasant  and  Serious 
Poems."  NORTON  declares  her  poetry  so  fine 
that,  were  MARO  to  hear  it,  he  would  condemn 
his  own  works  to  the  fire  ;  and  in  a  poetical 
description  of  her  character  says — 

Her  breast  was  a  brave  pallace,  a  broad  street, 
Where  all  heroic,  ample  thoughts  did  meet, 
Where  nature  such  a  tenement  had  tane 
That  other  souls  to  hers  dwelt  in  a  lane. 

The  author  of  the  "  Magnalia"  speaks  of 
her  poems  as  a  "  monument  for  her  memory 
beyond  the  stateliest  marble ;"  and  JOHN 
ROGERS,  one  of  the  presidents  of  Harvard 
College,  in  some  verses  addressed  to  her, 
says — 

Your  only  hand  those  poesies  did  compose  : 

Your  head  the  source,  whence  all  those  springs  did  flow  : 

Your  voice,  whence  change's  sweetest  notes  arose  : 

Your  feet  that  kept  the  dance  alone,  I  trow  : 

Then  veil  your  bonnets,  poetasters  all, 

Strike,  lower  amain,  and  at  these  humbly  fall, 

And  deem  yourselves  advanced  to  be  her  pedestal. 

Should  all  with  lowly  congees  laurels  bring, 
Waste  Flora's  magazine  to  find  a  wreath, 
Or  Pineus'  banks,  'twere  too  mean  offering; 
Your  muse  a  fairer  garland  doth  bequeath 
To  guard  your  fairer  front ;  here  't  is  your  name 
Shall  stand  immarbled  ;  this  your  little  frame 
Shall  great  Colossus  be,  to  your  eternal  fame. 

She  died  in  September,  1672,  and  "was 
greatly  mourned."  The  following  stanzas  are 

August,  1640.  In  1654  he  became  unpopular  on  account 
of  his  public  advocacy  of  anti-ptedohaptie in,  arid  was  com- 
pelled to  resign.  When  he  died,  in  1059,  he  bequeathed 
legacies  to  the  persons  who  were  most  active  in  causing 
his  separation  from  the  college.  In  the  life  of  DUNSTER, 
in  the  Magnolia,  is  the  following  admonition,  by  a  Mr. 
SHEPHERD,  to  the  authors  of  the  New  Psalm  Book; 

You  Rcali'ry  poets  keep  clear  of  the  crime 

Of  nii»sin|t  to  ?ive  to  us  very  good  rhyme. 

And  you  of  Dorthtslef,  your  versre  lenirihfn. 

Bui  with  tht  text}'  ownvxrrdi  you  will  them  airengthen. 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


from  one  of  her  minor  pieces,  entitled  "  Con- 
templations." 

Under  the  cooling  shadow  of  a  stately  elm 

Close  sate  I  by  a  goodly  river's  side, 

Where  gliding  streams  the  rocks  did  overwhelm  ; 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignified. 

I  once  that  loved  the  shady  woods  so  well, 

Now  thought  the  rivers  did  the  trees  excel), 

And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there  would  I  dwell. 

While  on  the  stealing  stream  I  fixt  mine  eye, 
Which  to  the  long'd-for  ocean  held  its  course, 
I  markt  nor  crooks,  nor  rubs  that  there  did  lye 
Could  hinder  aught,  but  still  augment  its  force  : 
O  happy  flood,  quoth  I,  that  holdst  thy  race 
Till  thou  arrive  at  thy  beloved  place, 
Nor  is  it  rocks  or  shoals  that  can  obstruct  thy  pace. 

Nor  is  't  enough,  that  thou  alone  may'st  slide, 
But  hundred  brooks  in  thy  cleer  waves  do  meet, 
So  hand  in  hand  along  with  thee  they  glide 
To  Thetis'  house,  where  all  embrace  and  greet: 
Thou  emblem  true,  of  what  I  count  the  best, 

0  could  I  lead  my  rivulets  to  rest, 

So  may  we  press  to  that  vast  mansion,  ever  blest. 

Ye  fish,  which  in  this  liquid  region  'bide, 

That  for  each  season,  have  your  habitation, 

Now  salt,  now  fresh,  where  you  think  best  to  glide, 

To  unknown  coasts  to  give  a  visitation, 

In  lakes  and  ponds,  you  leave  your  numerous  fry, 

So  nature  taught,  and  yet  you  know  not  why, 

You  watry  folk  that  know  not  your  felicity. 

Look  how  the  wantons  frisk  to  taste  the  air, 

Then  to  the  colder  bottome  straight  they  dive, 

Eftsoon  to  NEPTUNE'S  glassie  hall  repair 

To  see  what  trade  the  great  ones  tbete  do  drive, 

Who  forrage  o'er  the  spacious  sea-g'-en  field, 

And  take  the  trembling  prey  before      yield,  [shield. 

Whose  armour  is  their  scales,  their  spreading  fins  their 

While  musing  thus  with  contemplation  fed, 
And  thousand  fancies  buzzing  in  my  brain, 
The  sweet-tongued  Philomel  percht  o'er  my  head, 
And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain 
Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  delight, 

1  judg'd  my  hearing  better  than  my  sight, 

And  wisht  me  wings  with  her  a  while  to  take  my  flight. 

O  merry  bird  (said  I)  that  fears  no  snares, 

That  neither  toyles  nor  hoards  up  in  thy  barn, 

Feels  no  sad  thoughts,  norcruciating  cares 

To  gain  more  good,  or  shun  what  might  thee  harm; 

Thy  cloaths  ne'er  wear,  thy  meat  is  every  where, 

Thy  bed  a  bough,  thy  drink  the  water  cleer, 

Reminds  not  what  is  past,  nor  what's  to  come  dost  fear. 

The  dawning  morn  with  songs  thou  dost  prevent,* 

Setts  hundred  notes  unto  thy  feather'd  crew, 

So  each  one  tunes  his  pretty  instrument, 

And  warbling  out  the  old,  begins  anew, 

And  thus  they  ijass  their  youth  in  summer  season, 

Then  follow  thee  into  a  better  region, 

Where  winter 's  never  felt  by  that  sweet  airy  legion. 

Man 's  at  the  best  a  creature  frail  and  vain, 

In  knowledge  ignorant,  in  strength  but  weak  : 

Subject  to  sorrows,  losses,  sickness,  pain, 

Each  storm  his  state,  his  mind,  his  body  break  : 

From  some  of  these  he  never  finds  cessation, 

But  day  or  night,  within,  without,  vexation,         [lation. 

Troubles  from  foes,  from  friends,  from  dearest,  near'st  re- 

And  yet  this  sinfull  creature,  frail  and  vain, 
This  lump  of  wretchedness,  of  sin  and  sorrow, 
This  weather-beaten  vessel  wrackt  with  pain, 
Joyes  not  in  hope  of  an  eternal  morrow  : 
Nor  all  his  losses,  crosses,  and  vexation, 

*  Anticipate. 


In  weight,  in  frequency,  and  long  duration, 

Can  make  him  deeply  groan  for  that  divine  translation. 

The  mariner  that  on  smooth  waves  doth  glide, 

Sings  merrily,  and  steers  his  barque  with  ease, 

As  if  he  had  command  of  wind  and  tide, 

And  now  become  great  master  of  the  seas; 

But  suddenly  a  storm  spoils  all  the  sport, 

And  makes  him  long  for  a  more  quiet  port, 

Which  'gainst  all  adverse  winds  may  serve  for  fort. 

So  he  that  saileth  in  this  world  of  pleasure, 

Feeding  on  sweets,  that  never  bit  of  th'  sowre, 

That's  full  of  friends,  of  honour,  and  of  treasure, 

Fond  fool,  he  takes  this  earth  ev'n  for  heaven's  bower. 

But  sad  affliction  comes  and  makes  him  see 

Here's  neither  honour,  wealth,  nor  safety; 

Only  above  is  found  all  with  security. 

O  Time,  the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things, 

That  draws  oblivion's  curtains  over  kings, 

Their  sumptuous  monuments,  men  know  them  not, 

Their  names  without  a  record  are  forgot, 

Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomp 's  all  laid  in  th'  dust ; 

Nor  wit,  nor  gold,  nor  buildings  scape  time's  rust; 

But  he  whose  name  is  grav'd  in  the  white  stone 

Shall  last  and  shine  when  all  of  these  are  gone. 

WILLIAM  BRADFORD,  the  second  governor 
of  Plymouth,  who  wrote  a  "  History  of  the 
People  and  Colony  from  1602  to  1647," 
composed  also  "  A  Descriptive  and  Historical 
Account  of  New  England,  in  Verse,"  which 
is  preserved  in  the  Collections  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Historical  Society. 

When  JOHN  COTTON,  a  minister  of  Boston, 
died  in  1652,  BENJAMIN  WOODBRIDGK,  the  first 
graduate  of  Harvard  College,  and  afterward 
one  of  the  chaplains  of  CHARLES  the  Second, 
wrote  an  elegiac  poem,  from  a  passage  in 
which  it  is  supposed  FRANKLIN  borrowed  the 
idea  of  his  celebrated  epitaph  on  himself. 
COTTON,  says  WOODBRIDGE,  was 

A  living,  breathing  Bible  ;  tables  where 
Both  covenants  at  large  engraven  were; 
Gospel  and  law  in  's  heart  had  each  its  column, 
His  head  an  index  to  the  sacred  volume, 
His  very  name  a  title-page,  and  next 
His  life  a  commentary  on  the  text. 
O  what  a  monument  of  glorious  worth, 
When  in  a  new  edition  he  comes  forth, 
Without  erratas,  may  we  think  he  'II  be, 
In  leaves  and  covers  of  eternity! 

The  lines  of  the  Reverend  JOSEPH  CAPEN, 
on  the  death  of  Mr.  JOHN  FOSTER,  an  inge- 
nious mathematician  and  printer,  are  yet  more 
like  the  epitaph  of  FRANKLIN  : 

Thy  body  which  no  activeness  did  lack, 
Now's  laid  aside  like  an  old  almanack; 
But  for  the  present  only 's  out  of  date, 
'Twill  have  at  length  a  far  more  active  state  : 
Yea,  though  with  dust  thy  body  soiled  be, 
Yet  at  the  resurrection  we  shall  see 
A  fair  edition,  and  of  matchless  worth, 
Free  from  erratas,  new  in  heaven  set  forth; 
'Tis  but  a  word  from  GOD  the  great  Creator, 
It  shall  be  done  when  he  saith  Imprimatur. 

The  excellent  President  URIAN  OAKES, 
styled  "  the  LACTANTIUS  of  New  England," 
was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  poets  of  his 
time.  The  following  verses  are  from  his 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


Elegy  on  the  death  of  THOMAS  SHKI-ARD,  mi- 
nister of  Charlestown: 

Art,  nature,  grace,  in  him  were  all  combined 
To  show  the  world  a  matchless  paragon; 
In  whom  of  radiant  virtues  no  less  shined, 
Than  a  whole  constellation  ;  but  nee 's  gone ! 
Hee  'a  gone,  alas !  down  in  the  dust  must  ly 
As  much  of  this  rare  person,  as  could  die. 
To  be  descended  well,  doth  that  commend  ' 
Can  sons  their  fathers'  glory  call  their  ownl 
Our  SHEPARD  justly  might  to  this  pretend, 
(IIU  blessed  father  was  of  high  renown, 

Both  Englands  speak  him  great,  admire  his  name,) 
But  his  own  personal  worth's  a  better  claim. 

His  look  commanded  reverence  and  awe, 

Though  mild  and  amiable,  not  austere  : 

Well  humour'd  was  he,  as  I  ever  saw, 

And  ruled  by  love  and  wisdom  more  than  fear. 
The  muses  and  the  graces  too,  conspired, 
To  set  forth  this  rare  piece  to  be  admired. 

He  breathed  love,  and  pursued  peace  in  his  day, 

As  if  his  soul  were  made  of  harmony  : 

Scarce  ever  more  of  goodness  crowded  lay 

In  such  a  piece  of  frail  mortality. 

Sure  Father  WILSON'S  genuine  son  was  he, 
New-England's  PAUL  had  such  a  TIMOTHY. 

My  dearest,  inmost,  bosome  friend  is  gone ! 

Gone  is  my  sweet  companion,  soul's  delight ! 

Now  in  a  huddling  crowd,  I  'm  all  alone, 

And  almost  could  bid  all  the  world  good-night, 
Blest  be  my  rock !  GOD  lives :  O !  let  him  be 
As  he  is  all,  so  all  in  all  to  me. 

At  that  period  the  memory  of  every  eminent 
person  was  preserved  in  an  ingenious  elegy, 
epitaph,  or  anagram.  SHEPARD,  mourned  in 
the  above  verses  by  OAKES,  on  the  death  of 
JOHN  WILSON,  "  the  Paul  of  New  England," 
and  "the  greatest  annagrammatizer  since  the 
days  of  LYCOPHRON,"  wrote — 

John  Wilson,  ana.gr.  John  Wilson. 
O,  change  it  not!  No  sweeter  name  or  thing, 
Throughout  the  world,  within  our  ears  shall  ring. 

THOMAS  WELDE,  a  poet  of  some  reputation 
in  his  day,  wrote  the  following  epitaph  on 
SAMUEL  DANFORTH,  a  minister  of  Roxbury, 
who  died  soon  after  the  completion  of  a  new 
meeting-house  : 

Our  new-built  church  now  suffers  too  by  this, 
Larger  its  windows,  but  its  lights  are  less. 

PETER  FOULGER,  a  schoolmaster  of  Nan- 
tucket,  and  the  maternal  grandfather  of  Doctor 
FRANKLIN,  in  167G  published  a  poem  entitled 
"  A  Looking-glass  for  the  Times,"  addressed 
to  men  in  authority,  in  which  he  advocates 
religious  liberty,  and  implores  the  government 
to  repeal  the  uncharitable  laws  against  the 
Quakers  and  other  sects.  He  says — 

The  rulers  in  the  country  I  do  owne  them  in  the  LOUD  ; 
And  such  as  are  for  government,  with  them  I  do  accord. 
But  that  which  I  intend  hereby,  is  that  they  would  keep 

bound; 
And  meddle  not  with  GOD'S  worship,  for  which  they 

have  no  ground. 

And  I  am  not  alone  herein,  there's  many  hundreds  more, 
That  have  for  many  years  ago  spoke  much  more  upon  that 
Indeed,  I  really  believe,  it 's  not  your  business,  [score. 
To  meddle  withthe  church  of  GOD  in  matters  more  or  less. 


In  another  part  of  his  "  Looking  Glass"  he 
says — 

Now  loving  friends  and  countrymen,  I  wish  we  may  be 

wise; 

'T  is  now  a  time  for  every  man  to  see  with  his  own  eyes. 
"T  is  easy  to  provoke  the  LORD  to  send  among  us  war ; 
'Tis  easy  to  do  violence,  to  envy  and  to  jar; 
To  show  a  spirit  that  is  high  ;  to  scorn  and  domineer; 
To  pride  it  out  as  if  there  were  no  GOD  to  make  us  fear; 
To  covet  what  is  not  our  own  ;  to  cheat  and  to  oppress ; 
To  live  a  life  that  might  free  us  from  acts  of  righteousness; 
Toswearandlie  and  to  be  drunk,  to  backbite  one  another; 
To  carry  tales  that  may  do  hurt  and  mischief  to  our  bro- 
ther; 

To  live  in  such  hypocrisy,  as  men  may  think  us  good, 
Although  our  hearts  within  are  full  of  evil  and  of  blood. 
All  these,  and  many  evils  more,  are  easy  for  to  do ; 
But  to  repeut  and  to  reform  we  have  no  strength  thereto. 

The  following  are  the  concluding  lines : 

I  am  for  peace,  and  not  for  war,  and  that 's  the  reason  why 
I  write  more  plain  than  some  men  do,  that  use  to  daub 

and  lie. 

But  I  shall  cease  and  set  my  name  to  what  I  here  insert : 
Because  to  be  a  libeller,  I  hate  it  with  my  heart,  [here, 
From  Sherbontown,  where  now  I  dwell,  my  name  I  do  put 
Without  offence,  your  real  friend,  it  is  PETER  FOULGER. 

Probably  the  first  native  bard  was  he  who 
is  described  on  a  tombstone  at  Roxbury  as 
"  BENJAMIN  THOMSON,  learned  schoolmaster 
and  physician,  and  ye  renowned  poet  of  New 
England."  He  was  born  in  the  town  of  Dor- 
chester, (now  Quincy,)  in  1640,  and  educated 
at  Cambridge  where  he  received  a  degree  in 
1662.  His  i  mcipal  work,  "New  England's 
Crisis,"  appears  to  have  been  written  during 
the  famous  wars  of  PHILIP,  Sachem  of  the 
Pequods,  against  the  colonists,  in  1675  and 
1676.  The  following  is  the  prologue,  in 
which  he  laments  the  growth  of  luxury  among 
the  people : 

The  times  wherein  old  POMPION  was  a  saint, 
When  men  fared  hardly  yet  without  complaint, 
On  vilest  cates;  the  dainty  Indian-maize 
Was  eat  with  clamp-shells  out  of  wooden  trayes, 
Under  thatch'd  huts  without  the  cry  of  rent, 
And  the  best  sawce  to  every  dish,  content. 
When  flesh  was  food  and  hairy  skins  made  coats, 
And  men  as  well  as  birds  had  chirping  notes. 
When  Cimnels  were  accounted  noble  blood ; 
Among  the  tribps  of  common  herbage  food. 
Of  CERES'  bounty  form'd  was  many  a  knack, 
Enough  to  fill  poor  Rouirf's  Almanack. 
These  golden  times  (too  fortunate  to  hold) 
Were  quickly  sin'd  away  for  love  of  (fold. 
'T  was  then  among  the  bushes,  not  the  street, 
If  one  in  place  did  an  inferior  meet, 
"Good-morrow,  brother,  is  there  aught  you  wantl 
Take  freely  of  me,  what  I  have  you  ha'nt." 
Plain  Tom  and  Dick  would  pass  as  current  now, 
As  ever  since  "Tour  servant,  Sir,"  and  bow. 
Deep-skirted  doublets,  puritanick  capes, 
Which  now  would  render  men  like  upright  apes, 
Was  comlier  wear,  our  wiser  fathers  thought, 
Than  the  cnst  fashions  from  all  Europe  brought, 
'T  was  in  those  dayes  an  honest  grace  would  hold 
Till  an  hot  pudding  grew  at  heart  a  cold. 
And  men  had  better  stomachs  at  religion, 
Than  I  to  capon,  turkey-cock,  or  pigeon  ; 
When  honest  sisters  met  to  pray,  not  prate, 
About  their  own  and  not  their  neighbour's  state. 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


During  Plain  Dealing's  reign,  that  worthy  stud 

Of  the  ancient  planters'  race  before  the  flood, 

Then  times  were  good,  merchants  cared  not  a  rush 

For  other  fare  than  jonakin  and  mush. 

Although  men  fared  and  lodged  very  hard, 

Yet  innocence  was  betler  than  a  guard. 

'T  was  long  before  spiders  and  worms  hnd  drawn 

Their  dingy  webs,  or  hid  with  cheating  lawne 

New  England's  beautys,  which  still  seem'd  to  me 

Illustrious  in  their  own  simplicity. 

'T  was  ere  the  neighbouring  Virgin-Land  had  broke 

The  hogsheads  of  her  worse  than  hellish  sinoak. 

'T  was  ere  the  Islands  sent  their  presents  in, 

Which  but  to  use  was  counted  next  to  sin. 

'T  was  ere  a  barge  had  made  so  rich  a  fraight 

As  chocolate,  dust-gold,  and  hitts  of  eight. 

Ere  wines  from  France  and  Muscovadoe  too, 

Without  the  which  the  drink  will  scarsely  doe. 

From  western  isles  ere  fruits  and  delicasies 

Did  rot  maids'  teeth  and  spoil  their  handsome  faces. 

Or  ere  these  times  did  chance,  the  noise  of  war 

Was  from  our  towns  and  hearts  removed  far. 

No  bugbear  comets  in  the  chrystal  air 

Did  drive  our  Christian  planters  to  despair. 

No  sooner  pagan  malice  peeped  forth 

But  valour  snib'd  it.    Then  were  men  of  worth 

Who  by  their  prayers  slew  thousands,  angel-like; 

Their  weapons  are  unseen  with  which  they  strike. 

Then  had  the  churches  rest;  as  yet  the  coales 

Were  covered  up  in  most  contentious  souls : 

Freeness  in  judgment,  union  in  affection, 

Dear  love,  sound  truth,  they  were  our  grand  protection. 

Thon  were  the  times  in  which  our  councells  sate, 

These  gave  prognosticks  of  our  future  fate. 

If  these  be  longer  liv'd  our  hopes  increase, 

These  warrs  will  usher  in  a  longer  peace. — 

But  if  New  England's  love  die  in  its  youth, 

The  grave  will  open  next  for  blessed  truth. 

This  theame  is  out  of  date,  the  peacefull  hours 

When  castles  needed  not,  but  pleasant  bowers. 

Not  ink,  but  bloud  and  tears  now  serve  the  turn 

To  draw  the  figure  of  New  England's  urne. 

New  England's  hour  of  passion  is  at  hand; 

No  power  except  divine  can  it  withstand. 

Scarce  hath  her  glass  of  fifty  years  run  out, 

But  her  old  prosperous  steeds  turn  heads  about, 

Tracking  themselves  back  to  their  poor  beginnings, 

To  fear  and  fare  upon  their  fruits  of  sinnings. 

So  that  the  mirror  of  the  Christian  world 

Lyes  burnt  to  heaps  in  part,  her  streamers  furl'd. 

Grief  sighs,  joyes  flee,  and  dismal  fears  surprize 

Not  dastard  spirits  only,  but  the  wise. 

Thus  have  the  fairest  hopes  deceiv'd  the  eye 

Of  the  big-swoln  expectant  standing  by  : 

Thus  the  proud  ship  after  a  little  turn, 

Sinks  into  NEPTUNE'S  arms  to  find  its  urne  : 

Tlius  hath  the  heir  to  many  thousands  born 

Been  in  an  instant  from  the  mother  torn  : 

Even  thus  thine  infant  cheeks  begin  to  pale, 

Anil  thy  supporters  through  great  losses  fail. 

This  is  the  Prulogue  to  thy  future  woe, 

The  Epilogue  no  mortal  yet  can  know. 

THOMSON  died  in  April,  1714,  aged  74.  He 
wrote  besides  his  "  great  epic,"  three  shorter 
poems,  neither  of  which  have  much  merit. 

ROGER  WILLIAMS,  Chief  Justice  SEWALL, 
NATHANIEL  WARD,  of  Ipswich,  JOHN  OSBORN, 
NATHANIEL  PITCHER,  and  many  others  were 
in  this  period  known  as  poets.  The  death  of 
PITCHER  was  celebrated  in  some  verses  enti- 
tled "Pitchero  Tlirenodia,"  in  which  he  was 
compared  to  PINDAR,  HORACE,  and  other  great 
writers  of  antiquity. 


The  most  celebrated  person  of  his  age  in 
America  was  COTTON  MATHER.  He  was  once 
revered  as  a  saint,  and  is  still  regarded  as  a 
man  of  great  natural  abilities  and  profound 
and  universal  learning.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
much  of  what  is  usually  called  scholarship : 
he  could  read  many  languages ;  and  his  me- 
mory was  so  retentive  that  he  rarely  forgot  the 
most  trivial  circumstance ;  but  he  had  too  little 
genius  to  comprehend  great  truths;  and  his 
attainments,  curious  rather  than  valuable,  made 
him  resemble  a  complicate  machine,  which, 
turned  by  the  water  from  year  to  year,  pro- 
duces only  bubbles,  and  spray,  and  rainbows 
in  the  sun.  He  was  industrious,  and,  beside 
his  three  hundred  and  eighty-two  printed 
works,  left  many  manuscripts,  of  which  the 
largest  is  called  "  Illustrations  of  the  Sacred 
Scriptures,"  on  which  he  laboured  daily  more 
than  thirty  years.  It  is  a  mere  compilation  of 
ideas  and  facts  from  multitudinous  sources, 
and  embraces  nothing  original,  or  valuable  to 
the  modern  scholar.  His  minor  works  are 
nearly  all  forgotten,  even  by  antiquaries.  The 
"  Magnalia  Christi  Americana"  is  preserved 
rather  as  a  curiosity  than  as  an  authority  ;  for 
recent  investigations  have  shown  that  his 
statements  are  not  to  be  relied  on  where  he 
had  any  interest  in  misrepresenting  acts  or 
the  characters  of  persons.  His  style  abounds 
with  puerilities,  puns,  and  grotesque  conceits. 
His  intellectual  character,  however,  was  bet- 
ter than  his  moral ;  for  he  was  wholly  destitute 
of  any  high  religious  principles,  and  was  am- 
bitious, intriguing,  and  unscrupulous.  He 
fanned  into  a  flame  the  terrible  superstition  in 
regard  to  witchcraft,  and  when  the  frenzy  was 
over,  hypocritically  endeavoured  to  persuade 
the  people  that  instead  of  encouraging  the  pro- 
ceedings, his  influence  and  exertions  had  been 
on  the  side  of  forbearance  and  caution.  Fail- 
ing to  convince  them  of  this,  he  attempted  to 
justify  his  conduct,  by  inventing  various  per- 
sonal histories,  to  show  that  there  had  been 
good  cause  for  the  atrocious  persecutions. 

COTTON  MATHER'S  verses,  scattered  through 
a  great  number  of  his  works,  are  not  superior 
to  those  of  many  of  his  contemporaries.     The 
following  lines   from  his  "Remarks  on  the 
Bright  and  the  Dark  Side  of  that  American 
Pillar,  the  Reverend  Mr.  William  Thomson," 
show  his  customary  manner — 
APOLLYON  owing  him  a  cursed  spleen 
Who  an  APOLLOS  in  the  church  had  been, 
Dreading  his  traffic  here  would  be  undone 
By  num'rous  proselytes  he  daily  won, 
Accused  him  of  imaginary  faults, 
And  push'd  him  down  so  into  dismal  vaults: 
Vaults,  where  he  kept  long  ember- weeks  of  grief,  > 
Till  Heaven  alarmed  sent  him  a  relief. 


xxu 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


Then  was  a  DANIEL  in  the  lion's  den, 

A  man,  oh,  how  beloved  of  GOD  and  men ! 

l(y  his  hillside  an  Hebrew  sword  there  lay, 

With  which  at  last  he  drove  the  devil  away. 

Quakers,  too,  durst  not  bear  his  keen  replies, 

But  fearing  it  half-drawn  the  trembler  flies. 

Like  LAZARUS,  new  raised  from  death,  appears 

The  saint  that  had  been  dead  f.ir  many  years. 

Our  NEHEMIAII  said,  "  shall  such  as  I 

Desert  my  flock,  and  like  a  coward  fly!" 

Long  had  the  churches  begg'd  the  saint's  release; 

Released  at  last,  he  dies  in  glorious  peace. 

The  night  is  not  so  long,  but  Phosphor's  ray 

Approaching  glories  doth  on  high  display. 

Faith's  eye  in  him  discern'd  the  morning  star, 

His  heart  leap'd ;  sure  the  sun  cannot  be  far. 

In  ecstasies  of  joy,  he  ravish'd  cries, 

"  Love,  love  the  LAMB,  the  LAMB  !"  in  whom  he  dies. 

MATHER  died  on  the  thirteenth  of  February, 
1724,  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 

ROGER  WOLCOTT,  a  major-general  at  the 
capture  of  Louisburg,  and  afterward  governor 
of  Connecticut,  published  a  volume  of  verses 
at  New  London,  in  1725.  His  principal  work 
is  "A  Brief  Account  of  the  Agency  of  the 
Honourable  JOHN  WINTHROP,  Esquire,  in  the 
Court  of  King  CHARLES  the  Second,  Anno  Do- 
mini 1662,  when  he  obtained  a  Charter  for  the 
Colony  of  Connecticut."  In  this  he  describes 
a  miracle  by  one  of  WINTHROP'S  company,  on 
the  return  voyage. 

The  winda  awhile 

Are  courteous,  and  conduct  them  on  their  way, 
To  near  the  midst  of  the  Atlantic  sea, 
When  suddenly  their  pleasant  gales  they  change 
For  dismal  storms  that  o'er  the  ocean  range. 
For  faithless  .aSoLus,  meditating  harms, 
Breaks  up  the  peace,  and  priding  much  in  arms, 
Unbars  the  great  artillery  of  heaven, 
And  at  the  fatal  signal  by  him  given, 
The  cloudy  chariots  threatening  take  the  plains ; 
Drawn  by  wing'd  steeds  hard  pressing  on  their  reins. 
These  vast  battalions,  in  dire  aspect  raised, 
Start  from  the  barriers — night  with  lightning  blazed, 
Whilst  clashing  wheels,  resounding  thunders  crack, 
Strike  mortals  deaf,  and  heavens  astonish'd  shake. 

Here  the  ship  captain,  in  the  midnight  watch, 
Stamps  on  the  deck,  and  thunders  up  the  hatch; 
And  to  the  mariners  aloud  he  cries, 
"  Now  all  from  safe  recumbency  arise  : 
All  hands  aloft-  and  stand  well  to  your  tack, 
Engendering  storms  have  clothed  the  sky  with  black, 
Big  tempests  threaten  to  undo  the  world  : 
Down  topsail,  let  the  mainsail  soon  be  furl'd: 
Haste  to  the  foresail,  there  take  up  a  reef: 
'Tis  time,  boys,  now  if  ever,  to  be  brief; 
Aloof  for  life  ;  let  'a  try  to  stem  the  tide, 
The  ship's  much  water,  thus  we  may  not  ride: 
Stand  roomer  then,  let 's  run  before  the  sea, 
That  so  the  ship  may  feel  her  steerage  way : 
Steady  at  helm  !"     Swiftly  along  she  scuds 
Before  the  wind,  and  cuts  the  foaming  suds. 
Sometimes  aloft  she  lifts  her  prow  so  high, 
As  if  she  "d  run  her  bowsprit  through  the  sky; 
Then  from  the  summit  ebbs  and  hurries  down, 
As  if  her  way  were  to  the  centre  shown. 

Meanwhile  our  founders  in  the  cabin  sat, 
Reflecting  on  their  true  and  sad  estate  ; 
Whilst  holy  WARHAM'S  sacred  lips  did  treat 
About  GOD'S  promises  and  mercies  great. 

Still  more  gigantic  births  spring  from  the  clouds, 
Which  tore  the  tatter'd  canvass  from  the  shrouds, 


And  dreadful  bails  of  lightning  fill  thn  air, 
Shut  from  the  linml  of  the  great  TIILNDKKEB. 

And  now  a  mighty  sea  the  ship  o'ertakes, 
Which  falling  on  the  deck,  the  bulk-head  breaks; 
The  sailors  cling  to  ropes,  and  frighted  cry, 
"The  ship  is  foundered,  we  die!  we  die!" 

Those  in  the  cabin  heard  the  sailors  screech; 
All  rise,  and  reverend  WARHAM  do  beseech, 
That  he  would  now  lift  up  to  Heaven  a  cry 
For  preservation  in  extremity. 
He  with  a  faith  sure  bottorn'd  on  the  word 
Of  Him  that  is  of  sea  and  winds  the  LORD, 
His  eyes  lifts  up  to  Heaven,  his  hands  extends, 
And  fervent  prayers  for  deliverance  sends. 
The  winds  abate,  the  threatening  waves  appease, 
And  a  sweet  calm  sits  regent  on  the  seas. 
They  bless  the  name  of  their  deliverer, 
Who  now  they  found  a  GOD  that  heareth  prayer. 

Still  further  westward  on  they  keep  their  way, 
Ploughing  the  pavement  of  the  briny  sea, 
Till  the  vast  ocean  they  had  overpast, 
And  in  Connecticut  their  anchors  cast. 

In  a  speech  to  the  king,  descriptive  of  the 
valley  of  the  Connecticut,  WINTHROP  says — 

The  grassy  banks  are  like  a  verdant  bed, 
With  choicest  flowers  all  enamelled, 
O'er  which  the  winged  choristers  do  fly, 
And  wound  the  air  with  wondrous  melody. 
Here  Philomel,  high  perch'd  upon  a  thorn, 
Sings  cheerful  hymns  to  the  approaching  morn. 
The  song  once  set,  each  bird  tunes  up  his  lyre, 
Responding  heavenly  music  through  the  quire 

Each  plain  is  bounded  at  its  utmost  edge 
With  a  long  chain  of  mountains  in  a  ridge, 
Whose  azure  tops  advance  themselves  so  high, 
They  seem  like  pendants  hanging  in  the  sky. 

In  an  account  of  King  PHILIP'S  wars,  he 
tells  how  the  soldier — 

met  his  amorous  dame, 
Whose  eye  had  often  set  his  heart  in  flame. 
Urged  with  the  motives  of  her  love  and  fear, 
She  runs  and  clasps  her  arms  about  her  dear 
Where,  weeping  on  his  bosom  as  she  lies, 
And  languishing,  on  him  she  sets  her  eyes, 
Till  those  bright  lamps  do  with  her  life  expire, 
And  leave  Mm  weltering  in  a  double  fire. 

In  the  next  page  he  describes  the  rising  of 
the  sun — 

By  this  AURORA  doth  with  gold  adorn 

The  ever  beauteous  eyelids  of  the  morn  ; 

And  burning  TITAN  his  exhaustless  rays, 

Bright  in  the  eastern  horizon  displays  ; 

Then  soon  appearing  in  majestic  awe, 

Makes  all  the  starry  deities  withdraw  ; 

Veiling  their  faces  in  deep  reverence, 

Before  the  throne  of  his  magnificence. 

WOLCOTT  retired  from  public  life,  after  hav- 
ing held  many  honourable  offices,  in  1755,  and 
died  in  May,  1767,  in  the  eighty-ninth  year 
of  his  age.  The  next  American  verse-writer 
of  much  reputation  was  the  Reverend  MICHAEL 
WIGGLESWORTH.  He  was  born  in  1631,  and 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  soon  after  enter- 
ing upon  his  twentieth  year.  When  rendered 
unable  to  preach,  by  an  affection  of  the  lungs, 

In  costly  verse  and  most  laborious  rhymes, 

He  dish'd  up  truths  right  worthy  our  regard. 

His  principal  work,  "The  Day  of  Doom, 
or  a  Poetical  Description  of  the  Great  and 
Last  Judgment,  with  a  Short  Discourse  about 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


Eternity,"  passed  through  six  editions  in  this 
country,  and  was  reprinted  in  London.  A  few 
verses  will  show  its  style — 

Still  was  the  night,  serene  and  bright, 

When  all  men  sleeping  lay  ; 
Calm  was  the  season,  and  carnal  reason 

Thought  so  't  would  last  for  aye. 
Soul,  take  thine  ease,  let  sorrow  cease, 

Much  good  thou  hast  in  store  : 
This  was  their  song  their  cups  among, 
The  evening  before. 

After  the  "  sheep"  have  received  their  re- 
ward, the  several  classes  of  "  goats"  are  ar- 
raigned before  the  judgment-seat,  and,  in  turn, 
begin  to  excuse  themselves.  When  the  infants 
object  to  damnation  on  the  ground  that 

Adam  is  set  free 
And  saved  from  his  trespass, 
Whose  sinful  fall  hath  spilt  them  all, 

And  brought  them  to  this  pass, — 
the  puritan  theologist  does   not  sustain   his 
doctrine  very  well,  nor  quite  to  his  own  satis- 
faction even;   and  the  judge,  admitting  the 
palliating  circumstances,  decides  that  although 

in  bliss 

They  may  not  hope  to  dwell, 
Still  unto  them  He  will  allow 
The  easiest  room  in  hell. 

At  length  the  general  sentence  is  pronounced, 
and  the  condemned  begin  to 

wring  their  hands,  their  caitiff-hands, 
And  gnash  their  teeth  for  terror; 
They  cry,  they  roar  for  anguish  sore, 
And  gnaw  their  tongues  for  horror. 
But  get  away  without  delay, 

CHRIST  pities  not  your  cry  : 
Depart  to  hell,  there  may  ye  yell, 
And  roar  eternally. 

WIGGLESWORTH  died  in  1705. 
The  Reverend  BENJAMIN  COLMAN,  D.D. 
"  married  in  succession  three  widows,  and 
wrote  three  poems;"  but  though  his  diction 
was  more  elegant  than  that  of  most  of  his 
contemporaries,  he  had  less  originality.  His 
only  daughter,  Mrs.  JANE  TURELL,  wrote 
verses  which  were  much  praised  by  the  critics 
of  her  time. 

The  "  Poems  of  the  Reverend  JOHN  ADAMS, 
M.A.,"  were  published  in  Boston  in  1745, 
four  years  after  the  author's  death.  The  vo- 
lume contains  paraphrases  of  the  Psalms  of 
David,  the  Book  of  Revelation  in  heroic 
verse,  translations  from  HORACE,  and  four 
original  compositions,  of  which  the  longest  is 
a  "  Poem  on  Society,"  in  three  cantos.  The 
following  picture  of  parental  love  is  from  the 
first  canto. 

The  parent,  warm  with  nature's  tender  fire, 
Does  in  the  child  his  second  self  admire; 
The  fondling  mother  views  the  springing  charms 
Of  the  young  infant  smiling  in  her  arms: 
And  when  imperfect  accents  show  the  dawn 
Of  rising  reason,  and  the  future  man, 
Sweetly  she  he,;irs  wh  it  fondly  he  returns, 
And  by  this  fuel  her  affection  burns. 


But  when  succeeding  years  have  fi.x'd  his  growth, 
And  sense  and  judgment  crown  tlu>  ripen'd  youth: 
A  social  joy  tli<;i;c<:  t;.kes  its  happy  rise, 
And  friendship  adds  its  force  to  Nature's  ties. 

The  conclusion  of  the  second  canto  is  a  de- 
scription of  love — 

But  now  the  Muse  in  softer  measure  flows, 

And  gayer  srenes  and  fairer  landscapes  shows: 

The  reign  of  Fancy,  when  the  sliding  hours 

Are  past  with  lovely  nymph  in  woven  bowers, 

Where  cooly  shades,  and  lawns  forever  green, 

And  streams,  and  warbling  birds  adorn  the  scene; 

Where  smiles  and  graces,  and  the  wanton  train 

Of  Cytherea,  crown  the  flowery  plain. 

What  can  their  charms  in  equal  numbers  tell? 

The  glow  of  roses,  and  the  lily  pale  ; 

The  waving  ringlets  of  the  flowing  hair, 

The  snowy  bosom,  and  the  killing  air; 

Their  sable  brows  in  beauteous  arches  bent, 

The  darts  which  from  their  vivid  eyes  are  sent, 

And  fixing  in  our  easy-wounded  hearts, 

Can  never  be  removed  hy  all  our  arts  ; 

'T  is  then  with  love,  and  love  alone  possest, 

Our  reason  fled,  that  passion  claims  our  breast. 

How  many  evils  then  will  fancy  form  7 

A  frown  will  gather,  and  discharge  a  storm  : 

Her  smile  more  soft  and  cooling  breezes  brings, 

Than  zephyrs  fanning  with  their  silken  wings. 

But  love,  where  madness  reason  does  subdue, 

E'en  angels,  were  they  here,  mii'lit  well  pursue. 

Lovely  the  sex,  and  moving  are  their  charms, 

But  why  should  passion  sink  us  to  their  arms  t 

Why  should  the  female  to  a  goddess  turn, 

And  flames  of  love  to  flames  of  incense  burn') 

Either  by  fancy-fired,  or  fed  by  lies, 

Be  all  distraction,  or  all  artifice  7 

True  love  does  flattery  as  much  disdain 

As,  of  its  own  perfections,  to  be  vain. 

The  heart  can  feel  whste'er  the  lips  reveal, 

Nor  Syren's  smiles  the  destined  death  conceal. 

Love  is  a  noble  and  a  generous  fire, 

Esteem  and  virtue  feed  the  just  desire  ; 

Where  honour  leads  the  way  it  ever  moves, 

And  ne'er  from  breast  to  breast,  inconstant,  roves. 

Harbour'd  by  one,  and  only  harbour'd  there, 

It  likes,  but  ne'er  can  love  another  fair. 

Fix'd  upon  one  supreme,  and  her  alone, 

Our  heart  is,  of  the  fair,  the  constant  throne. 

Nor  will  her  absence,  or  her  cold  neglect, 

At  once,  expel  her  from  our  just  respect : 

Inflamed  by  virtue,  love  will  not  expire, 

Unless  contempt  or  hatred  quench  the  fire. 

ADAMS  died  on  the  twenty-second  of  Janu- 
ary, 1740.  I  copy  from  the  "  Boston  Weekly 
Newsletter,"*  printed  the  day  after  his  inter- 
ment, the  following  letter  from  a  correspondent 
at  Cambridge,  which  shows  the  estimation  in 
which  he  was  held  by  his  contemporaries : 

"  Last  Wednesday  morning  expired  in  this 
place,  in  the  thirty-sixth  year  of  his  age,  and 
this  day  was  interred  with  a  just  solemnity  and 
respect,  the  reverend  and  learned  JOHN  ADAMS, 
M.  A.,  only  son  of  the  Honourable  JOHN 
ADAMS,  Esquire. 

"  The  corpse  was  carried  and  placed  in  the 

*  This  was  the  first  newspaper  published  in  America. 
It  was  established  in  1001,  and  the  first  sheet  that  was 
printed  was  taken  damp  from  the  press  by  Chief  Justice 
SEWEL,  to  exhibit  ;is  a  curiosity  to  President  WILLARD, 
of  Harvard  University.  The  "Newsletter"  was  con- 
tinued seventy-two  years. 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 


center  of  the  college  hall ;  from  whence,  after 
a  portion  of  Holy  Scripture,  and  a  prayer  very 
suitable  to  the  occasion,  by  the  learned  head 
of  that  society,  it  was  taken  and  deposited 
within  sight  of  the  place  of  his  own  educa- 
tion. The  pall  was  supported  by  the  fellows 
of  the  college,  the  professor  of  mathematics, 
and  another  master  of  arts.  And,  next  to  a 
number  of  sorrowful  relatives,  the  remains  of 
this  great  man  were  followed  by  his  honour 
the  lieutenant-governor,  with  some  of  his 
majesty's  council  and  justices;  who,  with  the 
reverend  the  president,  the  professor  of  divini- 
ty, and  several  gentlemen  of  distinction  from 
this  and  the  neighbouring  towns,  together  with 
all  the  members  and  students  of  the  college, 
composed  the  train  that  attended  in  an  orderly 
procession,  to  the  place  that  had  been  appoint- 
ed for  his  mournful  interment. 

"  The  character  of  this  excellent  person  is 
too  great  to  be  comprised  within  the  limits  of 
a  paper  of  intelligence.  It  deserves  to  be 
engraven  in  letters  of  gold  on  a  monument  of 
marble,  or  rather  to  appear  and  shine  forth 
from  the  works  of  some  genius,  of  an  uncom- 
mon sublimity,  and  equal  to  his  own.  But 
sufficient  to  perpetuate  his  memory  to  the 
latest  posterity,  are  the  immortal  writings  and 
composures  of  this  departed  gentleman ;  who, 
for  his  genius,  his  learning,  and  his  piety, 
ought  to  be  enrolled  in  the  highest  class  in  the 
catalogue  of  Fame." 

The  only  American  immortalized  in  "  The 
Dunciad"  was  JAMES  RALPH,  who  went  to 
England  with  FRANKLIN.  POPE  exclaims — 

Silence,  ye  wolves!  while  RALPH  to  Cynthia  howls, 
And  makes  night  hideous;  answer  him,  ye  owls! 

RALPH  wrote  a  long  "poem"  entitled  "Zeu- 
ma,  or  the  Love  of  Liberty,"  which  appeared 
in  London  in  1 729 ;  "  Night,"  and  "  Sawney," 
a  satire,  in  which  I  suppose  he  attempted  to 
repay  the  debt  he  owed  to  POPE,  as  it  is  but 
an  abusive  tirade  against  that  poet  and  his 
friends.  I  quote  a  few  lines  from  "  Zeuma:" 

Tlascala's  vaunt,  great  ZAGNAR'S  martial  son, 
Extended  on  the  rack,  no  more  complains 
That  realms  are  wanting  to  employ  his  sword ; 
But,  circled  with  innumerable  ghosts, 
Who  print  their  keenest  vengeance  on  his  soul, 
For  all  the  wrongs,  and  slaughters  of  his  reign, 
Howls  out  repentance  to  the  deafen'd  skies, 
And  shakes  hell's  concave  with  continual  groans. 

In  Philadelphia,  in  1728  and  1729,  THOMAS 
MAKIN  published  two  Latin  poems,  "Enco- 
mium Pennsylvaniae"  and  "Inlaudes  Penn- 
sylvaniae."  About  the  same  time  appeared  in 
Boston  JOHN  MAYHEW'S  "  Gallic  Perfidy" 
and  "  Conquest  of  Louisburg,"  two  smoothly 
versified  but  very  dull  compositions. 


THOMAS  GODFREY  of  Philadelphia  has  been 
called  "the  first  American  dramatic  poet," 
but  I  believe  a  play  superior  to  "The  Prince 
of  Parthia"  had  been  composed  by  some  stu- 
dents at  Cambridge  before  his  time.  GODFREY 
was  a  son  of  the  inventor  of  the  quadrant 
claimed  in  England  by  HADLEY.  He  was  a 
lieutenant  in  the  expedition  against  Fort  Du 
Quesne  in  1759,  and  on  the  disbanding  of  the 
colonial  forces  went  to  New  Providence,  and 
afterward  to  North  Carolina,  where  he  died, 
on  the  third  of  August,  17G3,  in  the  twenty- 
seventh  year  of  his  age.  His  poems  were 
published  in  Philadelphia  in  1765,  in  a  quarto 
volume  of  two  hundred  and  thirty  pages. 
"The  Prince  of  Parthia,  a  Tragedy,"  con- 
tains a  few  vigorous  passages,  but  not  enough 
to  save  it  from  condemnation  as  the  most 
worthless  composition  in  the  dramatic  form 
that  has  been  printed  in  America.  The  fol- 
lowing lines  from  the  fifth  act,  might  pass  for 
respectable  prose — 

O  may  he  never  know  a  father's  fondness, 
Or  know  it  to  his  sorrow  ;  may  his  hopes 
Of  joy  be  cut  like  mine,  and  his  short  life 
Be  one  continued  tempest.    If  he  lives, 
Let  him  be  cursed  with  jealousy  and  fear; 
May  torturing  Hope  present  the  flowing  cup, 
Then,  hasty,  snatch  it  from  his  eager  thirst, 
And,  when  he  dies,  base  treachery  be  the  means. 

The  "  Court  of  Fancy,"  a  poem  in  the  he- 
roic measure,  is  superior  to  his  tragedy  in  its 
diction,  but  has  little  originality  of  thought  or 
illustration.  Of  Fancy  he  gives  this  descrip- 
tion— 

High  in  the  midst,  raised  on  her  rolling  throne, 

Sublimely  eminent,  bright  FANCY  shone. 

A  glittering  tiara  her  temples  bound, 

Rich  set  with  sparkling  rubies  all  around  ; 

A  radiant  bough,  ensign  of  her  command, 

Of  polished  gold,  waved  in  her  lily  hand ; 

The  same  the  sybil  to  ^ENEAS  gave, 

When  the  bold  Trojan  cross'd  the  Stygian  wave. 

In  silver  traces  fix'd  unto  her  car, 

Four  snowy  swans,  proud  of  the  imperial  fair, 

Wing'd  lightly  on,  each  in  gay  beauty  dress'd, 

Smooth'd  the  soft  plumage  that  adorn'd  her  breast. 

Sacred  to  her  the  lucent  chariot  drew, 

Or  whether  wildly  through  the  air  she  flew, 

Or  whether  to  the  dreary  shades  of  night, 

Oppress'd  with  gloom  she  downward  bent  her  flight, 

Or  proud  aspiring  sought  the  bless'd  abodes, 

And  boldly  shot  among  the  assembled  gods. 

One  of  GODFREY'S  most  intimate  friends 
was  the  Reverend  NATHANIEL  EVANS,  a  na- 
tive of  Philadelphia,  admitted  to  holy  orders 
by  the  Bishop  of  London  in  1765.  He  died 
in  October,  17t>7,  in  the  twenty-sixth  year  of 
his  age;  and  his  poems,  few  of  which  had 
been  printed  in  his  lifetime,  were  soon  after- 
ward, by  his  direction,  collected  and  published. 
The  "  Ode  on  the  Prospect  of  Peace,"  writ- 
ten in  17G1,  is  the  most  carefully  finished  of 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


I    quote    the    concluding 


his    productions, 
verses — 

Thus  has  Britannia's  glory  beam'd, 

Where'er  bright  Phoebus,  from  his  car, 
To  earth  his  cheerful  rays  hath  stream'd, 

Adown  the  crystal  vault  of  air. 
Enough  o'er  Britain's  shining  arms, 
Hath  Victory  display'd  her  charms 

Amid  the  horrid  pomp  of  war — 
Descend  then,  Peace,  angelic  maid. 

And  smoothe  BELLOXA'S  haggard  brow; 
Haste  to  diffuse  thy  healing  aid, 

Where'er  implored  by  scenes  of  wo. 
Henceforth  whoe'er  disturbs  thy  reign 

Or  stains  the  world  with  human  gore, 
Be  they  from  earth  (a  gloomy  train  1) 

•Banish'd  to  hell's  profoundest  shore; 
Where  Vengeance,  on  Avernus'  lake, 

Rages,  with  furious  ATE  bound  ; 
And  black  Rebellion's  fetters  shake, 

And  Discord's  hideous  murmurs  sound  ; 
Where  Envy's  noxious  snakes  entwine 

Her  temples  round,  in  gorgon  mood, 
And  bellowing  Faction  rolls  supine 

Along  the  flame-becurled  flood ! — 
Hence,  then,  to  that  accursed  place, 
Disturbers  of  the  human  race! 

And  with  you  bear  Ambition  wild,  and  selfish  Pride, 
With  Persecution  foul,  and  Terror  by  her  side. 

Thus  driven  from  earth,  War's  horrid  train — 

O  Peace,  thou  nymph  divine,  draw  near! 
Here  let  the  muses  fix  their  reign, 

And  crown  with  fame  each  rolling  year. 
Source  of  joy  and  genuine  pleasure, 
Queen  of  quiet,  queen  of  leisure, 

Haste  thy  votaries  to  cheer  ! 
Cherish'd  beneath  thy  hallow'd  rule, 

Shall  Pennsylvania's  glory  rise  ; 
Her  sons,  bred  up  in  Virtue's  school, 

Shall  lift  her  honours  to  the  skies — 
A  state  thrice  blest  with  lenient  sway, 

Where  Liberty  exalts  the  mind  ; 
Where  Plenty  basks  the  live-long  day 

And  pours  her  treasures  unconfined. 
Hither,  ye  beauteous  virgins  tend, 

With  Art  and  Science  by  your  side. 
Whose  skill  the  untutor'd  morals  mend, 

And  mankind  to  fair  honour  guide ; 
And  with  you  bring  the  graces  three, 

To  fill  Ihe  soul  with  glory's  blaze; 
Whose  charms  give  grace  to  poesy, 

And  consecrate  the  immortal  lays — 
Such  as,  when  mighty  PINDAR  sung, 
Through  the  Alphean  village  rung; 
Or  such  as,  Meles,  by  thy  lucid  fountains  flow'd, 
When  bold  MJEONIDES  with  heavenly  transports  glow'd. 

To  such,  may  Delaware,  majestic  flood, 

Lend,  from  his  flowery  banks,  a  ravish'd  ear; 
Such  note  as  may  delight  the  wise  and  good, 

Or  saints  celestial  may  endure  to  hear! 
For  if  the  muse  can  aught  of  lime  descry, 

Such  notes  shall  sound  tliy  crystal  waves  along, 
Thy  cities  fair  with  glorious  Athens  vie, 

Nor  pure  llissus  boast  a  nobler  song. 
On  thy  fair  banks,  a  fane  to  Virtue's  name 

Shall  rise— and  Justice  light  her  holy  flame. 
All  hail,  then,  Peace  !  restore  the  golden  days, 
And  round  the  ball  diffuse  Britannia's  praise; 
Stretch  her  wide  empire  to  the  world's  last  end, 
Till  kings  remotest  to  her  sceptre  bend ! 

JOHN  OSBORN  of  Sandwich,  in  Massachu- 
setts, who  died  in  1753,  wrote  a  "Whaling 
Song"  which  was  well  known  in  the  Pacific 
4 


for  more  than  half  a  century.  While  in  col- 
lege, in  1735,  he  addressed  an  elegiac  epistle 
to  one  of  his  sisters,  on  the  death  of  aonember 
of  the  family,  of  which  I  quote  the  first  part — 

Dear  sister,  see  the  smiling  spring 

In  all  its  beauties  here  ; 
The  groves  a  thousand  pleasures  bring, 

A  thousand  grateful  scenes  appear. 
With  tender  leaves  the  trees  are  crown'd, 
And  scatter'd  blossoms  all  around, 
Of  various  dyes 
Salute  your  eyes, 

And  cover  o'er  the  speckled  ground. 
Now  thickets  shade  the  glassy  fountains; 

Trees  o'erhang  the  purling  streams  ; 
Whisp'rin?  breezes  brush  the  mountains, 

Grots  are  fill'd  with  balmy  steams. 

But,  sister,  all  the  sweets  that  grace 
The  spring  and  blooming  nature's  face; 

The  chirping  birds, 

Nor  lowing  herds; 

The  woody  hills, 

Nor  murm'ring  rills ; 

The  sylvan  shades, 

Nor  flowery  meads, 
To  me  their  former  joys  dispense, 
Though  all  their  pleasures  court  my  sense, 
But  melancholy  damps  my  mind  ; 

I  lonely  walk  the  field, 

With  inward  sorrow  fill'd, 
And  sigh  to  every  breathing  wind. 

The  facetious  MATHER  BYLES  was  in  his 
time  equally  famous  as  a  poet  and  a  wit.  A 
contemporary  bard  exclaims — 

Would  but  APOLLO'S  genial  touch  inspire 
Such  sounds  as  breathe  from  BYLES'S  warbling  lyre, 
Then  might  my  notes  in  melting  measures  flow, 
And  make  all  nature  wear  the  signs  of  wo. 

And  his  humour  is  celebrated  in  a  poetical 
account  of  the  clergy  of  Boston,  quoted  by 
Mr.  SAMUEL  KETTELL,  in  his  "Specimens  of 
American  Poetry," — 

There's  punning  BYLES,  provokes  our  smiles, 

A  man  of  stately  parts. 
He  visits  folks  to  crack  his  jokes. 

Which  never  mend  their  hearts. 
With  strutting  gait,  and  wig  so  great, 

He  walks  along  the  streets  ; 
And  throws  out  wit,  or  what's  like  it, 

To  every  one  he  meets. 

BYLES  was  graduated  at  Cambridge  in  1725, 
and  was  ordained  the  first  minister  of  the  church 
in  Hollis  street,  in  1732.  He  soon  became  emi- 
nent as  a  preacher,  and  the  King's  College  at 
Aberdeen  conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  Doc- 
tor of  Divinity.  He  was  one  of  the  authors 
of  "A  Collection  of  Poems  by  several  Hands," 
which  appeared  in  1744, and  of  numerous  essays 
and  metrical  compositions  in  "The  New  Eng- 
land Weekly  Journal,"  the  merit  of  which  was 
such  as  to  introduce  him  to  the  notice  of  POPE 
and  other  English  scholars.  One  of  his  poems 
is  entitled  "The  Conflagration;"  and  it  is 
"applied  to  that  grand  catastrophe  of  our 
world  when  the  face  of  nature  is  to  be  changed 
c 


XXVI 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


The  following  lines 


by  a  deluge  of  fire." 

show  its  style — 

Vet  sJiall  ye,  flames,  the  wasting  globe  refine, 
And  aid  the  skies  with  purer  splendour  shine. 
The  earth,  which  the  prolific  fires  consume, 
To  beauty  burns,  and  withers  into  bloom; 
Improving  in  the  fertile  flame  it  lies, 
Fades  into  form,  and  into  vigour  dies : 
Fresh-dawning  glories  blush  amidst  the  blaze, 
And  nature  all  renews  her  flowery  face. 
With  endless  charms  the  everlasting  year 
Rolls  round  the  seasons  in  a  full  career  ; 
Spring,  ever-blooming,  bids  the  fields  rejoice, 
And  warbling  birds  try  their  melodious  voice  ; 
Where'er  she  treads,  lilies  unbidden  blow, 
Quick  tulips  rise,  and  sudden  roses  glow  : 
Her  pencil  paints  a  thousand  beauteous  scenea, 
Where  blossoms  bud  amid  immortal  greens ; 
Each  stream,  in  mazes,  murmurs  as  it  flows, 
And  floating  forests  gently  bend  their  boughs. 
Thou,  autumn,  too,  sitt'st  in  the  fragrant  shade, 
While  the  ripe  fruits  blush  all  around  thy  head: 
And  lavish  nature,  with  luxuriant  hands, 
All  the  soft  months,  in  gay  confusion  blends. 

BYLES  was  earnestly  opposed  to  the  Revo- 
lution, and  in  the  spring  of  1777  was  denounced 
in  the  public  assemblies  as  a  Tory,  and  com- 
pelled to  give  bonds  for  his  appearance  before 
a  court  for  trial.  In  the  following  June  he  was 
convicted  of  treasonable  conversation,  and  hos- 
tility to  the  country,  and  sentenced  to  be  im- 
prisoned forty  days  on  board  a  guard  ship,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  period  to  be  sent  with  his 
family  to  England.  The  board  of  war  how- 
ever took  his  case  into  consideration,  and  com- 
muted the  punishment  to  a  short  confinement 
under  a  guard  in  his  own  house;  but,  though 
he  continued  to  reside  in  Boston  during  the 
remainder  of  his  life,  he  never  again  entered 
a  pulpit,  nor  regained  his  ante-revolutionary 
popularity.  He  died  in  1788,  in  the  eighty- 
second  year  of  his  age. 

He  was  a  favourite  in  every  social  or  con- 
vivial circle,  and  no  one  was  more  fond  of  his 
society  than  the  colonial  governor,  BELCHER, 
on  the  death  of  whose  wife  he  wrote  an  elegy 
ending  with — 

Meantime  my  name  to  thine  allied  shall  stand, 

Still  our  warm  friendship,  mutual  flames  extend ; 

The  muse  shall  so  survive  from  age  to  age, 

And  BELCHER'S  name  protect  his  BYLES'S  page. 

The  doctor  had  declined  an  invitation  to 
visit  with  the  governor  the  province  of  Maine, 
and  BELCHER  resorted  to  a  stratagem  to  secure 
his  company.  Having  persuaded  him  to  drink 
tea  with  him  on  board  the  Scarborough  ship  of 
war,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  as  soon  as  they 
were  seated  at  the  table  the  anchor  was 
weighed,  the  sails  set,  and  before  the  punning 
parson  had  called  for  his  last  cup,  the  ship 
was  too  far  at  sea  for  him  to  think  of  returning 
to  the  shore.  As  every  thing  necessary  for  his 
comfort  had  been  thoughtfully  provided,  he 
was  easily  reconciled  to  the  voyage.  While 


making  preparations  for  religious  services,  the 
next  Sunday,  it  was  discovered  that  there  was 
no  hymn  book  on  board,  and  he  wrote  the 
following  lines,  which  were  sung  instead  of  a 
selection  from  STEKNHOLD  and  HOPKINS — 

Great  GOD,  thy  works  our  wonder  raise; 

To  tln:>:  our  swelling  notes  belong  ; 
While  skies  and  winds,  and  rocks  and  seas, 

Around  shall  echo  to  our  song. 
Thy  power  produced  this  mighty  frame, 

Aloud  to  thee  the  tempests  roar, 
Or  softer  breezes  tune  thy  name 
Gently  along  the  shelly  shore. 
Round  thee  the  scaly  nation  roves, 

Thy  opening  hands  their  joys  bestow, 
Through  all  the  blushing  coral  groves, 

These  silent  gay  retreats  below. 
See  the  broad  sun  forsake  the  skies, 

Glow  on  the  waves,  and  downward  glide  ; 
Anon  heaven  opens  all  its  eyes, 

And  star-beams  tremble  o'er  the  tide. 
Each  various  scene,  or  day  or  night, 

LORD!  points  to  thee  our  nourish'd  soul; 
Thy  glories  fix  our  whole  delight ; 

So  the  touch'd  needle  courts  the  pole. 
JOSEPH  GREEN,  a  merchant  of  Boston,  who 
had  been  a  classmate  of  BYLES  at  Cambridge, 
was  little  less  celebrated  than  the  doctor  for 
humour;  and  some  of  his  poetical  composi- 
tions were  as  popular  ninety  years  ago  as  in 
our  own  time  have  been  those  of  "  CROAKER  & 
Co.,"  which  they  resemble  in  spirit  and  play- 
ful ease  of  versification.  The  abduction  of  the 
Hollis  street  minister  was  the  cause  of  not  a 
little  merriment  in  Boston;  and  GREEN,  be- 
tween whom  and  BYLES  there  was  some  rivalry, 
as  the  leaders  of  opposing  social  factions,  soon 
after  wrote  a  burlesque  account  of  it — 
In  DAVID'S  Psalms  an  oversight 

BYLES  found  one  morning  at  his  tea, 
Alas!  that  he  should  never  write 
A  proper  psalm  to  sing  at  sea. 
Thus  ruminating  on  his  seat, 

Ambitions  thoughts  at  length  prevail'd, 
The  bard  determined  to  complete 

The  part  wherein  the  prophet  fail'd. 
He  sal  awhile  and  stroked  his  muse,* 

Then  taking  up  his  tuneful  pen, 
Wrote  a  few  stanzas  for  the  use 

Of  his  seafaring  bretheren. 
The  task  perform'd,  the  bard  content, 

Well  chosen  was  each  flowing  word  ; 
On  a  short  voyage  himself  he  went, 
To  hear  it  read  and  sung  on  board. 
Most  serious  Christians  do  aver, 

(Their  credit  sure  we  may  rely  on,) 
In  former  times  that  after  prayer, 

They  used  to  sing  a  song  of  Zion. 
Our  modern  parson  having  pray'd, 

Unless  loud  fame  our  faith  beguiles, 
Sat  down,  took  out  his  book  and  said, 

"  Let 's  sing  a  psalm  of  MATHER  BYLES." 
At  first,  when  he  began  to  read, 

Their  heads  the  assembly  downward  hung, 
But  he  with  boldness  did  proceed, 
And  thus  he  read,  and  thus  they  sung. 

*  BVLES'S  favourite  cat,  so  named  by  his  friends. 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


THE  PSALM. 
With  vast  amazement  we  survey 

The  wonders  of  the  deep, 
Where  mackerel  swim,  and  porpoise  play, 

And  crabs  and  lobsters  creep. 
Fish  of  all  kinds  inhabit  here, 

And  throng  the  dark  abode. 
Here  haddock,  hake,  and  flounders  are, 

And  eels,  and  perch,  and  cod. 
From  raging  winds  and  tempests  free, 

So  smoothly  as  we  pass, 
The  shining  surface  seems  to  be 

A  piece  of  Bristol  glass. 
But  when  the  winds  and  tempests  rise, 

And  foaming  billows  swell, 
The  vessel  mounts  above  the  skies 

And  lower  sinks  than  hell. 

Our  heads  the  tottering  motion  feel, 

And  quickly  we  become 
Giddy  as  new-dropp'd  calves,  and  reel 

Like  Indiana  drunk  with  rum. 
What  praises  then  are  due  that  we 

Thus  far  have  safely  got, 
Amarescoggin  tribe  to  see, 

And  tribe  of  Penobscot. 

In  1750  GREEN  published  "An  Entertain- 
ment for  a  Winter  Evening,"  in  which  he 
ridicules  the  freemasons ;  and  afterward, "  The 
Sand  Bank,"  "A  True  Account  of  the  Cele- 
bration of  St.  JOHN  the  Baptist,"  and  several 
shorter  pieces,  all  of  which  I  believe  were 
satirical.  His  epigrams  are  the  best  written 
in  this  country  before  the  Revolution;  and 
many  anecdotes  are  told  to  show  the  readiness 
of  his  wit  and  his  skill  as  an  improvisator. 
On  one  occasion,  a  country  gentleman,  know- 
ing his  reputation  as  a  poet,  procured  an  intro- 
duction to  him,  and  solicited  a  "first  rate  epi- 
taph" for  a  favourite  servant  who  had  lately 
died.  GREEN  asked  what  were  the  man's  chief 
qualities,  and  was  told  that  "  COLE  excelled 
in  all  things,  but  was  particularly  good  at 
raking  hay,  which  he  could  do  faster  than 
anybody,  the  present  company,  of  course,  ex- 
cepted."  GREEN  wrote  immediately — 

Here  lies  the  body  of  JOHN  COLE, 
His  master  loved  him  like  his  soul ; 
He  could  rake  hay,  none  could  rake  faster 
Except  that  raking  dog,  his  master. 

In  his  old  age  GREEN  left  Boston  for  Eng- 
land, rather  from  the  infirmities  of  age,  than 
from  indifference  to  the  cause  of  liberty. 

Contemporary  with  BYLES  and  GREEN  was 
the  celebrated  Doctor  BENJAMIN  CHURCH.  He 
was  born  in  Boston  in  1739,  and  graduated  at 
Cambridge  when  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  his 
age.  After  finishing  his  professional  educa- 
tion, he  established  himself  as  a  physician  in 
his  native  city,  and  soon  became  eminent  by 
his  literary  and  political  writings.  At  the 
commencement  of  the  revolutionary  troubles, 
he  was  chosen  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts 
legislature,  and  after  the  battle  of  Lexington 


was  appointed  surgeon-general  of  the  army. 
In  the  autumn  of  1775  he  was  suspected  of 
treasonable  correspondence  with  the  enemy, 
arrested  by  order  of  the  commander-in-chief, 
tried  by  the  general  court,  and  found  guilty. 
By  direction  of  the  Congress,  to  whom  the 
subject  of  his  punishment  was  referred,  he 
was  confined  in  a  prison  in  Connecticut;  but 
after  a  few  months,  on  account  of  the  condi- 
tion of  his  health,  was  set  at  liberty;  and  in 
the  summer  of  1776  he  embarked  at  Newport 
for  the  West  Indies,  in  a  ship  which  was 
never  heard  of  after  the  day  on  which  it  sailed. 
CHURCH  wrote  several  of  the  best  poems  in 
Pietas  et  Gratulatio  Collegii  Cantabrigiensis 
apud  Novanglos,  published  on  the  accession 
of  George  the  Third  to  the  throne ;  and  "  The 
Times,"  a  satire,  "The  Choice,"  "Elegies 
on  GEORGE  WHITEFIELD  and  Doctor  MAY- 
HEW,"  and  several  other  pieces,  all  of  which 
were  manly  in  their  style,  and  smoothly  ver- 
sified. The  following  are  the  concluding  lines 
of  his  address  to  the  king: 

May  one  clear  calm  attend  thee  to  thy  close, 
One  lengthen'd  sunshine  of  complete  repose  : 
Correct  our  crimes,  and  beam  that  Christian  mind 
O'er  the  wide  wreck  of  desolate  mankind; 
To  calm-brow'd  Peace,  the  maddening  world  restore, 
Or  lash  the  demon  thirsting  still  for  gore  ; 
Till  nature's  utmost  bound  thy  arms  restrain, 
And  prostrate  tyrants  bite  the  British  chain. 

JAMES  ALLEN,  the  author  of  an  "  epic  poem" 
entitled  "Bunker  Hill,"  of  which  but  a  few 
fragments  have  been  published,  lived  in  the 
same  period.  The  world  lost  nothing  by  "his 
neglect  of  fame." 

WILLIAM  LIVINGSTON,  a  member  of  the  first 
Congress,  and  the  first  republican  governor  of 
New  Jersey,  was  born  in  New  York  in  1723, 
and  was  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1741. 
His  poem  entitled  "  Philosophic  Solitude," 
which  has  been  frequently  reprinted,  is  a  spe- 
cimen of  elegant  mediocrity — superior  to  most 
of  the  compositions  which  I  have  already 
alluded  to — but  contains  nothing  worthy  of 
especial  praise.  The  opening  verses  are  not 
deficient  in  melody : 

Let  ardent  heroes  seek  renown  in  arms, 

Pant  after  fame,  and  rush  to  war's  alarms; 

To  shining  palaces  let  fools  resort, 

And  dunces  cringe  to  be  esteem'd  at  court : 

Mine  be  the  pleasure  of  a  rural  life, 

From  noise  remote,  and  ignorant  of  strife; 

Far  from  the  painted  belle,  and  white-gloved  beau, 

The  lawless  masquerade,  and  midnight  show, 

From  ladies,  lap-dogs,  courtiers,  garters,  stars, 

Fops,  fiddlers,  tyrants,  emperors,  and  czars. 

Among  the  poets  who  wrote  just  before  the 
Revolution,  and  whom  I  have  not  before  men- 
tioned, was  Mrs.  ELIZA  BLEECKER,  the  author 
of  several  pieces  relating  to  the  domestic  suf- 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


ferings  which  followed  in  the  train  of  frontier 
warfare.  Some  "  Lines  on  Reading  Virgil," 
written  in  1778,  show  her  manner — 

Now  cease  those  tears,  lay  gentle  VIRGIL  by, 

Let  recent  sorrows  dim  thy  pausing  eye; 

Shall  .KM: AS  fur  lost  CRECSA  mourn, 

And  tears  be  wanting  on  ABELLA'S  urn? 

Like  him  I  lost  my  fair  one  in  my  flight, 

From  cruel  foes,  and  in  the  dead  of  night. 

Shall  he  lament  the  fall  of  Dion's  towers, 

And  we  not  mourn  the  sudden  ruin  of  ours  t 

See  York  on  fire — while,  borne  by  winds,  each  flame 

Projects  its  glowing  sheet  o'er  half  the  main, 

The  affrighted  savage,  yelling  with  amaze, 

From  Alleghany  sees  the  rolling  blaze. 

Far  from  these  scenes  of  horror,  in  the  shade 

I  saw  my  aged  parent  safe  conveyed  ; 

Then  sadly  followed  to  the  friendly  land 

With  my  surviving  infant  by  the  hand : 

No  cumbrous  household  gods  had  I,  indeed, 

To  load  my  shoulders,  and  my  flight  impede; 

Protection  from  such  impotence  who  'd  claim? 

My  Gods  took  care  of  me— not  I  of  them. 

The  Trojan  saw  ANCIIISES  breathe  his  last 

When  all  domestic  dangers  he  had  passed ; 

So  my  lov'd  parent,  after  she  had  fled, 

Lamented,  perish'd  on  a  stranger's  bed  : 

— He  held  his  way  o'er  the  Cerulian  main, 

But  I  returned  to  hostile  fields  again. 

During  the  war  several  volumes  of  patriotic 
and  miscellaneous  verses  were  published  in 
New  England  and  New  York.  The  poems 
of  Doctor  J.  M.  SEWELL,  contain  the  well- 
known  epilogue  to  ADDISON'S  "  Cato,"  begin- 
ning— 

"  We  see  mankind  the  same  in  every  age:" 

and  those  of  Doctor  PRIME  and  GULIAN  VER- 
PLANCK  are  written  with  unusual  taste  and 
care.  PRIME  finished  his  professional  educa- 
tion in  Europe,  and  on  his  return  applied  for  a 
commission  in  the  army,  but  did  not  succeed 
in  obtaining  one.  He  alludes  to  his  disap- 
pointment in  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  his  friend 
Doctor  SCUDDER,  who  was  slain  in  a  skirmish 
at  Shrewsbury  in  New  Jersey — 

So  bright,  bless'd  shade !  thy  deeds  of  virtue  shine  ; 

So  rich,  no  doubt,  thy  recompence  on  high : 
My  lot's  far  more  lamentable  than  thine, 

Thou  liv'st  in  death,  while  I  in  living  die. 
With  great  applause  hast  thou  perform'd  thy  part, 

Since  thy  first  entrance  on  the  stage  of  life; 
Or  in  the  labours  of  the  healing  art, 

Or  in  fair  Liberty's  important  strife. 
In  med'cine  skilful,  and  in  warfare  brave, 

In  council  steady,  uncorrupt  and  wise ; 
To  thee,  the  happy  lot  thy  Maker  gave, 

To  no  small  rank  in  each  of  these  to  rise. 


.Employ'd  in  constant  usefulness  thy  time, 

And  thy  fine  talents  in  exertion  stroiis ; 
Thou  diedst  advanc'd  in  life,  though  in  thy  prime, 

For,  living  useful  thou  hast  lived  long. 
But  I,  alas !  like  some  unfruitful  tree, 

That  useless  stands,  a  cumberer  of  the  plain, 
My  faculties  unprofitable  see, 

And  five  long  years  have  lived  almost  in  vain. 
While  all  around  me,  like  the  busy  swarms, 

That  ply  the  fervent  labours  of  the  hive ; 
Or  guide  the  state,  with  ardour  rush  to  arms, 

Or  some  less  great  but  needful  business  drive, 
I  see  my  time  inglorious  glide  away, 

Obscure  and  useless  like  an  idle  drone; 
And  unconducive  each  revolving  day, 

Or  to  my  country's  int'rest  or  my  own. 

Great  hast  thou  lived  and  glorious  hast  thou  died ; 

Though  trait'rous  villains  have  cut  short  thy  days; 
Virtue  must  shine,  whatever  fate  betide, 

Be  theirs  the  scandal,  and  be  thine  the  praise. 

Then,  to  my  soul  thy  memory  shall  be, 

From  glory  bright,  as  from  affection,  dear; 
And  while  I  live  to  pour  my  grief  for  thee, 

Glad  joy  shall  sparkle  in  each  trickling  tear. 
Thy  great  example,  too,  shall  fire  my  breast ; 

If  Heaven  permit,  with  thee,  again  I  'II  vie; 
And  all  thy  conduct  well  in  mine  express'd, 

Like  thee  I'  11  live,  though  I  like  thee  should  die. 

PRIME  wrote  a  satire  on  the  Welsh,  in  Latin 
and  English,  entitled  "  Muscipula  sive  Cam- 
bromyomachia ;"  and  on  the  passage  of  the 
stamp  act  composed  "  A  Song  for  the  Sons  of 
Liberty  in  New  York,"  which  is  superior  to 
any  patriotic  lyric  up  to  that  time  written  in 
this  country.  VERPLANCK  was  a  man  of  taste 
and  erudition,  and  his  "Vice,  a  Satire,"  pub- 
lished soon  after  his  return  from  his  travels,  in 
1774,  is  an  elegant  and  spirited  poem.  Among 
his  shorter  pieces  is  the  following  "  Prophecy," 
written  while  he  was  in  England,  in  1773 — 

Hail,  happy  Britain,  Freedom's  blest  retreat ; 

Great  is  thy  power,  thy  wealth,  thy  glory  great, 

But  wealth  and  power  have  no  immortal  day, 

For  all  things  ripen  only  to  decay. 

And  when  that  time  arrives,  the  lot  of  all, 

When  Britain's  glory,  power,  and  wealth  shall  fall; 

Then  shall  thy  sons  by  Fate's  unchanged  decree 

In  other  worlds  another  Britain  see, 

And  what  thou  art,  America  shall  be. 

From  this  account  of  the  "  poets  and  poetry" 
of  our  ante-revolutionary  period,  it  will  be  seen 
that  until  the  spirit  of  freedom  began  to  influ- 
ence the  national  character,  very  little  verse 
worthy  of  preservation  was  produced  in  Ame- 
rica. The  POETRY  OF  THE  COLONIES  was  with- 
out  originality,  energy,  feeling,  or  correctness 
of  diction. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA, 


THROUGH    THE    GROWING    PRESENT 
WESTWARD    THE    STARRT    PATH    OF  POESY    LIBS  ; 
HER    OLORIOOS    SPIRIT,    LIKE    THE    EVESISG    CRESCENT, 
COMES    ROUKDINO    UP    THE    SSIEi. 

T.  B.  READ. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


[Born,  1752.    Died,  1832.] 


PHILIP  FRENEAU*  was  the  most  distinguished 
poet  of  our  revolutionary  time.  He  was.  a  volumi- 
nous writer,  and  many  of  his  compositions  are 
intrinsically  worthless,  or,  relating  to  persons  and 
events  now  forgotten,  are  no  longer  interesting ; 
but  enough  remain  to  show  that  he  had  more 
genius  and  more  enthusiasm  than  any  other  bard 
whose  powers  were  called  into  action  during  the 
great  struggle  for  liberty. 

He  was  of  French  ex  traction.  His  grandfather  a 
pious  and  intelligent  Huguenot,  came  to  America 
immediately  after  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of 
Nantz,  in  company  with  a  number  of  Protestant 
gentlemen,  who  on  their  arrival  founded  the  old 
church  of  Saint  Esprit,  in  New  York,  and  after- 
ward, I  believe,  the  pleasant  v^Ujyre  of  New  Ro- 
chelle,  near  that  city.  The  poetTWSs  born  on  the 
fifteenth  of  January,  in  the  year  1752.  His  father 
died  while  he  was  yet  a  child,  but  his  mother  at- 
tended carefully  to  his  education,  and  he  entered 
Nassau  Hall  at  Princeton,  in  1767,  so  far  advanced 
in  classical  studies,  that  the  president  of  the  col- 
lege made  his  proficiency  the  subject  of  a  congra- 
tulatory letter  to  one  of  his  relatives.  His  room- 
mate and  most  devoted  friend  here  was  JAMES 
MADISON,  and  among  his  classmates  were  many 
others  who  in  after  time  became  eminent  as  legis- 
lators or  scholars.  He  was  graduated  when  nine- 
teen years  of  age,  and  soon  after  removed  to  Phila- 
delphia, where  he  was  for  several  years  on  terms 
of  familiar  intimacy  with  the  well-known  FRANCIS 
HOPKINSON,  with  whom  he  was  associated  as  a 
political  writer. 

He  began  to  compose  verses  at  an  early  period, 
and,  before  leaving  Princeton,  had  formed  the  plan 
of  an  epic  poem  on  the  life  and  discoveries  of  CO- 
LUMBUS, of  which  the  «  Address  to  Ferdinand,"  in 
this  volume,  is  probably  a  fragment.  After  his 
removal  to  Philadelphia  his  attention  was  devoted 
to  politics,  and  his  poetical  writings  related  princi- 
pally to  public  characters  and  events.  His  satires 
on  HUGH  GAINE,-)-  and  other  prominent  tories, 
were  remarkably  popular  in  their  time,  though 
deserving  of  little  praise  for  their  chasteness  or 
elegance  of  diction ;  and  his  patriotic  songs  and 


*  The  name  of  the  poet  is  sometimes  confounded  with 
that  of  his  brother,  PETER  FRENEAU,  a  celebrated  par- 
tisan editor,  of  South  Carolina,  who  occasionally  wrote 
verses,  though  I  believe  nothing  of  more  pretension 
than  a  song  or  an  epigram.  PETER  FRENEAU  was  a 
man  of  wit  and  education  ;  he  was  one  of  Mr.  JEFFER- 
SON'S most  ardent  and  influential  adherents,  and  when 
the  republican  party  came  into  power  in  South  Carolina, 
he  was  made  Secretary  of  State.  THOMAS,  in  his  "Re- 
miniscences," remarks  that  "his  style  of  writing  com- 
bined the  beauty  and  smoothness  of  ADDISON  with  the 
simplicity  of  COBBETT."  He  died  in  1814. 

t  The  "  King's  Printer,"  in  New  York. 


ballads,  which  are  superior  to  any  metrical  compo- 
sitions then  written  in  this  country,  were  every- 
where sung  with  enthusiasm. 

FHENEAU  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  ADAMS, 
FRANKLIN,  JEFFERSON,  MADISON,  and  MONROE, 
and  the  last  three  were  his  constant  correspondents 
while  they  lived.  I  have  before  me  two  letters, 
one  written  by  JEFFERSON  and  the  other  by  MADI- 
sox,  in  which  he  is  commended  to  certain  citizens 
of  New  York,  for  his  extensive  information,  sound 
discretion,  and  general  high  character,  as  a  candi- 
date for  the  editorship  of  a  journal  which  it  was 
intended  to  establish  in  that  city.  His  application 
appears  to  have  been  unsuccessful :  probably  be- 
cause the  project  was  abandoned. 

As  a  reward  for  the  ability  and  patriotism  he  had 
displayed  during  the  war,  Mr.  JEFFERSON-  gave  him 
a  place  in  the  Department  of  State ;  but  his  public 
employment  being  of  too  sedentary  a  description 
for  a  man  of  his  ardent  temperament,  he  soon 
relinquished  it  to  conduct  in  Philadelphia  a  paper 
entitled  "  The  Freeman's  Journal."  He  was  the 
only  editor  who  remained  at  his  post,  during  the 
prevalence  of  the  yellow  fever  in  that  city,  in  the 
summer  of  1 793.  The  «  Journal"  was  unprofitable, 
and  he  gave  it  up,  in  1793,  to  take  the  command  of 
a  merchant-ship,  in  which  he  made  several  voyages 
to  Madeira,  the  West  Indies,  and  other  places.  His 
naval  ballads  and  other  poems  relating  to  the  sea, 
written  in  this  period,  are  among  the  most  spirited 
and  carefully  finished  of  his  productions. 

Of  the  remainder  of  his  history  I  have  been  able 
to  learn  but  little.  In  1810  he  resided  in  Philadel- 
phia, and  he  subsequently  removed  to  Mount  Plea- 
sant, in  New  Jersey.  He  died,  very  suddenly,  near 
Freehold,  in  that  state,  on  the  eighteenth  day  of 
December,  1832,  in  the  eightieth  year  of  his  age. 

The  first  collection  of  FRENEAU'S  poems  was 
published  in  1786  ;  a  second  edition  appeared  in 
a  closely  printed  octavo  volume  at  Monmouth,  in 
New  Jersey,  in  1795 ;  and  a  third,  in  two  duodeci- 
mo volumes,  in  Philadelphia,  in  1809.  The  last 
is  entitled  "Poems  written  and  published  during 
the  American  Revolutionary  War,  and  now  re- 
published  from  the  original  Manuscripts,  inter- 
spersed with  Translations  from  the  Ancients, 
and  other  Pieces  not  heretofore  in  Print."  In 
1788  he  published  in  Philadelphia  his  "Miscella- 
neous Works,  containing  Essays  and  additional 
Poems,"  and,  in  1814,  "A  Collection  of  Poems 
on  American  Affairs,  and  a  Variety  of  other  Sub- 
jects, chiefly  Moral  and  Political,  written  between 
1797  and  1815."  His  house  at  Mount  Pleasant 
was  destroyed  by  fire,  in  1815  or  1816,  and  in 
some  of  his  letters  he  laments  the  loss,  by  that 
misfortune,  of  some  of  his  best  poems,  which  had 
never  been  printed. 

31 


32 


PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


THE  DYING  INDIAN. 


«  ON  yonder  lake  I  spread  the  sail  no  more ! 
Vigour,  and  youth,  and  active  days  are  past — 
Relentless  demons  urge  me  to  that  shore 
On  whose  black  forests  all  the  dead  are  cast: — 
Ye  solemn  train,  prepare  the  funeral  song, 
For  I  must  go  to  shades  below, 
Where  all  is  strange  and  all  is  new ; 
Companion  to  the  airy  throng ! — 

What  solitary  streams, 

In  dull  and  dreary  dreams, 
All  melancholy,  must  I  rove  along ! 

To  what  strange  lands  must  CHEQ.UI  take  his  way ! 
Groves  of  the  dead  departed  mortals  trace : 
No  deer  along  those  gloomy  forests  stray, 
No  huntsmen  there  take  pleasure  in  the  chase. 
But  all  are  empty,  unsubstantial  shades, 
That  ramble  through  those  visionary  glades ; 
No  spongy  fruits  from  verdant  trees  depend, 
But  sickly  orchards  there 
Do  fruits  as  sickly  bear, 
And  apples  a  consumptive  visage  shew, 
And  wither'd  hangs  the  whortleberry  blue. 

Ah  me !  what  mischiefs  on  the  dead  attend ! 
Wandering  a  stranger  to  the  shores  below, 
Where  shall  I  brook  or  real  fountain  find  1 
Lazy  and  sad  deluding  waters  flow — 
Such  is  the  picture  in  my  boding  mind ! 

Fine  tales,  indeed,  they  tell 

Of  shades  and  purling  rills, 

Where  our  dead  fathers  dwell 

Beyond  the  western  hills ; 
But  when  did  ghost  return  his  state  to  shew ; 
Or  who  can  promise  half  the  tale  is  true  ? 

I  too  must  be  a  fleeting  ghost ! — no  more — 
None,  none  but  shadows  to  those  mansions  go ; 
I  leave  my  woods,  I  leave  the  Huron  shore, 

For  emptier  groves  below ! 

Ye  charming  solitudes, 

Ye  tall  ascending  woods 
Ye  glassy  lakes  and  prattling  streams, 

Whose  aspect  still  was  sweet, 

Whether  the  sun  did  greet, 
Or  the  pale  moon  embraced  you  with  her  beams — 

Adieu  to  all ! 

To  all,  that  charm'd  me  where  I  stray'd, 
The  winding  stream,  the  dark  sequester'd  shade ; 

Adieu  all  triumphs  here  ! 
Adieu  the  mountain's  lofty  swell, 
Adieu,  thou  little  verdant  hill, 
And  seas,  and  stars,  and  skies — farewell, 

For  some  remoter  sphere ! 

Perplex'd  with  doubts,  and  tortured  with  despair, 
Why  so  dejected  at  this  hopeless  sleep  ? 
Nature  at  last  these  ruins  may  repair, 
When  fate's  long  dream  is  o'er,  and  she  forgets  to 
weep; 


Some  real  world  once  more  may  be  assign'd, 
Some  new-born  mansion  for  the  immortal  mind! 
Farewell,  sweet  lake ;  farewell,  surrounding  woods : 
To  other  groves,  through  midnight  glooms,  I  stray, 
Beyond  the  mountain^,  and  beyond  the  floods, 

Beyond  the  Huron  bay  ! 
Prepare  the  hollow  tomb,  and  place  me  low, 
My  trusty  bow  and  arrows  by  my  side, 
The  cheerful  bottle  and  the  venison  store ; 
For  long  the  journey  is  that  I  must  go, 
Without  a  partner,  and  without  a  guide." 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  attending  mourners  weep, 
Then  closed  his  eyes,  and  sunk  to  endless  sleep ! 


THE  INDIAN  BURYING-GROUND. 


.  ITS  spite  of  all  the  learn'd  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep ; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead, 
Points  o\lt*Ufe  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast.* 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dress' d, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity,  that  knows  no  rest 

His  bow,  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows,  with  a  head  of  stone, 

Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit — 

Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 

On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 

(Now  wasted,  half,  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 

Beneath  whose  far-projecting  shade 

(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  play'd ! 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 

(Pale  SHEBAH,  with  her  braided  hair) 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

*  The  North  American  Indians  bury  their  dead  in  a 
sitting  posture  ;  decorating  the  corpse  with  wampum,  the 
images  of  birds,  quadrupeds,  &c. :  and  (if  that  of  a 
warrior)  with  bows,  arrows,  tomahawks,  and  other 
military  weapons. 


PHiLIP   FRENEAU.                                                         33 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 

To  willows  sad  and  weeping  yews 

In.  habit  for  the  chase  array'd, 

With  us  awhile,  old  man,  repair, 

The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 

Nor  to  the  vault  thy  steps  refuse  ; 

The  hunter  and  the  deer,  a  shade  ! 

Thy  constant  home  must  soon  be  there. 

And  long  shall  timorous  fancy  see 

To  summer  suns  and  winter  moons 

The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear  ; 

Prepare  to  bid  a  long  adieu  ; 

And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 

Autumnal  seasons  shall  return, 

To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 

And  spring  shall  bloom,  but  not  for  you. 

Why  so  perplex'd  with  cares  and  toil 

« 

To  rest  upon  this  darksome  road  1 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICANS 

'Tis  but  a  thin,  a  thirsty  soil, 
A  barren  and  a  bleak  abode. 

WHO  FELL  AT  EUTAW.* 

Constrain'd  to  dwell  with  pain  and  care, 

These  dregs  of  life  are  bought  too  dear  ; 

AT  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died; 

'Tis  better  far  to  die,  than  bear 

Their  limbs  with  dust  are  cover'd  o'er  — 

The  torments  of  life's  closing  year. 

Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide  ; 

How  many  heroes  are  no  more  ! 

Subjected  to  perpetual  ills, 

A  thousand  deaths  around  us  grow  : 

If,  in  this  wreck  of  ruin,  they 

The  frost  the  tender  blossom  kills, 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  the  tear, 

And  roses  wither  as  they  blow. 

0  smite  your  gentle  breast,  and  say, 

The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here  ! 

Cold,  nipping  winds  your  fruits  assail  ; 

Thou  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 

The  blasted  apple  seeks  the  ground  ; 
The  peaches  fall,  the  cherries  fail  ; 

If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 
Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign  ; 

The  grape  receives  a  mortal  wound. 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds,  sunk  to  rest  ! 

The  breeze,  that  gently  ought  to  blow, 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn  ; 
You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear  : 
'Tis  not  the.  beauty  of  the  morn 

Swells  to  a  storm,  and  rends  the  main  ; 
The  sun,  that  charm'd  the  grass  to  grow, 
Turns  hostile,  and  consumes  the  plain  ; 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear. 

The  mountains  waste,  the  shores  decay, 

They  saw  their  injured  country's  wo  ; 
The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field  ; 
Then  rush'd  to  meet  the  insulting  foe  ; 

Once  purling  streams  are  dead  and  dry  — 
'Twas  Nature's  work  —  'tis  Nature's  play, 
And  Nature  says,  that  all  must  die. 

They  took  the  spear  —  but  left  the  shield. 

Yon  flaming  lamp,  the  source  of  light, 

Led  by  the  conquering  genius,  GREENE, 
The  Britons  they  compell'd  to  fly  : 
None  distant  viewed  the  fatal  plain  ; 

In  chaos  dark  may  shroud  his  beam, 
And  leave  the  world  to  mother  Night, 
A  farce,  a  phantom,  or  a  dream. 

None  grieved,  in  such  a  cause  to  die. 

What  now  is  young,  must  soon  be  old  : 

But  like  the  Parthians,  famed  of  old, 

Whate'er  we  love,  we  soon  must  leave  : 

Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw  ; 

'Tis  now  too  hot,  'tis  now  too  cold  — 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold, 

To  live,  is  nothing  but  to  grieve. 

Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

How  bright  the  morn  her  course  begun  ! 

Now  rest  in  peace,  our  patriot  band  ; 

No  mists  bedimm'd  the  solar  sphere  ; 

Though  far  from  Nature's  limits  thrown, 

The  clouds  arise  —  they  shade  the  sun, 

We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

For  nothing  can  be  constant  here. 

A  brighter  sunshine  of  their  own. 

Now  hope  the  longing  soul  employs, 

In  expectation  we  are  bless'd  ; 

*  

But  soon  the  airy  phantom  flies, 

For,  lo  !  the  treasure  is  posscss'd. 

TO  AN  OLD  MAN. 

Those  monarchs  proud,  that  havoc  spread. 

(While  pensive  RF.ASOX  dropt  a  tear,) 

WHY,  dotard,  wouldst  thou  longer  groan 

Those  monarchs  have  to  darkness  fled, 

Beneath  a  weight  of  years  and  wo  ; 

And  ruin  bounds  their  mad  career. 

Thy  youth  is  lost,  thy  pleasures  flown, 
And  age  proclaims,  "'Tis  time  to  go." 

The  grandeur  of  this  earthly  round, 
Where  folly  would  forever  stay, 

*  The  Battle  of  Eutaw,  South  Carolina,  was  fought 

Is  but  a  name,  is  but  a  sound  — 

September  8.  1781. 

Mere  emptiness  and  vanity. 

5 

34 


PHILIP   FRENEAU. 


Give  me  the  stars,  give  me  the  skies, 
Give  me  the  heaven's  remotest  sphere, 

Above  these  gloomy  scenes  to  rise 
Of  desolation  and  despair. 

Those  native  fires,  that  warm'd  the  mind, 
Now  languid  grown,  too  dimly  glow, 

Joy  has  to  grief  the  heart  rcsign'd, 
And  love,  itself,  is  changed  to  wo. 

The  joys  of  wine  are  all  you  boast, 

These,  for  a  moment,  damp  your  pain ; 

The  gleam  is  o'er,  the  charm  is  lost — 
And  darkness  clouds  the  soul  again. 

Then  seek  no  more  for  bliss  below, 
Where  real  bliss  can  ne'er  be  found ; 

Aspire  where  sweeter  blossoms  blow, 
And  fairer  flowers  bedeck  the  ground ; 

Where  plants  of  life  the  plains  invest, 

And  green  eternal  crowns  the  year : — 
The  little  god,  that  warms  the  breast, 
•     Is  weary  of  his  mansion  here. 

Like  Phospher,  sent  before  the  day, 
His  height  meridian  to  regain, 

The  dawn  arrives — he  must  not  stay 
To  shiver  on  a  frozen  plain. 

Life's  journey  past,  for  fate  prepare, — 
'Tis  but  the  freedom  of  the  mind ; 

Jove  made  us  mortal — his  we  are, 
To  Jove  be  all  our  cares  resigned. 


COLUMBUS  TO  FERDINAND.* 

IH.TJSTKIOTJS  monarch  of  Iberia's  soil, 
Too  long  I  wait  permission  to  depart ; 

Sick  of  delays,  I  beg  thy  listening  ear —    . 
Shine  forth  the  patron  and  the  prince  of  art. 

While  yet  Columbus  breathes  the  vital  air, 
Grant  his  request  to  pass  the  western  main : 

Reserve  this  glory  for  thy  native  soil, 

And,  what  must  please  thee  more,  for  thy  own 
reign. 

Of  this  huge  globe,  how  small  a  part  we  know — 
Does  heaven  their  worlds  to  western  suns  deny  ? 

How  disproportion'd  to  the  mighty  deep 
The  lands  that  yet  in  human  prospect  lie ! 

Does  Cynthia,  when  to  western  skies  arrived, 
Spend  her  moist  beam  upon  the  barren  main, 

And  ne'er  illume  with  midnight  splendour,  she, 
The  natives  dancing  on  the  lightsome  green  ? 

Should  the  vast  circuit  of  the  world  contain 
Such  wastes  of  ocean  and  such  scanty  land  ? 

'Tis  reason's  voice  that  bids  me  think  not  so ; 
I  think  more  nobly  of  the  Almighty  hand. 


*  Columbus  was  a  considerable  number  of  years  en- 
gazcil  in  soliciting  the  court  of  Spain  to  fit  him  out,  in 
order  to  discover  a  new  continent,  which  he  imagined  to 
exist  somewhere  in  the  western  parts  of  the  ocean. 
During  his  negotiations,  he  is  here  supposed  to  address 
King  Ferdinand  in  the  above  stanzas. 


Does  yon  fair  lamp  trace  half  the  circle  round 
To  light  mere  waves  and  monsters  of  the  seas  'I 

No ;  be  there  must,  beyond  the  billowy  waste, 
Islands,  and  men,  and  animals,  and  trees. 

An  unremitting  flame  my  breast  inspires 
To  seek  new  lands  amid  the  barren  waves, 

Where,  falling  low,  the  source  of  day  descends, 
And  the  blue  sea  his  evening  visage  laves. 

Hear,  in  his  tragic  lay,  Cordova's  sage  :* 

"  The  time  may  come,  when  numerous  years 
are  past, 

When  ocean  will  unloose  the  bands  of  things, 
And  an  unbounded  region  rise  at  last ; 

And  TTPHIS  may  disclose  the  mighty  land, 
Far,  far  away,  where  none  have  roved  before  ; 

Nor  will  the  world's  remotest  region  be 

Gibraltar 's  rock,  or  THULE'S  savage  shore." 

Fired  at  the  theme,  I  languish  to  depart ; 

Supply  the  bark,  and  bid  Columbns  sail ; 
He  fears  no  storms  upon  the  untravell'd  deep ; 

Reason  shall  steer,  and  skill  disarm  the  gale. 

Nor  does  he  dread  to  miss  the  intended  course, 
Though  far  from  land  the  reeling  galley  stray, 

And  skies  above,  and  gulfy  seas  below, 
Be  the  sole  objects  seen  for  many  a  day. 

Think  not  that  Nature  has  unveil'd  in  vain 
The  mystic  magnet  to  the  mortal  eye : 

So  late  have  we  the  guiding  needle  plann'd, 
Only  to  sail  beneath  our  native  sky  1 

Ere  this  was  known,  the  ruling  power  of  all 
Form'd  for  our  use  an  ocean  in  the  land, 

Its  breadth  so  small,  we  could  not  wander  long, 
Nor  long  be  absent  from  the  neighbouring  strand. 

Short  was  the  course,  and  guided  by  the  stars, 
But  stars  no  more  must  point  our  daring  way ; 

The  Bear  shall  sink,  and  every  guard  be  drowned, 
And  great  Arcturus  scarce  escape  the  sea, 

When  southward  we  shall  steer O  grant  my 

wish, 

Supply  the  bark,  and  bid  Columbus  sail, 
He  dreads  no  tempests  on  the  untravell'd  deep, 

Reason  shall  steer,  and  skill  disarm  the  gale. 


THE  WILD  HONEYSUCKLE. 


FAIR  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouch'd  thy  honey'd  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet : 

No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

*  Seneca,  the  poet,  a  native  of  Con!ova  in  Spain  : 
"  fenicnt  annis  fctula  seris, 
Qitibus  oceanus  vinciila  rerum 
J.axtt,  et  ingerts  pattat  tcllns, 
Tiipliisq-ue  novos  detegat  orbes  ; 
JVic  eil  terris  ultima  Tltvle." 

Seneca,  Med.,  act  iii.,  v.  375. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU. 


By  Nature's  self  in  white  array'd, 

She  bade  thce  shun  the  "vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by ; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 
They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay, 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom ; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  : 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same  ; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 

DISASTERS  on  disasters  grow, 

And  those  which  are  not  sent  we  make; 
The  good  we  rarely  find  below, 

Or,  in  the  search,  the  road  mistake. 

The  object  of  our  fancied  joys 

With  eager  eye  we  keep  in  view : 

Possession,  when  acquired,  destroys 
The  object,  and  the  passion  too. 

The  hat  that  hid  Belinda's  hair 
Was  once  the  darling  of  her  eye ; 

'Tis  now  dismiss'd,  she  knows  not  where ; 
Is  laid  aside,  she  knows  not  why. 

Life  is  to  most  a  nauseous  pill, 
A  treat  for  which  they  dearly  pay  : 

Let's  take  the  good,  avoid  the  ill, 
Discharge  the  debt,  and  walk  away. 


THE  PROSPECT  OF  PEACE. 


THOUGH  Had  in  winter's  gloomy  dress 

All  Nature's  works  appear, 
Yet  other  prospects  rise  to  bless 

The  new  returning  year : 
The  active  sail  again  is  seen 

To  greet  our  western  shore, 
Gay  plenty  smiles,  with  brow  serene, 

And  wars  distract  no  more. 

No  more  the  vales,  no  more  the  plains 

An  iron  harvest  yield ; 
Peace  guards  our  doors,  impels  our  swains 

To  till  the  grateful  field  : 


From  distant  climes,  no  longer  foes, 

(Their  years  of  misery  past,) 
Nations  arrive,  to  find  repose 

In  these  domains  at  last. 

And,  if  a  more  delightful  scene 

Attracts  the  mortal  eye, 
Where  cloud?  nor  darkness  intervene, 

Behold,  aspiring  high, 
On  freedom's  soil  those  fabrics  plann'd, 

On  virtue's  basis  laid, 
That  make  secure  our  native  land, 

And  prove  our  toils  repaid. 

Ambitious  aims  and  pride  severe, 

Would  you  at  distance  keep, 
What  wanderer  would  not  tarry  here, 

Here  charm  his  cares  to  sleep  1 
O,  still  may  health  her  balmy  wings 

O'er  these  fair  fields  expand, 
While  commerce  from  all  climates  brings 

The  products  of  each  land.  • 

Through  toiling  care  and  lengthen'd  views, 

That  share  alike  our  span, 
Gay,  smiling  hope  her  heaven  pursues, 

The  eternal  friend  of  man  : 
The  darkness  of  the  days  to  come    * 

She  brightens  with  her  ray, 
And  smiles  o'er  Nature's  gaping  tomb, 

When  sickening  to  decay  ! 


TO  A  NIGHT-FLY,  APPROACHING  A 
CANDLE. 

ATTRACTED  by  the  taper's  rays, 
How  carelessly  you  come  to  gaze 
On  what  absorbs  you  in  its  blaze ! 

O  fly  !  I  bid  you  have  a  care  : 
You  do  not  heed  the  danger  near — 
This  light,  to  you  a  blazing  star. 

Already  you  have  scorch'd  your  wings : 
What  courage,  or  what  folly  brings 
You,  hovering  near  such  blazing  things  1 

Ah,  me !  you  touch  this  little  sun — 
One  circuit  more,  and  all  is  done ! — 
Now  to  the  furnace  you  are  gone ! — 

Thus  folly,  with  ambition  join'd, 
Attracts  the  insects  of  mankind, 
And  sways  the  superficial  mind : 

Thus,  power  has  charms  which  all  admire, 
But  dangerous  is  that  central  fire — 
If  you  are  wise,  in  time  retire. 


JOHN   TRUMBULL. 


[Barn  1750.    Died  1831.] 


Jony  TRUMBULL,  LL.D.,  the  author  of"  McFin- 
gal,"  was  born  in  Waterlmry,  Connecticut,  on 
the  twenty-fourth  day  of  April,  1750.  His  father 
was  a  Congregational  clergyman,  and  for  many 
years  one  of  the  trustees  of  Yale  College.  He 
early  instructed  his  son  in  the  elementary  branches 
of  education,  and  was  induced  by  the  extraordinary 
vigour  of  his  intellect,  and  his  unrcmitted  devotion 
to  study,  to  give  him  lessons  in  the  Greek  and 
Latin  languages  before  he  was  six  years  old.  At 
the  age  of  seven,  after  a  careful  examination, 
young  TRUMBULL  was  declared  to  be  sufficiently 
advanced  to  merit  admission  into  Yale  College. 
On  account  of  his  extreme  youth,  however,  at  that 
time,  and  his  subsequent  ill  health,  he  was  not 
sent  to  reside  at  New  Haven  until  1763,  when 
he  was  in  his  thirteenth  year.  His  college  life 
was  a  continued  series  of  successes.  His  superior 
genius,  Attainments  and  industry  enabled  him  in 
every  trial  to  surpass  his  competitors  for  academic 
honours ;  and  such  of  his  collegiate  exercises  as 
have  been  printed  evince  a  discipline  of  thought 
and  style  rarely  discernible  in  more  advanced  years, 
and  after  greater  opportunities  of  improvement. 
He  was  graduated  in  1767,  but  remained  in  the 
college  three  years  longer,  devoting  his  attention 
principally  to  the  study  of  polite  letters.  In  this 
period  he  became  acquainted  with  DWIGHT,  then 
a  member  of  one  of  the  younger  classes,  who  had 
attracted  considerable  attention  by  translating  in 
a  very  creditable  manner  two  of  the  finest  odes  of 
Horace,  and  contracted  with  him  a  lasting  friend- 
ship. On  the  resignation  of  two  of  the  tutors  in 
the  college  in  1771,  TRUMBULL  and  DWIGHT 
were  elected  to  fill  the  vacancies,  and  exerted  all 
their  energies  for  several  years  to  introduce  an  im- 
proved course  of  study  and  system  of  discipline 
into  the  seminary.  At  this  period  the  ancient 
languages,  scholastic  theology,  logic,  and  mathe- 
matics were  dignified  with  the  title  of  "  solid 
learning,"  and  the  study  of  belles  lettres  was  de- 
cried as  useless  and  an  unjustifiable  waste  of  time. 
The  two  friends  were  exposed  to  a  torrent  of  cen- 
sure and  ridicule,  but  they  persevered,  and  in  the 
end  were  successful.  TRTJMBULL  wrote  many 
humorous  prose  and  poetical  essays  while  he  was 
a  tutor,  which  were  published  in  the  gazettes  of 
Connecticut  and  Massachusetts,  and  with  DWIGHT 
produced  a  series  in  the  manner  of  the  "  Spectator," 
which  extended  to  more  than  forty  numbers.  The 
"  Progress  of  Dulness"  was  published  in  1772.  It 
is  the  most  finished  of  THUMIICLL'S  poems,  and 
was  hardly  less  serviceable  to  the  cause  of  educa- 
tion than  "  McFingal"  was  to  that  of  liberty.  The 
puerile  absurdity  of  regarding  a  knowledge  of  the 
Greek  and  Hebrew  languages  as  of  more  import- 
ance to  a  clergyman  than  the  most  perfect  ac- 


quaintance with  rhetoric  and  belles  lettres,  then 
obtained  more  generally  than  now,  and  dunces 
had  but  to  remain  four  years  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  a  university  to  be  admitted  to  the  fellowship 
of  scholars  and  the  ministers  of  religion.  In  the 
satire,  TOM  BHAIXLESS,  a  country  clown,  too 
indolent  to  follow  the  plough,  is  sent  by  his  weak- 
minded  parents  to  college,  where  a  degree  is 
gained  by  residence,  and  soon  after  appears  as  a 
full-wigged  parson,  half-fanatic,  half-fool,  to  do  his 
share  toward  bringing  Christianity  into  contempt. 
Another  principal  person  is  DICK  HAIHBRAIN,  an 
impudent  fop,  who  is  made  a  master  of  arts  in  the 
same  way ;  and  in  the  third  part  is  introduced  a 
character  of  the  same  description,  belonging  to  the 
other  sex. 

During  the  last  years  of  his  residence  at  College, 
TRUMBULL  paid  as  much  attention  as  his  other 
avocations  would  permit  to  the  study  of  the  law, 
and  in  1773  resigned  his  tutorship  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  of  Connecticut.  He  did  not 
seek  business  in  the  courts,  however,  but  went 
immediately  to  Boston,  and  entered  as  a  student 
the  office  of  JOHX  ADAMS,  afterward  President 
of  the  United  States,  and  at  that  time  an  eminent 
advocate  and  counsellor.  He  was  now  in  the 
focus  of  American  politics.  The  controversy 
with  Great  Britain  was  rapidly  approaching  a 
crisis,  and  he  entered  with  characteristic  ardour 
into  all  the  discussions  of  the  time,  employing  his 
leisure  hours  in  writing  for  the  gazettes  and  in 
partisan  correspondence.  In  1774,  he  published 
anonymously  his  « Essay  on  the  Times,"  and 
soon  after  returned  to  New  Haven,  and  with  the 
most  flattering  prospects  commenced  the  practice 
of  his  profession. 

The  first  gun  of  the  revolution  echoed  along  the 
continent  in  the  following  year,  and  private  pur- 
suits were  abandoned  in  the  general  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  liberty.  TRUMBULL  wrote  the  first 
part  of  "  McFingal,"  which  was  immediately 
printed  in  Philadelphia,  where  the  Congress  was 
then  in  session,  and  soon  after  republished  in 
numerous  editions  in  different  parts  of  this  country 
and  in  England.  It  was  not  finished  until  1782, 
when  it  was  issued  complete  in  three  cantos  at 
Hartford,  to  which  place  TRUMBULL  had  removed 
in  the  preceding  year. 

"  McFingal''  is  in  the  Hudibrastic  vein,  and 
much  the  best  imitation  of  the  great  satire  of 
BUTLER  that  has  been  written.  The  hero  is  a 
Scotish  justice  of  the  peace  residing  in  the  vicinitj 
of  Boston  at  the  beginning  of  the  revolution,  and 
the  first  two  cantos  are  principally  occupied  with 
a  discussion  between  him  and  one  HONORIUS  on 
the  course  of  the  British  government,  in  which 
McFiirGAL,  an  unyielding  loyalist,  endeavours  to 

36 


JOHN   TRUMBULL. 


37 


make  proselytes,  while  all  his  arguments  are 
directed  against  himself.  His  zeal  and  his  logic 
are  together  irresistibly  ludicrous,  but  there  is  no- 
thing in  the  character  unnatural,  as  it  is  common 
for  men  who  read  more  than  they  think,  or  attempt 
to  discuss  questions  they  <3o  not  understand,  to 
use  arguments  which  refute  the  positions  they  wish 
to  defend.  The  meeting  ends  with  a  riot,  in  which 
McFiJfGAL  is  seized,  tried  by  the  mob,  con- 
victed of  violent  toryism,  and  tarred  and  feathered. 
On  being  set  at  liberty,  he  assembles  his  friends 
around  him  in  his  cellar,  and  harangues  them 
until  they  are  dispersed  by  the  whigs,  when  he 
escapes  to  Boston,  and  the  poem  closes.  These 
are  all  the  important  incidents  of  the  story,  yet 
it  is  never  tedious,  and  few  commence  reading 
it  who  do  not  follow  it  to  the  end  and  regret  its 
termination.  Throughout  the  three  cantos  the 
wit  is  never  separated  from  the  character  of  the 
hero. 

After  the  removal  of  TRUMBULL  to  Hartford  a 
social  club  was  established  in  that  city,  of  which 
BARLOW,  Colonel  HUMPHRIES,  Doctor  LEMUEL 
HOPKINS,  and  our  author,  were  members.  They 
produced  numerous  essays  on  literary,  moral,  and 
political  subjects,  none  of  which  attracted  more 
applause  than  a  scries  of  papers  in  imitation  of 
the  "  Rolliad,"  (a  popular  English  work,  ascribed 
to  Fox,  SHERIDAN,  and  their  associates,)  entitled 
"  American  Antiquities"  and  "  Extracts  from  the 
Anarchiad,"  originally  printed  in  the  New  Haven 


Gazette  for  1786  and  1787.  These  papers  have 
never  been  collected,  but  they  were  republished 
from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  time,  and  were  supposed  to  have 
had  considerable  influence  on  public  taste  and 
opinions,  and  oy  the  boldness  of  then-  satire  to 
have  kept  in  abeyance  the  leaders  of  political  dis- 
organization and  infidel  philosophy.  TRUMUULL 
also  aided  BARLOW  in  the  preparation  of  his  edi- 
tion of  WATTS'S  version  of  the  Psalms,  and  wrote 
several  of  the  paraphrases  in  that  work  which 
have  been  generally  attributed  to  the  author  of 
"The  Columbiad." 

TRUMBULL  was  a  popular  lawyer,  and  was  ap- 
pointed to  various  honourable  offices  by  the  people 
and  the  government.  From  1795,  in  consequence 
of  ill  health,  he  declined  all  public  employment, 
and  was  for  several  years  an  invalid.  At  length, 
recovering  his  customary  vigour,  in  ^800  he  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  legislature,  and  in  the 
year  following  a  judge  of  the  Superior  Court. 
In  1808  he  was  appointed  a  judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Errors,  and  held  the  office  until  1819, 
when  he  finally  retired  from  public  life.  His 
poems  were  collected  and  published  in  1820, 
and  in  1825  he  removed  to  Detroit,  where  his 
daughter,  the  wife  of  the  Honourable  WILLIAM 
WOODBHIDGE,  now  a  member  of  the  United 
States  Senate  for  Michigan,  was  residing,  and 
died  there  in  May,  1831,  in  the  eighty-first  year 
of  his  age. 


ODE  TO  SLEEP. 


I. 

COME,  gentle  Sleep ! 

Balm  of  my  wounds  and  softener  of  my  woes, 
And  lull  my  weary  heart  in  sweet  repose, 
And  bid  my  sadden'd  soul  forget  to  weep, 
And  close  the  tearful  eye ; 
While  dewy  eve,  with  solemn  sweep, 
Hath  drawn  her  fleecy  mantle  o'er  the  sky, 

And  chased  afar,  adown  the  ethereal  way, 
The  din  of  bustling  care  and  gaudy  eye  of  day. 

II. 

Come,  but  thy  leaden  sceptre  leave, 
Thy  opiate  rod,  thy  poppies  pale, 
Dipp'd  in  the  torpid  fount  of  Lethe's  stream, 

That  shroud  with  night  each  intellectual  beam, 
And  quench  the  immortal  fire,  in  deep  Oblivion's 

wave. 

Yet  draw  the  thick,  impervious  veil 
O'er  all  the  scenes  of  tasted  wo  ; 
Command  each  cypress  shade  to  flee ; 
Between  this  toil-worn  world  and  me 
Display  thy  curtain  broad,  and  hide  the  realms  be- 
low. 


in. 

Descend,  and,  graceful,  in  thy  hand, 

With  thee  bring  thy  magic  wand, 

And  thy  pencil,  taught  to  glow 

In  all  the  hues  of  Iris'  bow. 

And  call  thy  bright,  aerial  train, 
Each  fairy  form  and  visionary  shade, 

That  in  the  Elysian  land  of  dreams, 

The  flower-enwoven  banks  along, 
Or  bowery  maze,  that  shades  the  purple  streams, 
Where  gales  of  fragrance  breathe  the  enamour'd 
In  more  than  mortal  charms  array'd,    [song, 
People  the  airy  vales  and  revel  in  thy  reign. 

IV. 

But  drive  afar  the  haggard  crew, 
That  haunt  the  guilt-encrimson'd  bed, 

Or  dim  before  the  frenzied  view 
Stalk  with  slow  and  sullen  tread ; 

While  furies,  with  infernal  glare, 
Wave  their  pale  torches  through  the  troubled  air ; 

And  deep  from  Darkness'  inmost  womb, 
Sad  groans  dispart  the  icy  tomb, 

And  bid  the  sheeted  spectre  rise, 
Mid  shrieks  and  fiery  shapes  and  deadly  fantasies. 

*  See  a  note  on  this  subject  appended  to  the  Life  of 
BARLOW  in  this  volume. 

D 


38 


JOHN  TRUMBULL. 


V. 

Come  and  loose  the  mortal  chain, 

That  binds  to  clogs  of  clay  the  ethereal  wing ; 
And  give  the  astonish' d  soul  to  rove, 
Where  never  sunbeam  stretch' d  its  wide  domain; 
And  hail  her  kindred  forms  above, 

In  fields  of  uncreated  spring, 
Aloft  where  realms  of  endless  glory  rise, 
And  rapture  paints  in  gold  the  landscape  of  the 
skies. 

VI. 

Then  through  the  liquid  fields  we'll  climb, 

Where  Plato  treads  empyreal  air, 
Where  daring  Homer  sits  sublime, 

And  Pindar  rolls  his  fiery  car ; 
Above  the  cloud-encircled  hills, 

Where  high  Parnassus  lifts  his  airy  head, 
And  Helicon's  melodious  rills 
Flow  gently  through  the  warbling  glade ; 
And  all  the  Nine,  in  deathless  choir  combined, 
Dissolve  in  harmony  the  enraptured  mind, 
And  every  bard,  that  tuned  the  immortal  lay, 
Basks  in  the  ethereal  blaze,  and  drinks  celestial 
day. 

VII. 

Or  call  to  my  transported  eyes 

Happier  scenes,  for  lovers  made ; 
Bid  the  twilight  grove  arise, 

Lead  the  rivulet  through  the  glade. 
In  some  flowering  arbour  laid, 
Where  opening  roses  taste  the  honey'd  dew, 

And  plumy  songsters  carol  through  the  shade, 
Recall  my  long-lost  wishes  to  my  view. 
Bid  Time's  inverted  glass  return 

The  scenes  of  bliss,  with  hope  elate, 
And  hail  the  once  expected  morn, 
And  burst  the  iron  bands  of  fate 
Graced  with  all  her  virgin  channs, 

Attractive  smiles  and  past,  responsive  flame, 
Restore  my  *****  to  my  arms, 

Just  to  her  vows  and  faithful  to  her  fame. 

vin. 

Hymen's  torch,  with  hallow'd  fire, 

Rising  beams  the  auspicious  ray. 
Wake  the  dance,  the  festive  lyre 

Warbling  sweet  the  nuptial  lay ; 
Gay  with  beauties,  once  alluring, 

Bid  the  bright  enchantress  move, 
Eyes  that  languish,  smiles  of  rapture, 

And  the  rosy  blush  of  love. 
On  her  glowing  breast  reclining, 

Mid  that  paradise  of  charms, 
Every  blooming  grace  combining, 

Yielded  to  my  circling  arms, 
I  clasp  the  fair,  and,  kindling  at  the  view, 
Press  to  my  heart  the  dear  deceit,  and  think  the 
transport  true. 


Hence,  false,  delusive  dreams, 
Fantastic  hopes  and  mortal  passions  vain 


Ascend,  my  soul,  to  nobler  themes 
Of  happier  import  and  sublimer  strain. 
Rising  from  this  sphere  of  night, 
Pierce  yon  blue  vault,  ingemm'd  with  golden  fires ; 

Beyond  where  Saturn's  languid  car  retires, 
Or  Sirius  keen  outvies  the  solar  ray, 
To  worlds  from  every  dross  terrene  refined, 

Realms  of  the  pure,  ethereal  mind, 
Warm  with  the  radiance  of  unchanging  day: 
Where  cherub-forms  and  essences  of  light, 

With  holy  song  and  heavenly  rite, 
From  rainbow  clouds  their  strains  immortal  pour; 
An  earthly  guest,  in  converse  high, 
Explore  the  wonders  of  the  sky, 
From  orb  to  orb  with  guides  celestial  soar, 
And  take,  through  heaven's  wide  round,  the  uni- 
versal tour; 

X. 

And  find  that  mansion  of  the  blest, 
Where,  rising  ceaseless  from  this  lethal  stage, 
Heaven's  favourite  sons,  from  earthly  chains  re- 
leased, 
In  happier  Eden  pass  the  eternal  age. 

The  newborn  soul  beholds  the  angelic  face 
Of  holy  sires,  that  throng  the  blissful  plain, 

Or  meets  his  consort's  loved  embrace, 
Or  clasps  the  son,  so  lost,  so  mourn'd  in  vain. 
There,  charm'd  with  each  endearing  wile, 
Maternal  fondness  greets  her  infant's  smile ; 
Long-sever'd  friends,  in  transport  doubly  dear, 
Unite  and  join  the  interminable  train — 

And,  hark !  a  well-known  voice  I  hear 
I  spy  my  sainted  friend !  I  meet  my  HOWE*  again ! 

XL 

Hail,  sacred  shade !  for  not  to  dust  consign'd, 
Lost  in  the  grave,  thine  ardent  spirit  lies, 

Nor  fail'd  that  warm  benevolence  of  mind 
To  claim  the  birthright  of  its  native  skies. 
What  radiant  glory  and  celestial  grace, 
Immortal  meed  of  piety  and  praise ! 
Come  to  my  visions,  friendly  shade, 
'Gainst  all  assaults  my  wayward  weakness  arm, 
Raise  my  low  thoughts,  my  nobler  wishes  aid, 
When  passions  rage,  or  vain  allurements  charm ; 

The  pomp  of  learning  and  the  boast  of  art, 
The  glow,  that  fires  in  genius'  boundless  range, 
The  pride,  that  wings  the  keen,  satiric  dart, 
And  hails  the  triumph  of  revenge. 
Teach  me,  like  thce,  to  feel  and  know 
Our  humble  station  in  this  vale  of  wo, 
Twilight  of  life,  illumed  with  feeble  ray, 
The  infant  dawning  of  eternal  day  ; 
With  heart  expansive,  through  this  scene  improve 
The  social  soul  of  harmony  and  love ; 
To  heavenly  hopes  alone  aspire  and  prize 
The  virtue,  knowledge,  bliss,  and  glory  of  the 
skies. 


*  Rev.  JOSEPH  HOWE,  pastor  of  a  church  in  Boston  ; 
some  time  a  fellow-tutor  with  the  author  at  Vale  College. 
He  died  in  1775.  The  conclusion  of  the  ode  was  varied, 
by  inserting  this  tribute  of  affection. 


JOHN   TRUMBULL. 


39 


THE  COUNTRY  CLOWN.* 

BUKD  in  distant  woods,  the  clown 
Brings  all  his  country  airs  to  town ; 
The  odd  address,  with  awkward  grace, 
That  bows  with  all-averted  face  ; 
The  half-heard  compliments,  whose  note 
Is  swallow'd  in  the  trembling  throat ; 
The  stilTen'd  gait,  the  drawling  tone, 
By  which  his  native  place  is  known  ; 
The  blush,  that  looks,  by  vast  degrees, 
Too  much  like  modesty  to  please  ; 
The  proud  displays  of  awkward  dress, 
That  all  the  country  fop  express : 
The  suit  right  gay,  though  much  belated, 
Whose  fashion 's  superannuated ; 
The  watch,  depending  far  in  state, 
Whose  iron  chain  might  form  a  grate 
The  silver  buckle,  dread  to  view, 
O'crshadowing  all  the  clumsy  shoe ; 
The  white-gloved  hand,  that  tries  to  peep 
From  ruffle,  full  five  inches  deep ; 
With  fifty  odd  affairs  beside, 
The  foppishness  of  country  pride. 

Poor  DICK  !  though  first  thy  airs  provoke 
The  obstreperous  laugh  and  scornful  joke. 
Doom'd  all  the  ridicule  to  stand, 
While  each  gay  dunce  shall  lend  a  hand ; 
Yet  let  not  scorn  dismay  thy  hope 
To  shine  a  witling  and  a  fop. 
Blest  impudence  the  prize  shall  gain, 
And  bid  thee  sigh  no  more  in  vain. 
Thy  varied  dress  shall  quickly  show 
At  once  the  spendthrift  and  the  beau. 
With  pert  address  and  noisy  tongue, 
That  scorns  the  fear  of  prating  wrong 
'Mongst  listening  coxcombs  shalt  thou  shine, 
And  every  voice  shall  echo  thine. 


THE  FOP.t 

How  blest  the  brainless  fop,  whose  praise 
Is  doom'd  to  grace  these  happy  days, 
When  well-bred  vice  can  genius  teach, 
And  fame  is  placed  in  folly's  reach ; 
Impertinence  all  tastes  can  hit, 
And  every  rascal  is  a  wit. 
The  lowest  dunce,  without  despairing, 
May  learn  the  true  sublime  of  swearing ; 
Learn  the  nice  art  of  jests  obscene, 
While  ladies  wonder  what  they  mean ; 
The  heroism  of  brazen  lungs, 
The  rhetoric  of  eternal  tongues  ; 
While  whim  usurps  the  name  of  spirit, 
And  impudence  takes  place  of  merit, 
And  every  money'd  clown  and  dunce 
Commences  gentleman  at  once. 

For  now,  by  easy  rules  of  trade, 
Mechanic  gentlemen  are  made  ! 
From  handicrafts  of  fashion  born ; 
Those  very  arts  so  much  their  scorn. 

*  From  the  "  Progress  of  Dulness." 
t  From  the  same. 


To  tailors  half  themselves  they  owe, 
Who  make  the  clothes  that  make  the  beau. 

Lo  !  from  the  seats,  where,  fops  to  bless, 
Learn'd  artists  fix  the  forms  of  dress, 
And  sit  in  consultation  grave 
On  folded  skirt,  or  straiten'd  sleeve, 
The  coxcomb  trips  with  sprightly  haste, 
In  all  the  flush  of  modern  taste  ; 
Oft  turning,  if  the  day  be  fair, 
To  view  his  shadow's  graceful  air  ; 
Well  pleased,  with  eager  eye  runs  o'er 
The  laced  suit  glittering  gay  before  ;* 
The  ruffle,  where  from  open'd  vest 
The  rubied  brooch  adorns  the  breast ; 
The  coat,  with  lengthening  waist  behind, 
Whose  short  skirts  dangle  in  the  wind  ; 
The  modish  hat,  whose  breadth  contains 
The  measure  of  its  owner's  brains ; 
The  stockings  gay,  with  various  hues ; 
The  little  toe-encircling  shoes ; 
The  cane,  on  whose  carved  top  is  shown 
A  head,  just  emblem  of  his  own  ; 
While,  wrapp'd  in  self,  with  lofty  stride, 
His  little  heart  elate  with  pride, 
He  struts  in  all  the  joys  of  show 
That  tailors  give,  or  beaux  can  know. 

And  who  for  beauty  need  repine, 
That's  sold  at  every  barber's  sign  ; 
Nor  lies  in  features  or  complexion, 
But  curls  disposed  in  meet  direction, 
With  strong  pomatum's  grateful  odour, 
And  quantum  sufficit  of  powder  1 
These  charms  can  shed  a  sprightly  grace 
O'er  the  dull  eye  and  clumsy  face ; 
While  the  trim  dancing-master's  art 
Shall  gestures,  trips,  and  bows  impart, 
Give  the  gay  piece  its  final  touches, 
And  lend  those  airs,  would  lure  a  duchess. 

Thus  shines  the  form,  nor  aught  behind, 
The  gifts  that  deck  the  coxcomb's  mind; 
Then  hear  the  daring  muse  disclose 
The  sense  and  piety  of  beaux. 

To  grace  his  speech,  let  France  bestow 
A  set  of  compliments  for  show. 
Land  of  politeness  !  that  affords 
The  treasure  of  new-fangled  words, 
And  endless  quantities  disburses 
Of  bows  and  compliments  and  curses ; 
The  soft  address,  with  airs  so  sweet, 
That  cringes  at  the  ladies'  feet ; 
The  pert,  vivacious,  play-house  style, 
That  wakes  the  gay  assembly's  smile ; 
Jests  that  his  brother  beaux  may  hit, 
And  pass  with  young  coquettes  for  wit, 
And  prized  by  fops  of  true  discerning, 
Outface  the  pedantry  of  learning. 
Yet  learning  too  shall  lend  its  aid 
To  fill  the  coxcomb's  spongy  head ; 
And  studious  oft  he  shall  peruse 
The  labours  of  the  modern  muse. 
From  endless  loads  of  novels  gain 
Soft,  simpering  tales  of  amorous  pain, 


*  This  passage  alludes  to  the  mode  of  dress  then  in 
fashion. 


40 


JOHN   TRUMBULL 


With  double  meanings,  neat  and  handy, 
From  ROCHESTER  and  TRISTRAM  SHANDY.* 
The  blundering  aid  of  weak  reviews, 
That  forge  the  fetters  of  the  muse, 
Shall  give  him  airs  of  criticising 
On  faults  of  books,  he  ne'er  set  eyes  on. 
The  magazines  shall  teach  the  fashion, 
And  commonplace  of  conversation, 
And  where  his  knowledge  fails,  aiFord 
The  aid  of  many  a  sounding  word. 

Then,  lest  religion  he  should  need, 
Of  pious  HUME  he'll  learn  his  creed, 
By  strongest  demonstration  shown, 
Evince  that  nothing  can  be  known ; 
Take  arguments,  unvex'd  by  doubt, 
On  VOLTAIRE'S  trust,  or  go  without; 
'Gainst  Scripture  rail  in  modern  lore, 
As  thousand  fools  have  rail'd  before ; 
Or  pleased  a  nicer  art  display 
To  expound  its  doctrines  all  away, 
Suit  it  to  modern  tastes  and  fashions 
By  various  notes  and  emendations ; 
The  rules  the  ten  commands  contain, 
With  new  provisos  well  explain ; 
Prove  all  religion  was  but  fashion, 
Beneath  the  Jewish  dispensation. 
A  ceremonial  law,  deep  hooded 
In  types  and  figures  long  exploded ; 
Its  stubborn  fetters  all  unfit 
For  these  free  times  of  gospel  light, 
This  rake's  millennium,  since  the  day 
When  Sabbaths  first  were  done  away  ; 
Since  pander-conscience  holds  the  door, 
And  lewdness  is  a  vice  no  more ; 
And  shame,  the  worst  of  deadly  fiends, 
On  virtue,  as  its  squire,  attends. 

Alike  his  poignant  wit  displays 
The  darkness  of  the  former  days, 
When  men  the  paths  of  duty  sought, 
And  own'd  what  revelation  taught ; 
Ere  human  reason  grew  so  bright, 
Men  could  see  all  things  by  its  light, 
And  summon'd  Scripture  to  appear, 
And  stand  before  its  bar  severe, 
To  clear  its  page  from  charge  of  fiction, 
And  answer  pleas  of  contradiction ; 
Ere  miracles  were  held  in  scorn, 
Or  BOUNGBROKE,  or  HUME  were  born. 

And  now  the  fop,  with  great  energy, 
Levels  at  priestcraft  and  the  clergy, 
At  holy  cant  and  godly  prayers, 
And  bigots'  hypocritic  airs ; 
Musters  each  veteran  jest  to  aid, 
Calls  piety  the  parson's  trade ; 
Cries  out 't  is  shame,  past  all  abiding, 
The  world  should  still  be  so  priest-ridden ; 
Applauds  free  thought  that  scorns  control, 
And  generous  nobleness  of  soul, 
That  acts  its  pleasure,  good  or  evil, 
And  fears  nor  deity  nor  devil. 
These  standing  topics  never  fail 
To  prompt  our  little  wits  to  rail, 


*  STERNE'S  Tristram  Shandy  was  then  in  the  highest 
vogue,  and  in  the  zenith  of  its  transitory  reputation. 


With  mimic  drollery  of  grimace, 
And  pleased  impertinence  of  face, 
'Gainst  virtue  arm  their  feeble  forces, 
And  sound  the  charge  in  peals  of  curses. 

Blest  be  his  ashes !  under  ground 
If  any  particles  be  found, 
Who,  friendly  to  the  coxcomb  race, 
First  taught  those  arts  of  commonplace, 
Those  topics  fine,  on  which  the  beau 
May  all  his  little  wits  bestow, 
Secure  the  simple  laugh  to  raise, 
And  gain  the  dunce's  palm  of  praise. 
For  where  's  the  theme  that  beaux  could  hit 
With  least  similitude  of  wit, 
Did  not  religion  and  the  priest 
Supply  materials  for  the  jest ; 
The  poor  in  purse,  with  metals  vile 
For  current  coins,  the  world  beguile  ; 
The  poor  in  brain,  for  genuine  wit 
Pass  off  a  viler  counterfeit ; 
While  various  thus  their  doom  appears, 
These  lose  their  souls,  and  those  their  ears ; 
The  want  of  fancy,  whim  supplies, 
And  native  humour,  mad  caprice ; 
Loud  noise  for  argument  goes  off, 
For  mirth  polite,  the  ribald's  scoff; 
For  sense,  lewd  drolleries  entertain  us, 
And  wit  is  mimick'd  by  profaneness. 


CHARACTER  OF  McFINGAL.* 

WHEX  Yankees,  skill'd  in  martial  rule, 
First  put  the  British  troops  to  school ; 
Instructed  them  in  warlike  trade, 
And  new  manoeuvres  of  parade ; 
The  true  war-dance  of  Yankee-reels, 
And  manual  exercise  of  heels ; 
Made  them  give  up,  like  saints  complete, 
The  arm  of  flesh,  and  trust  the  feet, 
And  work,  like  Christians  undissembling, 
Salvation  out  by  fear  and  trembling ; 
Taught  Percy  fashionable  races, 
And  modern  modes  of  Chevy-Chaces  :j- 
From  Boston,  in  his  best  array, 
Great  S<VUIRE  McFixoAL  took  his  way, 
And,  graced  with  ensigns  of  renown, 
Steer'd  homeward  to  his  native  town. 

His  high  descent  our  heralds  trace 
To  Ossian's  famed  Fingalian  race  ; 
For  though  their  name  some  part  may  lack, 
Old  FINBAL  spelt  it  with  a  Mac ; 
Which  great  McPiiERsox,  with  submission, 
We  hope  will  add  the  next  edition. 

His  fathers  flourished  in  the  Highlands 
Of  Scotia's  fog-benighted  island ; 
Whence  gain'd  our  squire  two  gifts  by  right, 
Rebellion  and  the  second-sight. 


*  From  "  McFingal." 

t  LORD  PEHCY  commanded  the  party  that  was  first 
opposed  by  the  Americans  at  Lexington.  This  allusion 
to  the  family  renown  of  Chevy-Chnce  arose  from  the  pre- 
cipitate manner  of  his  quitting  the  field  of  battle,  and  re- 
turning to  Boston. 


JOHN   TRUMBULL. 


41 


Of  these  the  first,  in  ancient  days, 
Had  gain'd  the  noblest  palms  of  praise ; 
'Gainst  kings  stood  forth,  and  many  a  crown'd 
With  terror  of  its  might  confounded ;        [head 
Till  rose  a  king  with  potent  charm 
His  foes  by  goodness  to  disarm  ; 
Whom  every  Scot  and  Jacobite 
Straight  fell  in  love  with — at  first  sight ; 
Whose  gracious  speech,  with  aid  of  pensions, 
Hush'd  down  all  murmurs  of  dissensions, 
And  with  the  sound  of  potent  metal, 
Brought  all  their  blust'ring  swarms  to  settle ; 
Who  rain'd  his  ministerial  mannas, 
Till  loud  sedition  sung  hosannas ;    • 
The  good  lords-bishops  and  the  kirk 
United  in  the  public  work ; 
Rebellion  from  the  northern  regions, 
With  BUTE  and  MANSFIELD  swore  allegiance, 
And  all  combined  to  raze,  as  nuisance, 
Of  church  and  state,  the  constitutions; 
Pull  down  the  empire,  on  whose  ruins 
They  meant  to  edify  their  new  ones ; 
Enslave  the  American  wildernesses, 
And  tear  the  provinces  in  pieces. 
For  these  our  squire,  among  the  valiant'st, 
Employ'd  his  time,  and  tools,  and  talents ; 
And  in  their  cause,  with  manly  zeal, 
Used  his  first  virtue — to  rebel ; 
And  found  this  new  rebellion  pleasing 
As  his  old  king-destroying  treason. 
Nor  less  avail'd  his  optic  sleight, 
And  Scottish  gift  of  second-sight. 
No  ancient  sibyl,  famed  in  rhyme, 
Saw  deeper  in  the  womb  of  time ; 
No  block  in  old  Dodona's  grove 
Could  ever  more  oracular  prove. 
Nor  only  saw  he  all  that  was, 
But  much  that  never  came  to  pass ; 
Whereby  all  prophets  far  outwent  he, 
Though  former  days  produced  a  plenty : 
For  any  man  with  half  an  eye 
What  stands  before  him  may  espy ; 
But  optics  sharp  it  needs,  I  ween, 
To  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen. 
As  in  the  days  of  ancient  fame, 
Prophets  and  poets  were  the  same, 
And  all  the  praise  that  poets  gain 
Is  but  for  what  they  invent  and  feign : 
So  gain'd  our  squire  his  fame  by  seeing 
Such  things  as  never  would  have  being  ; 
Whence  he  for  oracles  was  grown 
The  very  tripod  of  his  town. 
Gazettes  no  sooner  rose  a  lie  in, 
But  straight  he  fell  to  prophesying; 
Made  dreadful  slaughter  in  his  course, 
O'erthrew  provincials,  foot  and  horse  ; 
Brought  armies  o'er  by  sudden  pressings 
Of  Hanoverians,  Swiss,  and  Hessians  ;* 


*  This  prophecy,  like  some  of  the  prayers  of  Homer's 
heroes, was  but  half  accomplished.  The  Hanoverians,  &c., 
indeed  came  over,  and  much  were  they  feasted  with 
blood  ;  but  the  hinging  of  the  rebels  and  the  dividing 
their  estates  remain  unfulfilled.  This,  however,  cannot 
he  the  fault  of  the  hero,  hut  rather  the  British  minister, 
who  left  off  the  war  before  the  work  was  completed. 
6 


Feasted  with  blood  his  Scottish  clan, 
And  hang'd  all  rebels  to  a  man ; 
Divided  their  estates  and  pelf, 
And  took  a  goodly  share  himself. 
All  this,  with  spirit  energetic, 
He  did  by  second-sight  prophetic. 

Thus  stored  with  intellectual  riches, 
Skill'd  was  our  squire  in  making  speeches, 
Where  strength  of  brains  united  centres 
With  strength  of  lungs  surpassing  Stentor's. 
But  as  some  muskets  so  contrive  it, 
As  oft  to  miss  the  mark  they  drive  at, 
And,  though  well  aim'd  at  duck  or  plover, 
Bear  wide  and  kick  their  owners  over : 
So  fared  our  squire,  whose  reas'ning  toil 
Would  often  on  himself  recoil, 
And  so  much  injured  more  his  side, 
The  stronger  arguments  he  applied ; 
As  old  war-elephants,  dismay'd, 
Trod  down  the  troops  they  came  to  aid, 
And  hurt  their  own  side  more  in  battle 
Than  less  and  ordinary  cattle  : 
Yet  at  town  meetings  ev'ry  chief 
Pinn'd  faith  on  great  McFiscAL's  sleeve 
And,  as  he  motioned,  all,  by  rote, 
Raised  sympathetic  hands  to  vote. 

The  town,  our  hero's  scene  of  action, 
Had  long  been  torn  by  feuds  of  faction ; 
And  as  each  party's  strength  prevails, 
It  turn'd  up  different  heads  or  tails ; 
With  constant  rattling,  in  a  trice 
Show'd  various  sides,  as  oft  as  dice : 
As  that  famed  weaver,  wife  to  Ulysses, 
By  night  each  day's  work  pick'd  in  pieces 
And  though  she  stoutly  did  bestir  her, 
Its  finishing  was  ne'er  the  nearer  : 
So  did  this  town,  with  steadfast  zeal, 
Weave  cobwebs  for  the  public  weal ; 
Which  when  completed,  or  before, 
A  second  vote  in  pieces  tore. 
They  met,  made  speeches  full  long-winded, 
Resolved,  protested,  and  rescinded ; 
Addresses  sign'd,  then  chose  committees, 
To  stop  all  drinking  of  Bohea-teas ; 
With  winds  of  doctrine  veer'd  about, 
And  turn'd  all  Whig  committees  out. 
Meanwhile  our  hero,  as  their  head, 
In  pomp  the  Tory  faction  led, 
Still  following,  as  the  squire  should  please 
Successive  on,  like  files  of  geese. 


EXTREME  HUMANITY." 


THUS  GAGE'S  arms  did  fortune  blesg 

With  triumph,  safety,  and  success : 

But  mercy  is  without  dispute 

His  first  and  darling  attribute ; 

So  great,  it  far  outwent,  and  conquer'd, 

His  military  skill  at  Concord. 

There,  when  the  war  he  chose  to  wage, 

Shone  the  benevolence  of  GAGE  ; 

*  From  "  McFingal." 


JOHN   TRUMBULL. 


Sent  troops  to  that  ill-omen'd  place 

On  errands  mere  of  special  grace, 

And  all  the  work  he  chose  them  for 

Was  to  prevent  a  civil  war ; 

And  for  that  purpose  he  projected 

The  only  certain  way  to  effect  it, 

To  take  your  powder,  stores,  and  arms, 

And  all  your  means  of  doing  harms : 

As  prudent  folks  take  knives  away, 

Lest  children  cut  themselves  at  play. 

And  yet,  though  this  was  all  his  scheme, 

This  war  you  still  will  charge  on  him ; 

And  though  he  oft  has  swore  and  said  it, 

Stick  close  to  facts,  and  give  no  credit, 

Think  you,  he  wish'd  you  'd  brave  and  beard 

him? 

Why,  'twas  the  very  thing  that  scared  him. 
He  'd  rather  you  should  all  have  run, 
Than  stay'd  to  fire  a  single  gun. 
And  for  the  civil  law  you  lament, 
Faith,  you  yourselves  must  take  the  blame  in't ; 
For  had  you  then,  as  he  intended, 
Given  up  your  arms,  it  must  have  ended ; 
Since  that's  no  war,  each  mortal  knows, 
Where  one  side  only  gives  the  blows, 
And  the  other  bear  'em ;  on  reflection 
The  most  you'll  call  it,  is  correction. 
Nor  could  the  contest  have  gone  higher, 
If  you  had  ne'er  return'd  the  fire ; 
But  when  you  shot  and  not  before, 
It  then  commenced  a  civil  war. 
Else  GAGE,  to  end  this  controversy, 
Had  but  corrected  you  in  mercy : 
Whom  mother  Britain,  old  and  wise, 
Sent  o'er  the  colonies  to  chastise ; 
Command  obedience  on  their  peril 
Of  ministerial  whip  and  ferule, 
And,  since  they  ne'er  must  come  of  age, 
Govern'd  and  tutor'd  them  by  GAGE. 
Still  more,  that  this  was  all  their  errand, 
The  army's  conduct  makes  apparent. 
What  though  at  Lexington  you  can  say 
They  kill'd  a  few  they  did  not  fancy, 
At  Concord  then,  with  manful  popping, 
Discharg'd  a  round,  the  ball  to  open — 
Yet,  when  they  saw  your  rebel-rout 
Determined  still  to  hold  it  out ; 
Did  they  not  show  their  love  to  peace, 
And  wish  that  discord  straight  might  cease, 
Demonstrate,  and  by  proofs  uncommon, 
Their  orders  were  to  injure  no  man '.' 
For  did  not  every  regular  run 
As  soon  as  e'er  you  fired  a  gun  ? 
Take  the  first  shot  you  sent  them  greeting, 
As  meant  their  signal  for  retreating ; 


And  fearful,  if  they  stay'd  for  sport, 

You  might  by  accident  be  hurt, 

Convey  themselves  with  speed  away 

Full  twenty  miles  in  half  a  day ; 

Race  till  their  legs  were  grown  so  weary, 

They  'd  scarce  suffice  their  weight  to  carry  1 

Whence  GAGE  extols,  from  general  hearsay, 

The  great  activity  of  LORD  PEHCY, 

Whose  brave  example  led  them  on, 

And  spirited  the  troops  to  run ; 

And  now  may  boast,  at  royal  levees, 

A  Yankee  chace  worth  forty  Chevys. 

Yet  you,  as  vile  as  they  were  kind, 

Pursued,  like  tigers,  still  behind ; 

Fired  on  them  at  your  will,  and  shut 

The  town,  as  though  you  'd  starve  them  out ; 

And  with  parade  preposterous  hedged, 

Affect  to  hold  him  there  besieged. 


THE  DECAYED  COQUETTE.* 

NEW  beauties  push  her  from  the  stage; 
She  trembles  at  the  approach  of  age, 
And  starts  to  view  the  alter'd  face 
That  wrinkles  at  her  in  her  glass  : 
So  Satan,  in  the  monk's  tradition, 
Fear'd,  when  he  met  his  apparition. 
At  length  her  name  each  coxcomb  cancels 
From  standing  lists  of  toasts  and  angels; 
And  slighted  where  she  shone  before, 
A  grace  and  goddess  now  no  more, 
Despised  by  all,  and  doom'd  to  meet 
Her  lovers  at  her  rival's  feet, 
She  flies  assemblies,  shuns  the  ball, 
And  cries  out,  vanity,  on  all ; 
Affects  to  scorn  the  tinsel-shows 
Of  glittering  belles  and  gaudy  beaux  ; 
Nor  longer  hopes  to  hide  by  dress 
The  tracks  of  age  upon  her  face. 
Now  careless  grown  of  airs  polite, 
Her  noonday  nightcap  meets  the  sight; 
Her  hair  uncoinb'd  collects  together, 
With  ornaments  of  many  a  feather ; 
Her  stays  for  easiness  thrown  by, 
Her  rumpled  handkerchief  awry, 
A  careless  figure  half  undress'd, 
(The  reader's  wits  may  guess  the  rest;) 
All  points  of  dress  and  neatness  carried, 
As  though  she'd  been  a  twelvemonth  married  : 
She  spends  her  breath,  as  years  prevail, 
At  this  sad  wicked  world  to  rail, 
To  slander  all  her  sex  impromptu, 
And  wonder  what  the  times  will  come  to. 


*  From  the  "Progress  of  Dulness." 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


[Born  1752.    Died  1817.] 


TOTOTHT  DWIGHT,  D.  D.,  LL.  D.,  was  born  in 
Northampton,  Massachusetts,  on  the  fourteenth 
of  May,  1752.  His  father  was  a  merchant,  of 
excellent  character  and  liberal  education ;  and  his 
mother,  a  daughter  of  the  great  JONATHAN  ED- 
WAUDS,  was  one  of  the  noblest  matrons  of  her 
time,  distinguished  not  less  for  her  maternal  soli- 
citude, ardent  temperament,  and  patriotism,  than 
for  the  intellectual  qualities  which  made  so  illus- 
trious the  name  of  the  New  England  metaphysi- 
cian. She  early  perceived  the  indications  of 
superior  genius  in  her  son ;  and  we  are  told  by  his 
biographers  that  under  her  direction  he  became 
familiar  with  the  rudiments  of  the  Latin  language 
before  he  was  six  years  old,  and  at  the  same  early 
period  laid  the  foundation  of  his  remarkable 
knowledge  of  history,  geography,  and  the  kindred 
departments  of  learning.  When  thirteen  years 
old  he  entered  Yale  College.  His  previous  unre- 
mitted  attention  to  study  had  impaired  his  health, 
and  he  made  little  progress  during  the  first  two 
years  of  his  residence  at  New  Haven ;  but  his 
subsequent  intense  and  uninterrupted  application 
enabled  him  to  graduate  in  1769,  the  first  scholar 
in  the  institution.  Immediately  after  obtaining 
the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts,  he  opened  a  gram- 
mar-school in  New  Haven,  in  which  he  continued 
two  years,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  was  elected 
a  tutor  in  his  alma  mater.  Yale  College  was 
established  in  the  year  1700  by  several  Congrega- 
tional clergymen,  and  had,  before  the  period  at 
which  DWIGHT  returned  to  it,  become  generally 
unpopular,  in  consequence  of  the  alleged  illiberality 
of  the  trustees  towards  other  denominations  of 
Christians.  At  this  time  two  of  the  tutors  had 
resigned,  leaving  in  office  Mr.  JOSEPH  HOWE, 
a  man  of  erudition  and  liberal  sentiments,  and 
DWIGHT  and  JOHN  THUMBUI.I,  were  chosen  in 
their  places.  The  regeneration  of  the  seminary 
now  commenced ;  the  study  of  belles  lettres  was 
successfully  introduced  ;  its  character  rapidly  rose, 
and  so  popular  did  DWIGHT  become  with  the 
students,  that  when,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five, 
he  resigned  his  office,  they  drew  up  and  almost 
unanimously  signed  a  petition  to  the  corporation 
that  he  might  be  elected  to  the  presidency.  He, 
however,  interfered  and  pievented  the  formal  pre- 
sentation of  the  application. 

In  1771, DWIGHT  commenced  writing  the  "Con- 
quest of  Canaan,"  an  «  epic  poem  in  eleven  books," 
which  he  finished  in  1774,  before  he  was  twenty- 
three  years  of  age.  The  subject  probably  was  not 
the  most  fortunate  that  could  have  been  chosen, 
but  a  poet  with  passion  and  a  brilliant  imagination, 
by  attempting  to  paint  the  manners  of  the  time  and 
the  natural  characteristics  of  the  oriental  world, 
might  have  treated  it  more  successfully.  DWIGHT 


"  endeavoured  to  represent  such  manners  as  are  re- 
moved from  the  peculiarities  of  any  age  or  country, 
and  might  belong  to  the  amiable  and  virtuous  of 
any  period  ;  elevated  without  design,  refined  with- 
out ceremony,  elegant  without  fashion,  and  agreea- 
ble because  they  are  ornamented  with  sincerity, 
dignity,  and  religion  ;"  his  poem  therefore  has  no 
distinctive  features,  and  with  very  slight  changes 
would  answer  as  well  for  any  other  land  or  period 
as  for  Judea  at  the  time  of  its  conquest  by  JOSHUA. 
Its  versification  is  harmonious,  but  monotonous, 
and  the  work  is  free  from  all  the  extravagances  of 
exprcssiop  and  sentiment  which  so  frequently 
lessen  the  worth  of  poetry  by  youthful  and  inex- 
perienced writers.  Some  of  the  passages  which  I 
have  quoted  from  the  "  Conquest  of  Canaan"  are 
doubtless  equal  to  any  American  poetry  produced 
at  this  period. 

In  1777,  the  classes  in  Yale  College  were  sepa- 
rated on  account  of  the  war,  and,  in  the  month  of 
May,  DWIGHT  repaired  with  a  number  of  students 
to  Weathersfield,  in  Connecticut,  where  he  re- 
mained until  the  autumn,  when,  having  been 
licensed  to  preach  as  a  Congregational  minister, 
he  joined  the  army  as  a  chaplain.  In  this  office 
he  won  much  regard  by  his  professional  industry 
and  eloquence,  and  at  the  same  time  exerted  con- 
siderable influence  by  writing  patriotic  songs,  which 
became  popular  throughout  New  England.  The 
death  of  his  father,  in  1778,  induced  him  to  resign 
his  situation  in  the  army,  and  return  to  Northamp- 
ton, to  assist  his  mother  to  support  and  educate 
her  family.  He  remained  there  five  years,  labour- 
ing on  a  farm,  preaching,  and  superintending  a 
school,  and  was  in  that  period  twice  elected  a 
member  of  the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts.  De- 
clining offers  of  political  advancement,  he  was,  in 
1783,  ordained  a  minister  in  the  parish  of  Green- 
field, in  Connecticut,  where  he  remained  twelve 
years,  discharging  his  pastoral  duties  in  a  manner 
that  was  perfectly  satisfactory  to  his  people,  and 
taking  charge  of  an  academy,  established  by  him- 
self, which  soon  become  the  most  popular  school 
of  the  kind  that  had  ever  existed  in  America. 

The  "  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  although  finished 
ten  years  before,  was  not  printed  until  the  spring 
of  1785.  It  was  followed  by  «  Greenfield  Hill," 
a  descriptive,  historical,  and  didactic  poem,  which 
was  published  in  1794.  This  work  is  divided 
into  seven  parts,  entitled  "  The  Prospect,"  "  The 
Flourishing  Village,"  "The  Burning  of  Fairfield," 
"  The  Destruction  of  the  Pequods,"  "  The  Clergy- 
man's Advice  to  the  Villagers,"  «  The  Farmer's 
Advice  to  the  Villagers,"  and  "  The  Vision,  or 
Prospect  of  the  Future  Happiness  of  America." 
It  contains  some  pleasing  pictures  of  rural  life, 
but  added  little  to  the  author's  reputation  as  a 

43 


44 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 


poet.  The  «  Triumph  of  Infidelity,"  a  satire,  occa- 
sioned by  the  appearance  of  a  defence  of  Universal- 
ism,  was  his  next  attempt  in  poetry.  It  was  printed 
anonymously,  and  his  fame  would  not  have  been  less 
had  its  authorship  been  still  a  secret. 

On  the  death  of  Dr.  STYLES,  in  1795,  DWIBHT 
was  elected  to  the  presidency  of  Yale  College, 
which  at  this  time  was  in  a  disordered  condition, 
and  suffering  from  pecuniary  embarrassments.  The 
reputation  of  the  new  president  as  a  teacher  soon 
brought  around  him  a  very  large  number  of  stu- 
dents; new  professorships  were  established,  the  li- 
brary and  philosophical  apparatus  were  extended,  the 
course  of  study  and  system  of  government  changed, 
and  the  college  rapidly  rose  in  the  public  favour. 
Besides  acting  as  president,  DWIGHT  was  the  stated 
preacher,  professor  of  theology,  and  teacher  of  the 
senior  class,  for  nearly  twenty-one  years,  during 
which  time  the  reputation  of  the  college  was  inferior 
to  that  of  no  other  in  America. 

Dr.  DWIGHT  died  at  his  residence  in  New  Haven 
on  the  eleventh  of  January,  1817,  in  the*  sixty-fifth 
year  of  his  age.  The  following  catalogue  of  his 
works  is  probably  complete :  "  America,"  a  poem  in 
the  style  of  Pope's  "Windsor  Forest,"  1772;  «  The 
History,  Eloquence  and  Poetry  of  the  Bible,"  1772 ; 
"The  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  a  poem,  1785  ;  "An 
Election  Sermon,"  1791 ;  "The  Genuineness  and 
Authenticity  of  the  New  Testament,"  1793;  "Green- 
field Hill,"  a  poem,  1794 ;  «  The  Triumph  of  Infi- 
delity," a  satire,  and  two  "  Discourses  on  the  Nature 
and  Danger  of  Infidel  Philosophy,"  1797;  "The 


Duty  of  Americans  in  the  Present  Crisis,"  1798; 
"  Discourse  on  the  Character  of  Washington,"  1800; 
"Discourse  on  some  Events  in  the  last  Century," 
1801 ;  »  Sermons,"  on  the  death  of  E.  G.  Marsh, 
1804;  on  Duelling,  1805;  at  the  Andover  Theolo- 
gical Seminary,  1808 ;  on  the  ordination  of  E.  Pear- 
son, 1808 ;  on  the  death  of  Governor  Trumbull, 
1809;  on  Charity,  1810;  at  the  ordination  of  N. 
W.  Taylor,  1812  ;  on  two  days  of  public  fasting, 
1812;  and  before  the  American  Board  of  Foreign 
Missions,  1813;  "  Remarks  on  a  Review  of  Inchi- 
quin's  Letters,"  1815;  "Observations  on  Language," 
and  an  "Essay  on  Light,"  1816;  and  "Theology 
Explained  and  Defended,"  in  a  series  of  sermons, 
and  «  Travels  in  New  England  and  New  York," 
in  which  is  given  an  account  of  various  spring  and 
autumn  vacation  excursions,  each  in  four  volumes, 
published  after  his  death. 

As  a  poet  DWIGHT  was  little  inferior  to  any  of 
his  contemporaries  in  America ;  but  it  was  not  on 
his  poetry  that  his  claims  to  the  respect  of  man- 
kind were  based.  As  an  instructor  probably  he  was 
never  surpassed  in  this  country,  and  as  a  theolo- 
gian he  had  few  if  any  equals.  An  eloquent 
preacher,  with  a  handsome  person,  an  expressive 
countenance,  polished  and  affable  manners,  brilliant 
conversational  abilities,  and  vast  stores  of  learning, 
it  was  almost  impossible  that  he  should  fail  of  success 
in  any  effort,  and  least  of  all  in  the  administration  of 
the  important  office  which  he  so  long  and  so  honour- 
ably filled.  The  best  account  of  his  life  and  charac- 
ter which  has  appeared  is  that  by  Dr.  SPBAGUE. 


AN  INDIAN  TEMPLE. 

THERE  too,  with  awful  rites,  the  hoary  priest, 
Without,  beside  the  moss-grown  altar  stood, 
(His  sable  form  in  magic  cincture  dress'd,) 
And  heap'd  the  mingled  offering  to  his  god. 
What  time  with  golden  light  calm  evening  glow'd, 
The  mystic  dust,  the  flower  of  silver  bloom 
And  spicy  herb,  his  hand  in  order  strew'd ; 
Bright  rose  the  curling  flame,  and  rich  perfume 
On  smoky  wings  upflew  or  settled  round  the  tomb. 

Then  o'er  the  circus  danced  the  maddening  throng 
As  erst  the  Thyas  roam'd  dread  Nysa  round, 
And  struck  to  forest  notes  the  ecstatic  song, 
While  slow  beneath  them  heaved  the  wavy  ground. 
With  a  low,  lingering  groan  of  dying  sound, 
The  woodland  rumbled;    murmur'd  deep  each 

stream ; 

Shrill  sung  the  leaves ;  the  ether  sigh'd  profound ; 
Pale  tufts  of  purple  topp'd  the  silver  flame, 
And  many-colour'd  forms  on  evening  breezes  came: 

Thin,  twilight  forms,  attired  in  changing  sheen 
Of  plumes,  high-tinctured  in  the  western  ray — 
Bending,  they  peep'd  the  fleecy  folds  between, 
Their  wings  light-rustling  in  the  breath  of  May  ; 


Soft-hovering  round  the  fire  in  mystic  play, 
They  snufF'd  the  incense  waved  in  clouds  afar, 
Then  silent  floated  toward  the  setting  day ; 
Eve  redden'd  each  fine  form,  each  misty  car, 
And  through  them  faintly  gleam'd,  at  times,  the 
western  star. 

Then — so  tradition  sings — the  train  behind, 
In  plumy  zones  of  rainbow  beauty  dress'd, 
Rode  the  Great  Spirit,  in  the  obedient  wind, 
In  yellow  clouds  slow-sailing  from  the  west. 
With  dawning  smiles  the  god  his  votaries  blest, 
And  taught  where  deer  retired  to  ivy  dell; 
What  chosen  chief  with  proud  command  t'  invest; 
Where  crept  the  approaching  foe,  with  purpose  fell, 
And  where  to  wind  the  scout,  and  war's  dark  storm 
dispel. 

There,  on  her  lover's  tomb  in  silence  laid,    [beam, 
While  still  and  sorrowing  shower'd  the  moon's  pale 
At  times  expectant,  slept  the  widow'd  maid, 
Her  soul  far-wandering  on  the  sylph-wing'd  dream. 
Wafted  from  evening  skies  on  sunny  stream, 
Her  darling  youth  with  silver  pinions  shone ; 
With  voice  of  music,  tuned  to  sweetest  theme, 
He  told  of  shell-bright  bowers  beyond  the  sun, 
Where  years  of  endless  joy  o'er  Indian  lovers  run. 


TIMOTHY    D  WIGHT. 


45 


ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA.* 

Soo>r  fleets  the  sunbright  form,  by  man  adored  ! — 
Soon  fell  the  head  of  gold  to  Time  a  prey, 
The  arms,  the  trunk,  his  cankering  tooth  devour'd, 
And  whirlwinds  blew  the  iron  dust  away. 
Where  dwelt  imperial  Timur,  far  astray 
Some  lonely-musing  pilgrim  now  inquires  ; 
And,  rack'd  by  storms  and  hastening  to  decay, 
Mohammed's  mosque  foresees  its  final  iircs, 
And  Rome's  more  lordly  temple  day  by  day  expires. 

As  o'er  proud  Asian  realms  the  traveller  winds, 
His  manly  spirit,  hush'd  by  terror,  falls 
WTien  some  forgotten  town's  lost  site  he  finds ; 
Where  ruin  wild  his  pondering  eye  appals, 
Where  silence  swims  along  the  moulder'd  walls, 
And  broods  upon  departed  Grandeur's  tomb, 
Through  the  lone,  hollow  aisles,  sad  Echo  calls 
At  each  slow  step ;  deep  sighs  the  breathing  gloom, 
And  weeping  fields  around  bewail  their  emoress' 
doom. 

Where  o'er  a  hundred  realms  the  throne  uprose 
The  screech-owl  nests,  the  panther  builds  his  home ; 
Sleep  the  dull  newts,  the  lazy  adders  doze 
Where  pomp  and  luxury  danced  the  golden  room; 
Low  lies  in  dust  the  sky-resembled  dome, 
Tall  grass  around  the  broken  column  waves, 
And  brambles  climb  and  lonely  thistles  bloom ; 
The  moulder'd  arch  the  weedy  streamlet  laves, 
And  low  resound,  beneath,  unnumber'd  sunken 
graves. 

In  thee,  0  Albion !  queen  of  nations,  live  [known ; 
Whatever  splendours  earth's  wide  realms  have 
In  thee  proud  Persia  sees  her  pomp  revive, 
And  Greece  her  arts,  and  Rome  her  lordly  throne  ; 
By  every  wind  thy  Tyrian  fleets  are  blown ; 
Supreme,  on  Fame's  dread  roll,  thy  heroes  stand ; 
All  ocean's  realms  thy  naval  sceptre  own; 
Of  bards,  of  sages,  how  august  thy  band ! 
And  one  rich  Eden  blooms  around  thy  garden'd  land. 

But,  O  how  vast  thy  crimes!  Through  Heaven's 

great  year, 

When  few  centurial  suns  have  traced  their  way ; 
When  Southern  Europe,  worn  by  feuds  severe, 
Weak,  doting,  fallen,  has  bow'd  to  Russian  sway, 
And  setting  €«lory  beam'd  her  farewell  ray, 
To  wastes,  perchance,  thy  brilliant  fields  shall  turn ; 
In  dust  thy  temples,  towers,  and  towns  decay ; 
The  forest  howl  where  London  turrets  burn, 
And  all  thy  garlands  deck  thy  sad  funereal  urn. 

Some  land,  scarce  glimmering  in  the  light  of  fame, 
Scepter'd  with  arts  and  arms,  (if  I  divine,) 
Some  unknown  wild,  some  shore  without  a  name, 
In  all  thy  pomp  shall  then  majestic  shine. 
As  silver-headed  Time's  slow  years  decline, 
Not  ruins  only  meet  the  inquiring  eye; 
Where  round  yon  mouldering  oak  vain  brambles 
The  filial  stem,  already  towering  high,       [twine, 
Ere  long  shaH  stretch  his  arms,  and  nod  in  yonder 
sky. 

*  The  extract  above  and  the  one  which  precedes  it  are 
from  the  canto  on  the  destruction  of  the  Pequod  Indians, 
in  "Greenfield  Hill." 


Where  late  resounded  the  wild  woodland  roar 
Now  heaves  the  palace,  now  the  temple  smiles; 
Where  frown'd  the  rude  rock  and  the  desert  shore 
Now  Pleasure  sports,  and  Business  want  beguiles, 
And  Commerce  wings  her  flight  to  thousand  isles ; 
Culture  walks  forth,  gay  laugh  the  loaded  fields, 
And  jocund  Labour  plays  his  harmless  wiles; 
Glad  Science  brightens,  Art  her  mansion  builds, 
And  Peace  uplifts  her  wand,  and  HEAVEN  his  bless- 
ing yields. 

THE    SOCIAL    VISIT.* 

YE  Muses !  dames  of  dignified  renown, 
Revered  alike  in  country  and  in  town, 
Your  bard  the  mysteries  of  a  visit  show ; 
(For  sure  your  ladyships  those  mysteries  know:) 
What  is  it,  then,  obliging  sisters !  say, 
The  debt  of  social  visiting  to  pay] 

'Tis  not  to  toil  before  the  idol  pier; 
To  shine  the  first  in  fashion's  lunar  sphere ; 
By  sad  engagements  forced  abroad  to  roam, 
And  dread  to  find  the  expecting  fair  at  home ! 
To  stop  at  thirty  doors  in  half  a  day, 
Drop  the  gilt  card,  and  proudly  roll  away ; 
To  alight,  and  yield  the  hand  with  nice  parade ; 
Up  stairs  to  rustle  in  the  stifF  brocade ; 
Swim  thrdugh  the  drawing-room  with  studied  air, 
Catch  the  pink'd  beau,  and  shade  the  rival  fair; 
To  sit,  to  curb,  to  toss  with  bridled  mien, 
Mince  the  scant  speech,  and  lose  a  glance  between ; 
Unfurl  the  fan,  display  the  snowy  arm, 
And  ope,  with  each  new  motion, some  new  charm: 
Or  sit  in  silent  solitude,  to  spy 
Each  little  failing  with  malignant  eye ; 
Or  chatter  with  incessancy  of  tongue, 
Careless  if  kind  or  cruel,  right  or  wrong ; 
To  trill  of  us  and  ours,  of  mine  and  me, 
Our  house,  our  coach,  our  friends,  our  family, 
While  all  the  excluded  circle  sit  in  pain, 
And  glance  their  cool  contempt  or  keen  disdain : 
To  inhale  from  proud  Nanking  a  sip  of  tea, 
And  wave  a  courtesy  trim  and  flirt  away : 
Or  waste  at  cards  peace,  temper,  health,  and  life, 
Begin  with  sullenncss,  and  end  in  strife ; 
Lose  the  rich  feast  by  friendly  converse  given, 
And  backward  turn  from  happiness  and  heaven. 

It  is  in  decent  habit,  plain  and  neat, 
To  spend  a  few  choice  hours  in  converse  sweet, 
Careless  of  forms,  to  act  the  unstudied  part, 
To  mix  in  friendship,  and  to  blend  the  heart ; 
To  choose  those  happy  themes  which  all  must  feel, 
The  moral  duties  and  the  household  weal, 
The  tale  of  sympathy,  the  kind  design, 
Where  rich  affections  soften  and  refine ; 
To  amuse,  to  be  amused,  to  bless,  be  bless'd, 
And  tune  to  harmony  the  common  breast ; 
To  cheer  with  mild  good-humour's  sprightly  ray, 
And  smooth  life's  passage  o'er  its  thorny  way ; 
To  circle  round  the  hospitable  board, 
And  taste  each  good  our  generous  climes  afford ; 
To  court  a  quick  return  with  accents  kind, 
And  leave,  at  parting,  some  regret  behind. 

*From  "Greenfield  Hill." 


46 


TIMOTHY   DWIGHT. 


THE  COUNTRY  PASTOR.* 

AH  !  knew  he  but  his  happiness,  of  menf 
Not  the  least  happy  he,  who,  free  from  broils 
And  base  ambition,  vain  and  bustling  pomp, 
Amid  a  friendly  cure,  and  competence, 
Tastes  the  pure  pleasures  of  parochial  life. 
What  though  no  crowd  of  clients,  at  his  gate, 
To  falsehood  and  injustice  bribe  his  tongue, 
And  flatter  into  guilt  1 — what  though  no  bright 
And  gilded  prospects  lure  ambition  on 
To  legislative  pride,  or  chair  of  state  1 
What  though  no  golden  dreams  entice  his  mind 
To  burrow,  with  the  mole,  in  dirt  and  mire  ? 
What  though  no  splendid  villa,  Eden'd  round 
With  gardens  of  enchantment,  walks  of  state, 
And  all  the  grandeur  of  superfluous  wealth, 
Invite  the  passenger  to  stay  his  steed, 
And  ask  the  liveried  foot-boy, «  Who  dwells  here  1" 
What  though  no  swarms,  around  his  sumptuous 

board, 

Of  soothing  flatterers,  humming  in  the  shine 
Of  opulence,  and  honey  from  its  flowers 
Devouring,  till  their  time  arrives  to  sting, 
Inflate  his  mind  ;  his  virtues  round  the  year 
Repeating,  and  his  faults,  with  microscope 
Inverted,  lessen,  till  they  steal  from  sight  ? — 
Yet  from  the  dire  temptations  these  present 
His  state  is  free ;  temptations,  few  can  stem ; 
Temptations,  by  whose  sweeping  torrent  hurl'd 
Down  the  dire  steep  of  guilt,  unceasing  fall 
Sad  victims,  thousands  of  the  brightest  minds 
That  time's  dark  reign  adorn ;  minds,  to  whose  grasp 
Heaven  seems  most  freely  off'er'd ;  to  man's  eye, 
Most  hopeful  candidates  for  angels'  joys. 

His  lot,  that  wealth,  and  power,  and  pride  forbids, 
Forbids  him  to  become  the  tool  of  fraud, 
Injustice,  misery,  ruin ;  saves  his  soul 
From  all  the  needless  labours,  griefs,  and  cares, 
That  avarice  and  ambition  agonize ; 
From  those  cold  nerves  of  wealth,  that,  palsied,  feel 
No  anguish,  but  its  own ;  and  ceaseless  lead 
To  thousand  meannesses,  as  gain  allures. 

Though  oft  compell'd  to  meet  the  gross  attack 
Of  shameless  ridicule  and  towering  pride, 
Sufficient  good  is  his ;  good,  real,  pure, 
With  guilt  unmingled.    Rarely  forced  from  home, 
Around  his  board  his  wife  and  children  smile ; 
Communion  sweetest,  nature  here  can  give, 
Each  fond  endearment,  office  of  delight, 
With  love  and  duty  blending.     Such  the  joy 
My  bosom  oft  has  known.     His,  too,  the  task 
To  rear  the  infant  plants  that  bud  around ; 
To  ope  their  little  minds  to  truth's  pure  light ; 
To  take  them  by  the  hand,  and  lead  them  on 
In  that  straight,  narrow  road  where  virtue  walks ; 
To  guard  them  from  a  vain,  deceiving  world, 

*  From  "Greenfield  Hill." 
t  Ah !  knew  he  but  his  happiness,  of  men 
The  happiest  he,  &c.  THOMSON. 

O  fortunatos  niuiium,  sua  si  bona  norint, 
Agricolas !  VIROIL,  Otorg.  2. 


And  point  their  course  to  realms  of  promised  life. 
His  too  the  esteem  of  those  who  weekly  hear 
His  words  of  truth  divine  ;  unnumber'd  acts 
Of  real  love  attesting  to  his  eve 
Their  filial  tenderness.     Where'er  he  walks, 
The  friendly  welcome  and  inviting  smile 
Wait  on  his  steps,  and  breathe  a  kindred  joy. 

Oft  too  in  friendliest  association  join'd, 
He  greets  his  brethren,  with  a  flowing  heart, 
Flowing  with  virtue;  all  rejoiced  to  meet, 
And  all  reluctant  parting;  every  aim, 
Benevolent,  aiding  with  purpose  kind ; 
While,  seasori'd  with  unblernish'd  cheerfulness, 
Far  distant  from  the  tainted  mirth  of  vice, 
Their  hearts  disclose  each  contemplation  sweet 
Of  things  divine;  and  blend  in  friendship  pure, 
Friendship  sublimed  by  piety  and  love. 

All  virtue's  friends  are  his:  the  good,  the  just, 
The  pious,  to  his  house  their  visits  pay, 
And  converse  high  hold  of  the  true,  the  fair, 
The  wonderful,  the  moral,  the  divine : 
Of  saints  and  prophets,  patterns  bright  of  truth, 
Lent  to  a  world  of  sin,  to  teach  mankind 
How  virtue  in  that  world  can  live  and  shine ; 
Of  learning's  varied  realms  ;  of  Nature's  works ; 
And  that  bless'd  book  which  gilds  man's  darksome 

way 

With  light  from  heaven ;  of  bless'd  Messiah's  throne 
And  kingdom  ;  prophecies  divine  fulfill'd, 
And  prophecies  more  glorious  yet  to  come 
In  renovated  days ;  of  that  bright  world, 
And  all  the  happy  trains  which  that  bright  world 
Inhabit,  whither  virtue's  sons  are  gone : 
While  God  the  whole  inspires,  adorns,  exalts ; 
The  source,  the  end,  the  substance,  and  the  soul. 

This  too  the  task,  the  bless'd,  the  useful  task, 
To  invigour  order,  justice,  law,  and  rule ; 
Peace  to  extend,  and  bid  contention  cease ; 
To  teach  the  words  of  life ;  to  lead  mankind 
Back  from  the  wild  of  guilt  and  brink  of  wo 
To  virtue's  house  and  family ;  faith,  hope, 
And  joy  to  inspire ;  to  warm  the  soul 
With  love  to  God  and  man ;  to  cheer  the  sad, 
To  fix  the  doubting,  rouse  the  languid  heart ; 
The  wandering  to  restore ;  to  spread  with  down 
The  thorny  bed  of  death ;  console  the  poor, 
Departing  mind,  and  aid  its  lingering  wing. 

To  him  her  choicest  pages  Truth  expands, 
Unceasing,  where  the  soul-entrancing  scenes 
Poetic  fiction  boasts  are  real  all  : 
Where  beauty,  novelty,  and  grandeur  wear 
Superior  charms,  and  moral  worlds  unfold 
Sublimities  transporting  and  divine. 

Not  all  the  scenes  Philosophy  can  boast, 
Though  them  with  nobler  truths  he  ceaseless  blends, 
Compare  with  these.  They,  as  they  found  the  mind, 
Still  leave  it ;  more  inform'd,  but  not  more  wise. 
These  wiser,  nobler,  better,  make  the  man. 

Thus  every  happy  mean  of  solid  good 
His  life,  his  studies,  and  profession  yield. 
With  motives  hourly  new,  each  rolling  day 
Allures,  through  wisdom's  path  and  truth's  fair  field, 
His  feet  to  yonder  skies.     Before  him  heaven 
Shines  bright,  the  scope  sublime  of  all  his  prayers, 
The  meed  of  every  sorrow,  pain,  and  toil. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


47 


THE  COUNTRY  SCHOOLMASTER.* 

WHERE  yonder  humble  spire  salutes  the  eye, 
Us  vane  slow-turning  in  the  liquid  sky, 
Where,  in  light  gambols,  healthy  striplings  sport, 
Ambitious  learning  builds  her  outer  court ; 
A  grave  preceptor,  there,  her  usher  stands, 
And  rules  without  a  rod  her  little  bands. 
Some  half-grown  sprigs  of  learning  graced  his  brow : 
Little  he  Itnew,  though  much  he  wish'd  to  know ; 
Enchanted  hung  o'er  VIRGIL'S  honey'd  lay, 
And  smiled  to  see  desipient  HORACE  play  ; 
Glean'd  scraps  of  Greek ;  and,  curious,  traced  afar, 
Through  POPE'S  clear  glass  the  bright  Maeonian  star. 
Yet  oft  his  students  at  his  wisdom  stared, 
For  many  a  student  to  his  side  repair'd ; 
Surprised,  they  heard  him  DILWORTH'S  knots  untie, 
And  tell  what  lands  beyond  the  Atlantic  lie. 

Many  his  faults  ;  his  virtues  small  and  few ; 
Some  little  good  he  did,  or  strove  to  do ; 
Laborious  still,  he  taught  the  early  mind, 
And  urged  to  manners  meek  and  thoughts  refined ; 
Truth  he  impress'd,  and  every  virtue  praised ; 
While  infant  eyes  in  wondering  silence  gazed ; 
The  worth  of  time  would  day  by  day  unfold, 
And  tell  them  every  hour  was  made  of  gold. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  Al.t 

Now  near  the  burning  domes  the  squadrons  stood, 
Their  breasts  impatient  for  the  scenes  of  blood : 
On  every  face  a  death-like  glimmer  sate, 
The  unbless'd  harbinger  of  instant  fate.      [spires, 
High  through  the  gloom,  in  pale  and  dreadful 
Rose  the  long  terrors  of  the  dark-red  fires ; 
Torches,  and  torrent  sparks,  by  whirlwinds  driven, 
Stream'd  through  the  smoke,  and  fired  the  clouded 

heaven ; 

As  oft  tall  turrets  sunk,  with  rushing  sound, 
Broad  flames  burst  forth,  and  sweep  the  ethereal 

round  ; 

The  bright  expansion  lighten'd  all  the  scene, 
And  deeper  shadows  lengthen'd  o'er  the  green. 
Loud  through  the  walls,  that  cast  a  golden  gleam, 
Crown'd  with  tall  pyramids  of  bending  flame, 
As  thunders  rumble  down  the  darkening  vales, 
Roll'd  the  deep,  solemn  voice  of  rushing  gales : 
The  bands,  admiring,  saw  the  wondrous  sight, 
And  expectation  trembled  for  the  fight. 

At  once  the  sounding  clarion  breathed  alarms ; 
Wide  from  the  forest  burst  the  flash  of  arms ; 
Thick  gleam'd  the  helms ;  and  o'er  astonish'd  fields, 
Like  thousand  meteors  rose  the  flame-bright  shields. 
In  gloomy  pomp,  to  furious  combat  roll'd     [gold  ; 
Ranks  sheath'd  in  mail,  and  chiefs  in  glimmering 
In  floating  lustre  bounds  the  dim-seen  steed, 
And  cars  unfinish'd,  swift  to  cars  succeed : 
From  all  the  host  ascends  a  dark-red  glare, 
Here  in  full  blaze,  in  distant  twinklings  there ; 

*  From  "  Greenfield  Hill." 

t  This  and  the  three  following  estracts  are  from  "  The 
Conquest  of  Canaan." 


Slow  waves  the  dreadful  light,  as  round  the  shore 
Night's  solemn  blasts  with  deep  confusion  roar : 
So  rush'd  the  footsteps  of  the  embattled  train, 
And  send  an  awful  murmur  o'er  the  plain. 

Tall  in  the  opposing  van,  bold  IRAD  stood, 
And  bid  the  clarion  sound  the  voice  of  blood. 
Loud  blew  the  trumpet  on  the  sweeping  gales, 
Rock'd  the  deep  groves,  and  echoed  round  the  vales ; 
A  ceaseless  murmur  all  the  concave  fills, 
Waves  through  the  quivering  camp,  and  trembles 

o'er  the  hills. 

High  in  the  gloomy  blaze  the  standards  flew ; 
The  impatient  youth  his  burnish'd  falchion  drew ; 
Ten  thousand  swords  his  eager  bands  display'd, 
And  crimson  terrors  danced  on  every  blade. 
With  equal  rage,  the  bold,  Ha/orian  train 
Pour'd  a  wide  deluge  o'er  the  shadowy  plain  ; 
Loud  rose  the  songs  of  war,  loud  clang'd  the  shields, 
Dread  shouts  of  vengeance  shook  the  shuddering 

fields ; 

With  mingled  din,  shrill,  martial  music  rings, 
And  swift  to  combat  each  fierce  hero  springs. 
So  broad,  and  dark,  a  midnight  storm  ascends, 
Bursts  on  the  main,  and  trembling  nature  rends ; 
The  red  foam  burns,  the  watery  mountains  rise, 
One  deep,  unmeasured  thunder  heaves  the  skies ; 
The  bark  drives  lonely ;  shivering  and  forlorn, 
The  poor,  sad  sailors  wish  the  lingering  morn : 
Not  with  less  fury  rush'd  the  vengeful  train ; 
Not  with  less  tumult  roar'd  the  embattled  plain. 
Now  in  the  oak's  black  shade  they  fought  conceal'd ; 
And  now  they  shouted  through  the  open  field'; 
The  long,  pale  splendours  of  the  curling  flame 
Cast  o'er  their  polish'd  arms  a  livid  gleam  ; 
An  umber'd  lustre  floated  round  their  way, 
And  lighted  falchions  to  the  fierce  affray. 
Now  the  swift  chariots  'gainst  the  stubborn  oak 
Dash'd ;  and  the  earth  re-echoes  to  the  shock. 
From  shade  to  shade  the  forms  tremendous  stream, 
And  their  arms  flash  a  momentary  flame. 
Mid  hollow  tombs  as  fleets  an  airy  train, 
Lost  in  the  skies,  or  fading  o'er  the  plain ; 
So  visionary  shapes,  around  the  fight, 
Shoot  through  the  gloom,  and  vanish  from  the  sight ; 
Through  twilight  paths  the  maddening  coursers 

bound, 

The  shrill  swords  crack, the  clashing  shields  resound. 
There,  lost  in  grandeur,  might  the  eye  behold 
The  dark-red  glimmerings  of  the  steel  and  gold ; 
The  chief;  the  steed ;  the  nimbly-rushing  car ; 
And  all  the  horrors  of  the  gloomy  war. 
Here  the  thick  clouds,  with  purple  lustre  bright, 
Spread  o'er  the  long,  long  host,  and  gradual  sunk 

in  night ; 

Here  half  the  world  was  wrapp'd  in  rolling  fires, 
And  dreadful  valleys  sunk  between  the  spires. 
Swift  ran  black  forms  across  the  livid  flame, 
And  oaks  waved  slowly  in  the  trembling  beam : 
Loud  rose  the  mingled  noise ;  with  hollow  sound, 
Deep  rolling  whirlwinds   roar,  and  thundering 

flames  resound. 

As  drives  a  blast  along  the  midnight  heath, 
Rush'd  raging  IRAD  on  the  scenes  of  death ; 
High  o'er  his  shoulder  gleam'd  his  brandish'd  blade, 
And  scatter'd  ruin  round  the  twilight  shade. 


48 


TIMOTHY   DWIGHT. 


Full  on  a  giant  hero's  sweeping  car 
He  pour'd  the  tempest  of  resistless  war; 
His  twinkling  lance  the  heathen  raised  on  high, 
And  hurl'd  it,  fruitless,  through  the  gloomy  sky  ; 
From  the  bold  youth  the  maddening  coursers  wheel, 
Gash'd  by  the  vengeance  of  his  slaughtering  steel ; 
'Twixt  two  tall  oaks  the  helpless  chief  they  drew ; 
The  shrill  car  dash'd  ;  the  crack'd  wheels  rattling 

flew ; 

Crush'd  in  his  arms,  to  rise  he  strove  in  vain, 
And  lay  unpitied  on  the  dreary  plain. 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  SELIMA. 


thou  forget,  when,  call'd  from  southern 

bowers, 
Love  tuned  the  groves,  and  spring  awaked  the 

flowers, 

How,  loosed  from  slumbers  by  the  morning  ray, 
O'er  balmy  plains  we  bent  our  frequent  way  1 
On  thy  fond  arm,  with  pleasing  gaze,  I  hung, 
And  heard  sweet  music  murmur  o'er  thy  tongue  ; 
Hand  lock'd  in  hand,  with  gentle  ardour  press'd, 
Pour'd  soft  emotions  through  the  heaving  breast  ; 
In  magic  transport  heart  with  heart  entwined, 
And  in  sweet  languor  lost  the  melting  mind. 

'T  was  then  thy  voice,  attuned  to  wisdom's  lay, 
Show'd  fairer  worlds,  and  traced  the  immortal  way  ; 
In  virtue's  pleasing  paths  my  footsteps  tried, 
My  sweet  companion  and  my  skilful  guide  ; 
Through  varied  knowledge  taught  my  mind  to  soar, 
Search  hidden  truths,  and  new-found  walks  explore  : 
While  still  the  tale,  by  nature  learn'd  to  rove, 
Slid,  unperceived,  to  scenes  of  happy  love. 
Till,  weak  and  lost,  the  faltering  converse  fell, 
And  eyes  disclosed  what  eyes  alone  could  tell  ; 
In  rapturous  tumult  bade  the  passions  roll, 
And  spoke  the  living  language  of  the  soul. 
With  what  fond  hope,  through  many  a  blissful  hour, 
We  gave  the  soul  to  fancy's  pleasing  power  ; 
Lost  in  the  magic  of  that  sweet  employ 
To  build  gay  scenes,  and  fashion  future  joy  ! 
We  saw  mild  peace  o'er  fair  Canaan  rise, 
And  shower  her  pleasures  from  benignant  skies. 
On  airy  hills  our  happy  mansion  rose, 
Built  but  for  joy,  nor  room  reserved  for  woes. 
Round  the  calm  solitude,  with  ceaseless  song, 
Soft  roll'd  domestic  ecstasy  along  : 
Sweet  as  the  sleep  of  innocence,  the  day, 
By  raptures  number'd,  lightly  danced  away  : 
To  love,  to  bliss,  the  blended  soul  was  given, 
And  each,  too  happy,  ask'd  no  brighter  heaven. 
Yet  then,  even  then,  my  trembling  thoughts  would 

rove, 

And  steal  an  hour  from  IRAD,  and  from  love, 
Through  dread  futurity  all  anxious  roam, 
And  cast  a  mournful  glance  on  ills  to  come.  .  .  . 
And  must  the  hours  in  ceaseless  anguish  roll  ? 
Must  no  soft  sunshine  cheer  my  clouded  soul  1 
Spring  charm  around  me  brightest  scenes,  in  vain, 
And  youth's  angelic  visions  wake  to  pain"! 
O,  come  once  more  ;  with  fond  endearments  come  ! 
Burst  the  cold  prison  of  the  sullen  tomb  ; 


Through  favourite  walks  thy  chosen  maid  attend, 
Where  well  known  shades  for  thee  their  branches 

bend; 

Shed  the  sweet  poison  from  thy  speaking  eye, 
And  look  those  raptures  lifeless  words  deny ! 
Still  be  the  tale  rehearsed,  that  ne'er  could  tire, 
But,  told  each  eve,  fresh  pleasure  could  inspire ; 
Still  hoped  those  scenes  which  love  and  fancy  drew, 
But,  drawn  a  thousand  times,  were  ever  new ! 

Again  all  bright  shall  glow  the  morning  beam, 
Again  soft  suns  dissolve  the  frozen  stream, 
Spring  call  young  breezes  from  the  southern  skies, 
And,  clothed  in  splendour,  flowery  millions  rise — 
In  vain  to  thee !    No  morn's  indulgent  ray 
Warms  the  cold  mansion  of  thy  slumbering  clay. 
No  mild,  ethereal  gale,  with  tepid  wing, 
Shall  fan  thy  locks,  or  waft  approaching  spring : 
Unfelt,  unknown,  shall  breathe  the  rich  perfume, 
And  unheard  music  wave  around  thy  tomb. 

A  cold,  dumb,  dead  repose  invests  thee  round ; 
Still  as  a  void,  ere  Nature  form'd  a  sound. 
O'er  thy  dark  region,  pierced  by  no  kind  ray, 
Slow  roll  the  long,  oblivious  hours  away. 
In  these  wide  walks,  this  solitary  round, 
Where  the  pale  moonbeam  lights  the  glimmering 

ground, 

At  each  sad  turn,  I  view  thy  spirit  come, 
And  glide,  half-seen,  behind  a  neighbouring  tomb ; 
With  visionary  hand,  forbid  my  stay, 
Look  o'er  the  grave,  and  beckon  me  away. 


PREDICTION  TO   JOSHUA    RELATIVE 
TO   AMERICA. 

FAR  o'er  yon  azure  main  thy  view  extend, 
Where  seas  and  skies  in  blue  confusion  blend : 
Lo,  there  a  mighty  realm,  by  Heaven  design'd 
The  last  retreat  for  poor,  oppress'd  mankind ; 
Form'd  with  that  pomp  which  marks  the  hand 

divine, 
And  clothes  yon  vault  where  worlds  unnumber'd 

shine. 

Here  spacious  plains  in  solemn  grandeur  spread, 
Here  cloudy  forests  cast  eternal  shade ; 
Rich  valleys  wind,  the  sky-tall  mountains  brave, 
And  inland  seas  for  commerce  spread  the  wave. 
With  nobler  floods  the  sea-like  rivers  roll, 
And  fairer  lustre  purples  round  the  pole. 
Here,  warm'd  by  happy  suns,  gay  mines  unfold 
The  useful  iron  and  the  lasting  gold ; 
Pure,  changing  gems  in  silence  learn  to  glow, 
And  mock  the  splendours  of  the  covenant  bow. 
On  countless  hills,  by  savage  footsteps  trod, 
That  smile  to  see  the  future  harvest  nod, 
In  glad  succession  plants  unnumber'd  bloom, 
And  flowers  unnumber'd  breathe  a  rich  perfume. 
Hence  life  once  more  a  length  of  days  shall  claim, 
And  health,  reviving,  light  her  purple  flame. 
Far  from  all  realms  this  world  imperial  lies, 
Seas  roll  between,  and  threat'ning  tempests  rise. 
Alike  removed  beyond  ambition's  pale, 
And  the  bold  pinions  of  the  venturous  sail ; 


TIMOTHY   DWIGHT. 


49 


Till  circling  years  the  destined  period  bring, 
And  a  new  MOSKS  lift  the  daring  wing, 
Through  trackless  seas  an  unknown  flight  explores, 
And  hails  a  new  Canaan's  promised  shores. 
On  yon  far  strand  behold  that  little  train 
Ascending  venturous  o'er  the  unmeasured  main ; 
No  dangers  fright,  no  ills  the  course  delay ; 
'Tis  virtue  prompts,  and  God  directs  the  way. 
Speed — speed,  ye  sons  of  truth !  let  Heaven  befriend, 
Let  angels  waft  you,  and  let  peace  attend. 
O  !  smile,  thou  sky  serene  ;  ye  storms,  retire ; 
And  airs  of  Eden  every  sail  inspire. 
Swift  o'er  the  main  behold  the  canvass  fly, 
And  fade  and  fade  beneath  the  farthest  sky ; 
See  verdant  fields  the  changing  waste  unfold ; 
See  sudden  harvests  dress  the  plains  in  gold; 
In  lofty  walls  the  moving  rocks  ascend, 
And  dancing  woods  to  spires  and  temples  bend.  .  . 
Here  empire's  last  and  brightest  throne  shall  rise, 
And  Peace,  and  Right,  and  Freedom  greet  the 

skies ; 

To  morn's  far  realms  her  trading  ships  shall  sail, 
Or  lift  their  canvass  to  the  evening  gale : 
In  wisdom's  walks  her  sons  ambitious  soar, 
Tread  starry  fields,  and  untried  scenes  explore. 
And,  hark !  what  strange,  what  solemn  breaking 

strain 

Swells,  wildly  murmuring,  o'er  the  far,  far  main ! 
Down  Time's  long,  lessening  vale  the  notes  decay, 
And,  lost  in  distant  ages,  roll  away. 


EVENING  AFTER  A  BATTLE. 

ABOVE  tall  western  hills,  the  light  of  day 
Shot  far  the  splendours  of  his  golden  ray ; 
Bright  from  the  storm,  with  tenfold  grace  he  smiled, 
The  tumult  soften'd,  and  the  world  grew  mild. 
With  pomp  transcendent,  robed  in  heavenly  dyes, 
Arch'd  the  clear  rainbow  round  the  orient  skies ; 
|    Its  changeless  form,  its  hues  of  beam  divine — 
Fair  type  of  truth  and  beauty — endless  shine 
Around  the  expanse,  with  thousand  splendours  rare; 
Gay  clouds  sail  wanton  through  the  kindling  air; 
From  shade  to  shade  unnumber'd  tinctures  blend, 
Unnumber'd  forms  of  wondrous  light  extend; 
In  pride  stupendous,  glittering  walls  aspire, 
Graced  with  bright  domes,  and  crown'd  with  towers 

of  fire; 

On  cliffs  cliffs  burn ;  o'er  mountains  mountains  roll : 
A  burst  of  glory  spreads  from  pole  to  pole  : 
Rapt  with  the  splendour,  every  songster  sings, 
Tops  the  high  bough,  and  claps  his  glistening  wings ; 
With  new-born  green  reviving  nature  bloomsy 
And  sweeter  fragrance  freshening  air  perfumes. 

Far  south  the  storm  withdrew  its  troubled  reign, 
Descending  twilight  dimm'd  the  dusky  plain ; 
Black  night  arose,   ...er  curtains  hid  the  ground : 
Less  roar'd,  and  less,  the  thunder's  solemn  sound ; 
The  bended  lightning  shot  a  brighter  stream,  _ 
Or  wrapp'd  all  heaven  in  one  wide,  mantling  flame ; 
By  turns,  o'er  plains,  and  woods,  and  mountains 

spread 
Faint,  yellow  glimmerings,  and  a  deeper  shade. 


From  parting  clouds,  the  moon  out-breaking  shone, 
And  sate,  sole  empress,  on  her  silver  throne ; 
In  clear,  full  beauty,  round  all  nature  smiled, 
And  claimed,  o'er  heaven  and  earth,  dominion  mild; 
With  humbler  glory,  stars  her  court  attend, 
And  bless'd,  and  union'd,  silent  lustre  blend. 


COLUMBIA. 

COLUMBIA,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world  and  the  child  of  the  skies; 
Thy  genius  commands  tb.ee ;  with  rapture  behold, 
While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendours  unfold. 
Thy  reign  is  the  last  and  the  noblest  of  time ; 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime ; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy  name ; 
Be  freedom  and  science,  and  virtue  thy  fame. 

To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire ; 
Whelm  nations  in  blood  and  wrap  cities  in  fire; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend, 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm ;  for  a  world  be  thy  laws, 
Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause ; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the  skies. 

Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar, 
And  the  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams  of  her 

star; 

New  bards  and  new  sages,  unrivall'd,  shall  soar 
To  fame,  unextinguish'd  when  time  is  no  more ; 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  design'd, 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind  ; 
Here,  grateful,  to  Heaven  with  transport  shall  bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odours  of  spring. 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory  ascend, 
And  genius  and  beauty  in  harmony  blend ; 
The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desire, 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  the  fire: 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners  refined, 
And  virtue's  bright  image  enstamp'd  on  the  mind, 
With  peace  and  soft  rapture  shall  teach  life  to  glow, 
And  light  up  a  smile  in  the  aspect  of  wo. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire,  and  the  ocean  obey  ; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold, 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices  and 

gold. 
As  the  day-spring  unbounded,  thy  splendour  shall 

flow, 

And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall  bow, 
V/hile  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurl'd, 
Hush  the  tumult  of  war,  and  give  peace  to  the  world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'erspread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively  stray'd — 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired, 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur,  the  thunders  expired ; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flovv'd  sweetly  along, 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung : 
"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies." 
E 


DAVID    HUMPHREYS. 


[Born  1753.    Died  181?.] 


DAVID  HUMPHREYS,  LL.  D.,  was  the  son  of  a 
Congregational  clergyman,  at  Derby,  in  Con- 
necticut, where  he  was  born  in  1753.  He  was 
educated  at  Yale  College,  with  DWIGHT,  THUM- 
BULL,  and  BARLOW,  and  soon  after  being  gradu- 
ated, in  1771,  joined  the  revolutionary  array, 
under  General  PARSOXS,  with  the  rank  of  cap- 
tain. He  was  for  several  years  attached  to  the 
staff  of  General  PUTXAM,  and  in  1780  was  ap- 
pointed aid-de-camp  to  General  WASHIXGTOX, 
with  the  rank  of  colonel.  He  continued  in  the 
military  family  of  the  commander-in-chief  until 
the  close  of  the  war,  enjoying  his  friendship  and 
confidence,  and  afterward  accompanied  him  to 
Mount  Vernon,  where  he  remained  until  1784, 
when  he  went  abroad  with  FRAXKLIX,  ADAMS, 
and  JEFFEHSOX,  who  were  appointed  commis- 
sioners to  negotiate  treaties  of  commerce  with 
foreign  powers,  as  their  secretary  of  legation.* 
Soon  after  his  return  to  the  United  States,  in 
1786,  he  was  elected  by  the  citizens  of  his  native 
town  a  member  of  the  Legislature  of  Connecticut, 
and  by  that  body  was  appointed  to  command  a 
regiment  to  be  raised  by  order  of  the  national 
government.  On  receiving  his  commission,  Co- 
lonel HUMPHREYS  established  his  head-quarters 
and  recruiting  rendezvous  at  Hartford ;  and  there 
renewed  his  intimacy  with  his  old  friends  TRUM- 
BULL  and  BARLOW,  with  whom,  and  Doctor 
LEMUEL  HOPKINS,  he  engaged  in  writing  the 
"  Anarchiad,"  a  political  satire,  in  imitation  of  the 
"  Rolliad,"  a  work  attributed  to  SHERIDAX  and 
others,  which  he  had  seen  in  London.  He  re- 
tained his  commission  until  the  suppression  of 
the  insurrection  in  1787,  and  in  the  following 
year  accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  Mount  Vernon, 
where  he  continued  to  reside  until  he  was  ap- 
pointed minister  to  Portugal,  in  1790.  He  re- 
mained in  Lisbon  seven  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  period  he  was  transferred  to  the  court  of 
Madrid,  and  in  1802,  when  Mr.  PIXCKXEY  was 
made  minister  to  Spain,  returned  to  the  United 
States.  From  1802  to  1812,  he  devoted  his 
attention  to  agricultural  and  manufacturing  pur- 
suits ;  and  on  the  breaking  out  of  the  second  war 

*  In  a  letter  to  Doctor  FRANKLIN,  written  soon  after 
the  appointment  of  HUMPHREYS  to  this  office,  General 
WASHINGTON,  says :  "  His  zeal  in  the  cause  of  his 
country,  his  pood  sense,  prudence,  and  attachment  to 
me,  have  rendered  him  dear  to  me;  and  I  persuade  my- 
self you  will  find  no  confidence  which  you  may  think 
proper  to  repose  in  him,  misplaced.  He  possesses  an 
excellent  heart,  good  natural  and  acquired  abilities,  and 
sterling  integrity,  as  well  as  sobriety,  and  an  obliging 
disposition.  A  full  conviction  of  his  possessing  all  these 
good  qualities  makes  me  less  scrupulous  of  recommend- 
ing him  to  your  patronage  and  friendship."— SPAKKS'S 
Life  of  jyas/iinffton,  vol.  is.  p.  40. 


with  Great  Britain,  was  appointed  commander  of 
the  militia  of  Connecticut,  with  the  rank  of  bri- 
gadier-general. His  public  services  terminated 
with  the  limitation  of  that  appointment.  He 
died  at  New  Haven,  on  the  twenty-first  day  of 
February,  1818,  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 
The  principal  poems  of  Colonel  HUMPHREYS 
are  an  "Address  to  the  Armies  of  the  United 
States,"  written  in  1772,  while  he  was  in  the 
army ;  "  A  Poem  on  the  Happiness  of  America," 
written  during  his  residence  in  London  and  Paris, 
as  secretary  of  legation ;  "  The  Widow  of  Main- 
bar,  or  The  Tyranny  of  Custom,  a  Tragedy,  imi- 
tated from  the  French  of  M.  LE  MIERRE,"  writ- 
ten at  Mount  Vernon ;  and  a  "  Poem  on  Agri- 
culture," written  while  he  was  minister  at  the 
court  of  Lisbon.  The  "  Address  to  the  Armies 
of  the  United  States"  passed  through  many  edi- 
tions in  this  country  and  in  Europe,  and  was 
translated  into  the  French  language  by  the  Mar- 
quis de  CHATELLUX,  and  favourably  noticed  in 
the  Parisian  gazettes.  The  "  Poem  on  the  Hap- 
piness of  America"  was  reprinted  nine  times  in 
three  years ;  and  the  "  Widow  of  Malabar"  is 
said,  in  the  dedication  of  it  to  the  author  of 
"McFingal,"  to  have  met  with  "extraordinary 
success"  on  the  stage.  The  "  Miscellaneous  Works 
of  Colonel  HUMPHREYS"  were  published  in  an 
octavo  volume,  in  New  York,  in  1790,  and  again 
in  1804.  The  Works  contain,  besides  the  authors 
poems,  an  interesting  biography  of  his  early  friend 
and  commander,  General  PUTNAM,  and  several 
orations  and  other  prose  compositions.  They 
are  dedicated  to  the  Duke  de  ROCIIEFOUCAULT,  who 
had  been  his  intimate  friend  in  France.  In  the 
dedication  he  says :  "  In  presenting  for  your 
amusement  the  trifles  which  have  been  composed 
during  my  leisure  hours,  I  assume  nothing  be- 
yond the  negative  merit  of  not  having  ever  writ- 
ten any  thing  unfavourable  to  the  interests  of  re- 
ligion, humanity,  and  virtue."  He  seems  to  have 
aimed  only  at  an  elegant  mediocrity,  and  his 
pieces  are  generally  simple  and  correct,  in  thought 
and  language.  He  was  one  of  the  "  four  bards 
with  Scripture  names,"  satirized  in  some  verses 
published  in  London,  commencing 

"  David  and  Jonathan,  Joel  and  Timothy, 
Over  the  water,  set  up  the  hymn  of  the" — etc., 

and  is  generally  classed  among  the  "poets  of  the 
Revolution."  The  popularity  he  enjoyed  while 
he  lived,  and  his  connection  with  Tut-MuuLL, 
BARLOW,  and  DWIGHT,  justify  the  introduction 
of  a  sketch  of  his  history  and  writings  into  this 
volume.  The  following  extracts  exhibit  his  style. 
The  first  alludes  to  the  departure  of  the  British 
fleet  from  New  York. 

50 


DAVID  HUMPHREYS. 


51 


ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PEACE. 

E'EN  now,  from  half  the  threaten'd  horrors  freed, 
See  from  our  shores  the  lessening  sails  recede; 
See  the  proud  flags  that,  to  the  wind  unfurl'd, 
Waved  in  proud  triumph  round  avanquish'd  world, 
Inglorious  fly ;  and  see  their  haggard  crew, 
Despair,  shame,  rage,  and  infamy  pursue. 

Hail,  heaven-born  peace !  thy  grateful  blessings  pour 
On  this  glad  land,  and  round  the  peopled  shore ; 
Thine  are  the  joys  that  gild  the  happy  scene, 
Propitious  days,  and  happy  nights  serene  ; 
With  thee  gay  Pleasure  frolics  o'er  the  plain, 
And  smiling  Plenty  leads  the  prosperous  train. 

Then,  0  blest  land !  with  genius  unconfined, 
With  polish'd  manners,  and  the  illumined  mind, 
Thy  future  race  on  daring  wing  shall  soar, 
Each  science  trace,  and  all  the  arts  explore. 
Till  bright  religion,  beckoning  to  the  skies, 
Shall  bid  thy  sons  to  endless  glory  rise. 


WESTERN  EMIGRATION. 

WITH  all  that 's  ours,  together  let  us  rise, 
Seek  brighter  plains,  and  more  indulgent  skies ; 
Where  fair  Ohio  rolls  his  amber  tide, 
And  nature  blossoms  in  her  virgin  pride; 
Where  all  that  Beauty's  hand  can  form  to  please 
Shall  crown  the  toils  of  war  with  rural  ease. 

The  shady  coverts  and  the  sunny  hills, 
The  gentle  lapse  of  ever-murmuring  rills, 
The  soft  repose  amid  the  noontide  bowers, 
The  evening  walk  among  the  blushing  flowers, 
The  fragrant  groves,  that  yield  a  sweet  perfume, 
And  vernal  glories  in  perpetual  bloom 
Await  you  there ;  and  heaven  shall  bless  the  toil : 
Your  own  the  produce,  and  your  own  the  soil. 

There,  free  from  envy,  cankering  care  and  strife, 
Flow  the  calm  pleasures  of  domestic  life ; 
There  mutual  friendship  soothes  each  placid  breast : 
Blest  in  themselves,  and  in  each  other  blest. 
From  house  to  house  the  social  glee  extends, 
For  friends  in  war  in  peace  are  doubly  friends. 

There  cities  rise,  and  spiry  towns  increase, 
With  gilded  domes  and  every  art  of  peace. 
There  Cultivation  shall  extend  his  power, 
Rear  the  green  blade,  and  nurse  the  tender  flower ; 
Make  the  fair  villa  in  full  splendours  smile, 
And  robe  with  verdure  all  the  genial  soil. 
There  shall  rich  Commerce  court  the  favouring  gales, 
And  wondering  wilds  admire  the  passing  sails, 
Where  the  bold  ships  the  stormy  Huron  brave, 
Where  wild  Ontario  rolls  the  whitening  wave, 
Where  fair  Ohio  his  pure  current  pours, 
And  Mississippi  laves  the  extended  shores. 
And  thou  Supreme !  whose  hand  sustains  this  ball, 
Before  whose  nod  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Propitious  smile,  and  shed  diviner  charms 
On  this  blest  land,  the  queen  of  arts  and  arms ; 
Make  the  great  empire  rise  on  wisdom's  plan, 
The  seat  of  bliss,  and  last  retreat  of  man. 


AMERICAN  WINTER. 


THEX  doubling  clouds  the  wintry  skies  deform, 
And,  wrapt  in  vapour,  comes  the  roaring  storm ; 
With  snows  surcharged,  from  tops  of  mountains 

sails, 

Loads  leafless  trees,  and  fills  the  whiten'd  vales. 
Then  Desolation  strips  the  faded  plains, 
Then  tyrant  Death  o'er  vegetation  reigns ; 
The  birds  of  heaven  to  other  climes  repair, 
And  deepening  glooms  invade  the  turbid  air. 
Nor  then,  unjoyous,  winter's  rigours  come, 
But  find  them  happy  and  content  with  home ; 
Their  granaries  fill'd — the  task  of  culture  past — 
Warm  at  their  fire,  they  hear  the  howling  blast, 
While  pattering  rain  and  snow,  or  driving  sleet, 
Rave  idly  loud,  and  at  their  window  beat : 
Safe  from  its  rage,  regardless  of  its  roar, 
In  vain  the  tempest  rattles  at  the  door. 
'Tis  then  the  time  from  hoarding  cribs  to  feed 
The  ox  laborious,  and  the  noble  steed ; 
'Tis  then  the  time  to  tend  the  bleating  fold, 
To  strew  with  litter,  and  to  fence  from  cold. 
The  cattle  fed,  the  fuel  piled  within, 
At  setting  day  the  blissful  hours  begin ; 
'Tis  then,  sole  owner  of  his  little  cot, 
The  farmer  feels  his  independent  lot ; 
Hears,  with  the  crackling  blaze  that  lights  the  wall, 
The  voice  of  gladness  and  of  nature  call; 
Beholds  his  children  play,  their  mother  smile, 
And  tastes  with  them  the  fruit  of  summer's  toil. 
From  stormy  heavens  the  mantling  clouds  unroll'd, 
The  sky  is  bright,  the  air  serenely  cold. 
The  keen  north-west,  that  heaps  the  drifted  snows, 
For  months  entire  o'er  frozen  regions  blows ; 
Man  braves  his  blast ;  his  gelid  breath  inhales, 
And  feels  more  vigorous  as  the  frost  prevails. 


REVOLUTIONARY  SOLDIERS. 


O,  WHAT  avails  to  trace  the  fate  of  war 
Through  fields  of  blood,  and  paint  each  glorious 

scar ! 

Why  should  the  strain  your  former  woes  recall, 
The  tears  that  wept  a  friend's  or  brother's  fall, 
When  by  your  side,  first  in  the  adventurous  strife, 
He  dauntless  rush'd,  too  prodigal  of  life ! 
Enough  of  merit  has  each  honour'd  name, 
To  shine  untarnish'd  on  the  rolls  of  fame, 
To  stand  the  example  of  each  distant  age, 
And  add  new  lustre  to  the  historic  page ; 
For  soon  their  deeds  illustrious  shall  be  shown 
In  breathing  bronze  or  animated  stone, 
Or  where  the  canvass,  starting  into  life, 
Revives  the  glories  of  the  crimson  strife. 
And  soon  some  bard  shall  tempt  the  untried  themes, 
Sing  how  we  dared,  in  fortune's  worst  extremes ; 
What  cruel  wrongs  the  indignant  patriot  bore, 
What  various  ills  your  feeling  bosoms  tore, 
What  boding  terrors  gloom'd  the  threatening  hour, 
When  British  legions,  arm'd  with  death-like  power, 
Bade  desolation  mark  their  crimson'd  way, 
And  lured  the  savage  to  his  destined  prey. 


JOEL    BARLOW. 


[Born  1755.    Died  1812.] 


THE  author  of  the  "  Columbiad"  was  born  in 
the  village  of  Reading,  in  Connecticut,  in  1755. 
He  was  the  youngest  in  a  family  of  ten,  and  his 
father  died  while  he  was  yet  a  child,  leaving  to 
him  property  sufficient  only  to  defray  the  costs  of 
his  education.  On  the  completion  of  his  prepara- 
tory studies  he  was  placed  by  his  guardians  at 
Dartmouth  College,  but  was  soon  induced  to  re- 
move to  New  Haven,  where  he  was  graduated,  in 
1778.  Among  his  friends  here  were  DWIGHT, 
then  a  college  tutor,  Colonel  HUMPHREYS,  a  re- 
volutionary bard  of  some  reputation,  and  TRUM- 
BULL,  the  author  of  "  McFingal."  BARLOW 
recited  an  original  poem,  on  taking  his  bachelor's 
degree,  which  is  preserved  in  the  "  American 
Poems,"  printed  at  Litchfield  in  1793.  It  was 
his  first  attempt  of  so  ambitious  a  character,  and 
possesses  little  merit.  During  the  vacations  of  the 
college  he  had  on  several  occasions  joined  the 
army,  in  which  four  of  his  brothers  were  serving ; 
and  he  participated  in  the  conflict  at  White  Plains, 
and  a  number  of  minor  engagements,  in  which  he 
is  said  to  have  displayed  much  intrepidity. 

For  a  short  time  after  completing  his  academic 
course,  BARLOW  devoted  his  attention  chiefly  to 
the  law ;  but  being  urged  by  his  friends  to  qualify 
himself  for  the  office  of  chaplain,  he  undertook  the 
study  of  theology,  and  in  six  weeks  became  a 
licensed  minister.  He  joined  the  army  immediately, 
and  remained  with  it  until  the  establishment  of 
peace,  cultivating  the  while  his  taste  for  poetry,  by 
writing  patriotic  songs  and  ballads,  and  composing, 
in  part,  his  "  Vision  of  Columbus,"  afterward  ex- 
panded into  the  "  Columbiad."  When  the  army 
was  disbanded,  in  1783,  he  removed  to  Hartford, 
to  resume  his  legal  studies;  and  to  add  to  his 
revenue  established  "The  Mercury,"  a  weekly 
gazette,  to  which  his  writings  gave  reputation  and 
an  immediate  circulation.  He  had  previously 
married  at  New  Haven  a  daughter  of  the  Honour- 
able ABRAHAM  BALDWIN,  and  had  lost  his  early 
patron  and  friend,  the  Honourable  TITUS  HOSMF.R, 
on  whom  he  wrote  an  elegant  elegy.  In  1785  he 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  in  the  same  year,  in 
compliance  with  the  request  of  an  association  of 
Congregational  ministers,  he  prepared  and  publish- 
ed an  enlarged  and  improved  edition  of  WATTS'S 
version  of  the  Psalms,*  to  which  were  appended  a 


*  Of  the  psalms  omitted  by  WATTS  and  included  in 
this  edition,  only  the  eighty-eighth  and  one  hundred  and. 
thirty-seventh  were  paraphrased  by  BARLOW.  His  ver- 
sion of  the  latter  added  much  to  his  reputation,  and  has 
been  considered  the  finest  translation  of  the  words  of 
DAVID  that  has  been  written,  though  they  have  received 
a  metrical  dress  from  some  of  the  best  poets  of  England 
and  America.  Recently  the  origin  of  this  paraphrase 
has  been  a  subject  of  controversy,  but  a  memorandum 
found  among  the  papers  of  the  late  Judge  TRVMBILL, 
52 


collection  of  hymns,  several  of  which  weie  written 
by  himself. 

"The  Vision  of  Columbus"  was  published  in 
1787.  It  was  dedicated  to  Louis  XVI.,  with 
strong  expressions  of  admiration  and  gratitude, 
and  in  the  poem  were  corresponding  passages  of 
applause;  but  BAH  LOW'S  feelings  toward  the 
amiable  and  unfortunate  monarch  appear  to  have 
changed  in  after  time,  for  in  the  "  Columbiad"  he  is 
coldly  alluded  to,  and  the  adulatory  lines  are  sup- 
pressed. The -"Vision  of  Columbus"  was  re- 
printed in  London  and  Paris,  and  was  generally 
noticed  favourably  in  the  reviews.  After  its  pub- 
lication the  author  relinquished  his  newspaper  and 
established  a  bookstore,  principally  to  sell  the 
poem  and  his  edition  of  the  Psalms,  and  as  soon 
as  this  end  was  attained,  resumed  the  practice  of 
the  law.  In  this  he  was,  however,  unfortunate,  for 
his  forensic  abilities  were  not  of  the  most  popular 
description,  and  his  mind  was  too  much  devoted 
to  political  and  literary  subjects  to  admit  of  the 
application  to  study  and  attention  to  business 
necessary  to  secure  success.  He  was  engaged 
with  Colonel  HUMPHREYS,  Jons  TRUMBULL,  and 
Dr.  LEMUEL  HOPKIXS,  a  man  of  some  wit,  of  the 
coarser  kind,  in  the  "  Anarchiad,"  a  satirical  poem 
published  at  Hartford,  which  had  considerable 
political  influence,  and  in  some  other  works  of 
a  similar  description ;  but,  obtaining  slight  pe- 
cuniary advantage  from  his  literary  labours,  he 
was  induced  to  accept  a  foreign  agency  from 
the  "  Sciota  Land  Company,"  and  sailed  for  Eu- 
rope, with  his  family,  in  1788.  In  France  he 
sold  some  of  the  lands  held  by  this  association,  but 
deriving  little  or  no  personal  benefit  from  the  trans- 
actions, and  becoming  aware  of  the  fraudulent 
character  of  the  company,  he  relinquished  his 
agency  and  determined  to  rely  on  his  pen  for  support. 

who  aided  in  the  preparation  of  the  Connecticut  edition 
of  WATTS,  settles  the  question  in  favour  of  BARLOW 
The  following  is  the  version  to  which  we  have  alluded: 

THE   BABYLONIAN   CAPTIVITY. 

Alonz  the  banks  where  Babel's  current  flows, 
Our  captive  bands  in  <1e--p  despondence  stray'd  : 

Where  Z.ou's  fall  in  si  1  n-meml.rince  rrae,— 
Her  frienJs,  her  cinUren,  nm^Ie-I  with  the  dead. 

The  tuneful  harp  th.it  once  with  joy  we  strun", 
VVIieu  l-raise  employ'd  and  mirth  insp.rej  the  lay, 

In  mournful  s'.l.-nce  nu  the  willows  hum;, 
And  growing  grief  prolong'd  the  tedious  day. 

Our  proud  oppressors,  to  increase  our  wo, 

Bid  sacred  praise  in  strains  melodious  flow. 

While  they  blaspheme  the  great  Jehovah's  name. 

Bo"  how.  in  heathen  chains,  and  lands  unknown, 

Shall  Israel's  son?  the  sacred  anthetnt  raise  ? 
O  haplei<  S  Jem '.  God's  terrestrial  throne, 

Thou  land  of  glory,  sacrej  mount  of  praise  ! 
If  e'er  my  memory  lose  thy  lovely  name, 

If  my  cnl.l  heart  nejlrct'my  kindred  race, 
Let  dire  destruct:on  seize  this'guilty  frame! 

My  hinds  shall  perish  and  my  voice  shall  cease  '. 
Yet  shall  the  Lord  who  hears  when  Zion  calls, 

Overtake  her  foes  with  terror  anl  dismay  ; 
His  arm  avenze  he-  desola  el  \v..ll«, 

Aiu  raise  her  chiUieu  to  eternal  day. 


JOEL   BARLOW. 


53 


In  1791,  BARLOW  published  in  London  "  Advice 
to  the  Privileged  Orders,"  a  work  directed  against 
the  distinguishing  features  of  kingly  and  aristo- 
cratic governments ;  and  in  the  early  part  of  the 
succeeding  year,  "  The  Conspiracy  of  Kings,"  a 
poem  of  about  four  hundred  lines,  educed  by  the 
first  coalition  of  the  continental  sovereigns  against 
republican  France.  In  the  autumn  of  1792,  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  French  National  Conven- 
tion, recommending  the  abolition  of  the  union  be- 
tween the  church  and  the  state,  and  other  reforms ; 
and  was  soon  after  chosen  by  the  "  London  Con- 
stitutional Society,"  of  which  he  was  a  member, 
to  present  in  person  an  address  to  that  body. 
On  his  arrival  in  Paris  he  was  complimented  with 
the  rights  of  citizenship,  an  "  honour"  which  had 
been  previously  con%rcd  on  WASHINGTON  and 
HAMILTON.  From  this  time  he  made  France  his 
home.  In  the  summer  of  1793,  a  deputation,  of 
which  his  friend  GREGORiE,who  before  the  Revo- 
lution had  been  Bishop  of  Blois,  was  a  member, 
was  sent  into  Savoy,  to  organize  it  as  a  department 
of  the  republic.  He  accompanied  it  to  Chamberry, 
the  capital,  where,  at  the  request  of  its  president, 
he  wrote  an  address  to  the  inhabitants  of  Piedmont, 
inciting  them  to  throw  off  allegiance  to  "  the  man 
of  Turin  who  called  himself  their  king."  Here 
too  he  wrote  "Hasty  Pudding,"  the  most  popular 
of  his  poems. 

On  his  return  to  Paris,  BARLOW'S  time  was 
principally  devoted  to  commercial  pursuits,  by 
which,  in  a  few  years,  he  obtained  a  considerable 
fortune.  The  atrocities  which  marked  the  pro- 
gress of  the  Revolution  prevented  his  active  parti- 
cipation in  political  controversies,  though  he  con- 
tinued under  all  circumstances  an  ardent  republican. 
Toward  the  close  of  1795,  he  visited  the  North  of 
Europe,  on  some  private  business,  and  on  his  re- 
turn to  Paris  was  appointed  by  WASHINGTON 
consul  to  Algiers,  with  power  to  negotiate  a  com- 
mercial treaty  with  the  dey,  and  to  ransom  all  the 
Americans  held  in  slavery  on  the  coast  of  Barbary. 
He  accepted  and  fulfilled  the  mission  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  American  Government,  concluding 
treaties  with  Algiers,  Tunis,  and  Tripoli,  and 
liberating  more  than  one  hundred  Americans,  who 
were  in  prisons  or  in  slavery  to  the  Mohammedans. 
He  then  returned  to  Paris,  where  he  purchased 
the  splendid  hotel  of  the  Count  CLERMONT  I>E 
TONNERE,  and  lived  several  years  in  a  fashionable 
and  costly  manner,  pursuing  still  his  fortunate 
mercantile  speculations,  revising  his  "  great  epic," 
and  writing  occasionally  for  the  political  gazettes. 

Finally,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  seventeen 
years,  the  poet,  statesman,  and  philosopher  re- 
turned to  his  native  country.  He  was  received 
with  kindness  by  many  old  friends,  who  had  cor- 
responded with  him  while  abroad  or  been  remem- 
bered in  all  his  wanderings ;  and  after  spending  a 
few  months  in  travel,  marking,  with  patriotic  pride, 
the  rapid  progress  which  the  nation  had  made  in 
greatness,  he  fixed  his  home  on  the  banks  of  the 
Potomac,  near  the  city  of  Washington,  where  he 
built  the  splendid  mansion,  known  afterward  as 
"  Kalorama,"  and  expressed  an  intention  to  spend 


there  the  remainder  of  his  life.  In  1806,  he  pub- 
lished a  prospectus  of  a  National  Institution,  at 
Washington,  to  combine  a  university  with  a  naval 
and  military  school,  academy  of  fine  arts,  and 
learned  society.  A  bill  to  carry  his  plan  into 
effect  was  introduced  into  Congress,  but  never  be- 
came a  law. 

In  the  summer  of  1808,  appeared  the  "  Colum- 
biad,"  in  a  splendid  quarto  volume,  surpassing  in  the 
beauty  of  its  typography  and  embellishments  any 
work  before  that  time  printed  in  America.  From 
his  earliest  years  BARLOW  had  been  ambitious  to 
raise  the  epic  song  of  his  nation.  The  "  Vision 
of  Columbus,"  in  which  the  most  brilliant  events 
in  American  history  had  been  described,  occupied 
his  leisure  hours  when  in  college,  and  afterward, 
when,  as  a  chaplain,  he  followed  the  standard 
of  the  liberating  army.  That  work  was  executed 
too  hastily  and  imperfectly,  and  for  twenty  years 
after  its  appearance,  through  every  variety  of  for- 
tune, its  enlargement  and  improvement  engaged 
his  attention. 

The  events  of  the  Revolution  were  so  recent  and 
so  universally  known,  as  to  be  inflexible  to  the 
hand  of  fiction  ;  and  the  poem  could  not  therefore 
be  modelled  after  the  regular  epic  form,  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  chosen.  It  is  a 
series  of  visions,  presented  by  HESPER,  the  genius 
of  the  western  continent,  to  COLUMBUS,  while  in 
the  prison  at  Valladolid,  where  he  is  introduced  to 
the  reader  uttering  a  monologue  on  his  ill-requited 
services  to  Spain.  These  visions  embrace  a  vast 
variety  of  scenes,  circumstances,  and  characters  : 
Europe  in  the  middle  ages,  with  her  political  and 
religious  reformers ;  Mexico  and  the  South  Ameri- 
can nations,  and  their  imagined  history ;  the  pro- 
gress of  discovery ;  the  settlement  of  the  states 
now  composing  the  federation ;  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  and  establishment  of  republicanism ; 
and  the  chief  actors  in  the  great  dramas  which  he 
attempts  to  present. 

The  poem,  having  no  unity  of  fable,  no  regular 
succession  of  incidents,  no  strong  exhibition  of 
varied  character,  lacks  the  most  powerful  charms 
of  a  narrative ;  and  has,  besides,  many  dull  and 
spiritless  passages,  that  would  make  unpopular  a 
work  of  much  more  faultless  general  design.  The 
versification  is  generally  harmonious,  but  mechani- 
cal and  passionless,  the  language  sometimes  in- 
correct, and  the  similes  often  inappropriate  and 
inelegant.  Yet  there  are  in  it  many  bursts  of  elo- 
quence and  patriotism,  which  should  preserve  it 
from  oblivion.  The  descriptions  of  nature  and  of 
personal  character  are  frequently  condensed  and 
forceful ;  and  passages  of  invective,  indignant  and 
full  of  energy.  In  his  narrative  of  the  expedition 
against  Quebec,  under  ARNOLD,  the  poet  exclaims : 

Ah,  jrallant  troop!  deprived  of  half  the  praise 
That  deeds  like  yours  in  t  ther  times  repays, 
Since  your  prime  chief  (the  favourite  erst  of  Fame,) 
Hath  sunk  so  deep  his  hateful,  hideous  name, 
That  every  honest  must:  with  horror  fliiifrs 
It  forth  unsounded  from  her  sacred  strings  ; 
Else  what  liivh  tones  of  rapture  must  have  told 
The  first  great  actions  of  a  chief  so  bold  : 
These  lines  are  characteristic  of  his  manner. 

E2 


54 


JOEL   BARLOW. 


The  "  Columbiad''  was  reprinted  in  Paris  and 
•  London,  and  noticed  in  the  leading  critical  gazettes, 
but  generally  with  little  praise.  The  London 
"  Monthly  Magazine"  attempted  in  an  elaborate 
article  to  prove  its  title  to  a  place  in  the  first  class 
of  epics,  and  expressed  a  belief  that  it  was  sur- 
passed only  by  the  "Illiad,"  the  « JSneid"  and 
"  Paradise  Lost."  In  America,  however,  it  was  re- 
garded by  the  judicious  as  a  failure,  and  reviewed 
with  even  more  wit  and  severity  than  in  England. 
Indeed,  the  poet  did  not  in  his  own  country  receive 
the  praise  which  he  really  merited ;  and  faults  were 
imputed  to  his  work  which  it  did  not  possess.  Its 
sentiments  were  said  to  be  hostile  to  Christianity,* 
and  the  author  was  declared  an  infidel ;  but  there 
is  no  line  in  the  "Columbiad"  unfavourable  to 
the  religion  of  New  England,  the  Puritan  faith 
which  is  the  basis  of  the  national  greatness ;  and 
there  is  no  good  reason  for  believing  that  BAR- 
LOW at  the  time  of  his  death  doubted  the  creed 
of  which  in  his  early  manhood  he  had  been  a 
minister. 

After  the  publication  of  the  "  Columbiad,"  BAR- 
LOW made  a  collection  of  documents,  with  an  in- 
tention to  write  a  history  of  the  United  States ;  but, 
in  1811,  he  was  unexpectedly  appointed  minister 
plenipotentiary  to  the  French  government,  and 
immediately  sailed  for  Europe.  His  attempts  to 
negotiate  a  treaty  of  commerce  and  indemnifica- 
tion for  spoliations  were  unsuccessful  at  Paris ; 


THE  HASTY  PUDDING. 


YE  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that  rise, 
To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies ; 
Ye  Gallic  flags,  that,  o'er  their  heights  unfurl'd, 
Bear  death  to  kings  and  freedom  to  the  world, 
I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  muse, 
But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steel'd, 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field ; 
Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  stillhouse  bring ; 
Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ, 
And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 

*  It  is  now  generally  believed  that  BARLOW,  while  in 
France,  abjured  the  Christian  religion.  The  Reverend 
THOMAS  ROBBIXS,  a  venerable  clergyman  of  Rochester, 
Massachusetts,  in  a  letter  written  in  1S40,  remarks  that 
"  BARLOW'S  deistical  opinions  were  not  suspected  pre- 
vious to  the  publication  of  his  '  Vision  of  Columbus,'  in 
17S7  ;"  and  further,  that  "when  at  a  later  period  he  lost 
his  character,  and  became  an  open  and  bitter  reviler  of 
Christianity,  his  psalm-book  was  laid  aside ;  but  for  that 
cause  only,  as  competent  judges  still  maintained  that  no 
revision  of  WATTS  possesses  as  much  poetic  merit  as 
BARLOW'S."  I  have  seen  two  letters  written  by  BARLOW 
during  the  last  year  of  his  life,  in  which  he  declares  him- 
self "a  sincere  believer  of  Christianity,  divested  of  its 


and  in  the  autumn  of  1812  he  was  invited  by  the 
Duke  of  BASSANO  to  a  conference  with  NAPOLEOX 
at  Wilna,  in  Poland.  He  started  from  Paris,  and 
travelled  without  intermission  until  he  reached 
Zarnowitch,  an  obscure  village  near  Cracow, 
where  he  died,  from  an  inflammation  of  the  lungs, 
induced  by  fatigue  and  exposure  in  an  inhospitable 
country,  in  an  inclement  season,  on  the  twenty- 
second  day  of  December,  in  the  fifty-fourth  year 
of  his  age.  In  Paris,  honours  were  paid  to  his 
memory  as  an  important  public  functionary  and  a 
man  of  letters  ;  his  eulogy  was  written  by  DUPO^T 
BE  NKMOUUS,  and  an  account  of  his  life  and 
writings  was  drawn  up  and  published,  accom- 
panied by  a  canto  of  the  "  Columbiad,"  translated 
into  French  heroic  verse.  In  America,  too,  his  death 
was  generally  lamented,  though  without  any  pub- 
lic exhibition  of  mourning. 

BARLOW  was  much  respected  in  private  life  for 
his  many  excellent  social  qualities.  His  manners 
were  usually  grave  and  dignified,  though  when 
with  his  intimate  friends  he  was  easy  and  familiar. 
He  was  an  honest  and  patient  investigator,  and 
would  doubtless  have  been  much  more  successful 
as  a  metaphysical  or  historical  writer  than  as  a 
poet.  As  an  author  he  belonged  to  the  first  class 
of  his  time  in  America;  and  for  his  ardent  pa- 
triotism, his  public  services,  and  the  purity  of  his 
life,  he  deserves  a  distinguished  rank  among  the 
men  of  our  golden  age. 


I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morning  incense,  and  my  evening  meal, — 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.    Come,  dear  bowl, 
Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thce,  smoking  from  the  kine, 
Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

0 !  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 
No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse  or  prejudice  thy  fame ; 
But,  rising  grateful  to  the  accustom'd  car, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere ! 

Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace 
Through  wrecks  of  time  thy  lineage  and  thy  race  ; 

corruptions."  In  a  letter  to  M.  GREGORIE,  published  in 
the  second  volume  of  DENNIE'S  "Port  Folio,"  paces  471 
to  479,  he  says,  "the  sect  of  Puritans,  in  which  I  was 
born  and  educated,  and  to  which  I  still  adhere,  for  the 
same  reason  that  you  adhere  to  the  Catholics,  a  canriction 
that  they  are  rig-ht,"  etc.  The  idea  that  BARLOW  disbelieved 
in  his  later  years  the  religion  of  his  youth,  was  probably 
first  derived  from  an  engraving  in  the  "  Vision  of  Colum- 
bus," in  which  the  cross,  by  which  he  intended  to  repre- 
sent monkish  superstition,  is  placed  among  ihe  "symbols 
of  prejudice."  He  never  "lost  his  diameter"  ns  a  man  of 
honourablesentiments  and  blameless  life;  and  I  could  pre- 
sent numerous  other  evidences  that  he  did  not  abandon 
his  religion,  were  not  the  above  apparently  conclusive. 


JOEL   BARLOW. 


55 


Declare  what  lovely  squaw,  in  days  of  yore, 
(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore,) 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world ;  her  works  of  fame 
Have  lived  indeed,  but  lived  without  a  name. 
Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days, 
First  Icarn'd  with  stones  to  crack  the  well-dried 

maize, 
Through  the  rough  sieve  to   shake   the   golden 

shower, 

In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour: 
The  yellow  flour,  bestrew'd  and  stirr'd  with  haste, 
Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 
Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim, 
Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim; 
The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 
And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 

Could  but  her  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 
Rise,  like  her  labours,  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  them  I'd  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of  praise. 
Not  through  the  rich  Peruvian  realms  alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should  be  known, 
But  o'er  the  world's  wide  clime  should  live  secure, 
Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they  endure. 
Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromised  joy 
Expands  my  heart,  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy ! 
Doom'd  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to 

roam, 

Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home, 
My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found  an  end: 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  unforgottcn  friend. 

For  thee  through  Paris,  that  corrupted  town, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wander'd  up  and  down, 
Where  shameless  Bacchus,  with  his  drenching 

hoard, 

Cold  from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning  board. 
London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steep'd  in  tea ; 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee ; 
The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 
Would  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown. 
For  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays, 
Chill'd  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize  : 
A  grain  whose  rich,  luxuriant  growth  requires 
Short,  gentle  showers,  and  bright,  ethereal  fires. 

But  here,  though  distant  from  our  native  shore, 
With  mutual  glee,  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more. 
The  same !  I  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 
That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race, 
Which  time  can  never  change,  nor  soil  impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air ; 
For  endless  years,  through  every  mild  domain, 
Where  grows  the  maize,  there  thou  art  sure  to 

reign. 

But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  license  claims, 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different  names. 
Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant 
Pulitnta  call;  the  French,  of  course,  Polante. 
E'en  in  thy  native  regions,  how  I  blush 
To  hear  the  Pe.nnsylvanians  call  thee  Mush  ! 
On  Hudson's  banks,  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 
Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  Suppaum. 
All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth ; 
I've  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth: 
Thy  name  is  Hasty  Pudding !  thus  our  sires 
Were  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  the  fires ; 


And  while  they  argued  in  thy  just  defence 
With  logic  clear,  they  thus  explained  the  sense: 
"In  haste  the  boiling  caldron,  o'er  the  blaze, 
Receives  and  cooks  the  ready  powder'd  maize; 
In  haste  'tis  served,  and  then  in  equal  haste, 
With  cooling  milk,  we  make  the  sweet  repast. 
No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knife  to  grate 
The  tender  ear  and  wound  the  stony  plate ; 
But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding  mass  to  dip, 
By  frequent  journeys  to  the  bowl  well  stored, 
Performs  the  hasty  honours  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound  to  every  Yankee  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  palate  chaste 
Preserve  my  pure,  hereditary  taste. 

There  are  who  strive  to  stamp  with  disrepute 
The  luscious  food,  because  it  feeds  the  brute ; 
In  tropes  of  high-strain'd  wit,  while  gaudy  prigs 
Compare  thy  nursling  man  to  pamper'd  pigs; 
With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar  jest, 
Nor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the  beast. 
What  though  the   generous   cow   gives   me  to 

quaff 

The  milk  nutritious;  am  I  then  a  calf? 
Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 
Though  nursed  on  pudding,  thence  lay  claim  to 

mine'? 

Sure  the  sweet  song  I  fashion  to  thy  praise, 
Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they  raise. 

My  song,  resounding  in  its  grateful  glee, 
No  merit  claims :  I  praise  myself  in  thee. 
My  father  loved  thee  through  his  length  of  days ! 
For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with  maize; 
From  thee  what  health,  what  vigour  he  possess'd, 
Ten  sturdy  freemen  from  his  loins  attest; 
Thy  constellation  ruled  my  natal  morn, 
And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian  corn. 
Delicious  grain !  whatever  form  it  take, 
To  roast  or  boil,  to  smother  or  to  bake, 
In  every  dish  'tis  welcome  still  to  me, 
But  most,  my  Hasty  Pudding,  most  in  thee. 
Let  the  green  succotash  with  thee  contend ; 
Let  beans  and  corn  their  sweetest  juices  blend ; 
Let  butter  drencruthem  in  its  yellow  tide, 
And  a  long  slice  of  bacon  grace  their  side ; 
Not  all  the  plate,  how  famed  soc'er  it  be, 
Can  please  my  palate  like  a  bowl  of  thee. 
Some  talk  of  Hoe-Cake,  fair  Virginia's  pride ! 
Rich  Johnny-Cake  this  mouth  hath  often  tried; 
Both  please  me  well,  their  virtues  much  the  same, 
Alike  their  fabric,  as  allied  their  fame, 
Except  in  dear  New  England,  where  the  last 
Receives  a  dash  of  pumpkin  in  the  paste, 
To  give  it  sweetness  and  improve  the  taste. 
But  place  them  all  before  me,  smoking  hot, 
The  big,  round  dumpling,  rolling  from  the  pot ; 
The  pudding  of  the  bag,  whose  quivering  breast, 
With  suet  lined,  leads  on  the  Yankee  feast; 
The  Charlotte  brown,  within  whose  crusty  sides 
A  belly  soft  the  pulpy  apple  hides; 
The  yellow  bread,  whose  face  like  amber  glows, 
And  all  of  Indian  that  the  bakepan  knows, — 
You  tempt  me  not;  my  favourite  greets  my  eyes, 
To  that  loved  bowl  my  spoon  by  instinct  flies. 


JOEL  BARLOW. 


To  mix  the  food  by  vicious  rules  of  art, 
To  kill  the  stomach  and  to  sink  the  heart, 
To  make  mankind  to  social  virtue  sour, 
Cram  o'er  each  dish,  and  be  what  they  devour ; 
For  this  the  kitchen  muse  first  framed  her  book, 
Commanding  sweat  to  stream  from  every  cook; 
Children  no  more  their  antic  gambols  tried, 
And  friends  to  physic  wonder'd  why  they  died. 

Not  so  the  Yankee :  his  abundant  feast, 
With  simples  furnish'd  and  with  plainness  dress'd, 
A  numerous  offspring  gathers  round  the  board, 
And  cheers  alike  the  servant  and  the  lord ;  [taste, 
Whose  well-bought  hunger  prompts  the  joyous 
And  health  attends  them  from  the  short  repast. 

While  the  full  pail  rewards  the  milkmaid's  toil, 
The  mother  sees  the  morning  caldron  boil; 
To  stir  the  pudding  next  demands  their  care; 
To  spread  the  table  and  the  bowls  prepare : 
To  feed  the  children  as  their  portions  cool, 
And  comb  their  heads,  and  send  them  off  to  school. 

Yet  may  the  simplest  dish  some  rules  impart, 
For  nature  scorns  not  all  the  aids  of  art. 
E'en  Hasty  Pudding,  purest  of  all  food, 
May  still  be  bad,  indifferent,  or  good, 
As  sage  experience  the  short  process  guides, 
Or  want  of  skill,  or  want  of  care  presides. 
Whoe'er  would  form  it  on  the  surest  plan, 
To  rear  the  child  and  long  sustain  the  man ; 
To  shield  the  morals  while  it  mends  the  size, 
And  all  the  powers  of  every  food  supplies, — 
Attend  the  lesson  that  the  muse  shall  bring; 
Suspend  your  spoons,  and  listen  while  I  sing. 

But  since,  O  man!  thy  life  and  health  demand 
Not  food  alone,  but  labour  from  thy  hand, 
First,  in  the  field,  beneath  the  sun's  strong  rays, 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth  the  needful  maize; 
She  loves  the  race  that  courts  her  yielding  soil, 
And  gives  her  bounties  to  the  sons  of  toil. 

When  now  the  ox,  obedient  to  thy  call, 
Repays  the  loan  that  fill'd  the  winter  stall, 
Pursue  his  traces  o'er  the  furrow'd  plain, 
And  plant  hi  measured  hills  the  golden  grain. 
But  when  the  tender  germ  begins  to  shoot, 
And  the  green  spire  declares  the  sprouting  root, 
Then  guard  your  nursling  from  each  greedy  foe, 
The  insidious  worm,  the  all-devouring  crow. 
A  little  ashes  sprinkled  round  the  spire, 
Soon  steep'd  in  rain,  will  bid  the  worm  retire; 
The  feather'd  robber,  with  his  hungry  maw 
Swift  flies  the  field  before  your  man  of  straw, 
A  frightful  image,  such  as  schoolboys  bring, 
When  met  to  burn  the  pope  or  hang  the  king. 

Thrice  in  the  season,  through  each  verdant  row, 
Wield  the  strong  ploughshare  and  the  faithful  hoe ; 
The  faithful  hoe,  a  double  task  that  takes, 
To  till  the  summer  corn  and  roast  the  winter  cakes. 

Slow  springs  the  blade,  while  check'd  by  chilling 

rains, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  the  seat  of  Cancer  gains ; 
But  when  his  fiercest  fires  emblaze  the  land, 
Then  start  the  juices,  then  the  roots  expand ; 
Then,  like  a  column  of  Corinthian  mould, 
The  stalk  struts  upward  and  the  leaves  unfold ; 


The  busy  branches  all  the  ridges  fill, 
Entwine  their  arms,  and  kiss  from  hill  to  hill. 
Here  cease  to  vex  them ;  all  your  cares  are  done : 
Leave  the  last  labours  to  the  parent  sun; 
Beneath  his  genial  smiles,  the  well-dress'd  licit), 
When  autumn  calls,  a  plenteous  crop  shall  yield. 

Now  the  strong  foliage  bears  the  standards  high, 
And  shoots  the  tall  top-gallants  to  the  sky ; 
The  suckling  ears  the  silken  fringes  bend, 
And,  pregnant  grown,  their  swelling  coats  distend ; 
The  loaded  stalk,  while  still  the  burden  grows, 
O'erhangs  the  space  that  runs  between  the  rows; 
High  as  a  hop-field  waves  the  silent  grove, 
A  safe  retreat  for  little  thefts  of  love, 
When  the  pledged  roasting-ears  invite  the  maid 
To  meet  her  swain  beneath  the  new-form'd  shade ; 
His  generous  hand  unloads  the  cumbrous  hill, 
And  the  green  spoils  her  ready  basket  fill ; 
Small  compensation  for  the  twofold  bliss, 
The  promised  wedding,  and  the  present  kiss. 

Slight  depredations  these ;  but  now  the  moon 
Calls  from  his  hollow  trees  the  sly  raccoon ; 
And  while  by  night  he  bears  his  prize  away, 
The  bolder  squirrel  labours  through  the  day. 
Both  thieves  alike,  but  provident  of  time, 
A  virtue  rare,  that  almost  hides  their  crime. 
Then  let  them  steal  the  little  stores  they  can, 
And  fill  their  granaries  from  the  toils  of  man ; 
We've  one  advantage  where  they  take  no  part—- 
With all  their  wiles,  they  ne'er  have  found  the  art 
To  boil  the  Hasty  Pudding ,•  here  we  shine 
Superior  far  to  tenants  of  the  pine; 
This  envied  boon  to  man  shall  still  belong, 
Unshared  by  them  in  substance  or  in  song. 

At  last  the  closing  season  browns  the  plain, 
And  ripe  October  gathers  in  the  grain ; 
Deep-loaded  carts  the  spacious  cornhouse  fill; 
The  sack  distended  marches  to  the  mill ; 
The  labouring  mill  beneath  the  burden  groans, 
And  showers  the  future  pudding  from  the  stones; 
Till  the  glad  housewife  greets  the  powdcr'd  gold, 
And  the  new  crop  exterminates  the  old. 

CASTO  III. 

The  days  grow  short;  but  though  the  falling  sun 
To  the  glad  swain  proclaims  his  day's  work  done, 
Night's  pleasing  shades  his  various  tasks  prolong, 
And  yield  new  subjects  to  my  various  song. 
For  now,  the  corn-house  fill'd,  the  harvest  home, 
The  invited  neighbours  to  the  husking  come; 
A  frolic  scene,  where  work,  and  mirth,  and  play, 
Unite  their  charms  to  chase  the  hours  away. 

Where  the  huge  heap  lies  center'd  in  the  hall, 
The  lamp  suspended  from  the  cheerful  wall, 
Brown,  corn-fed  nymphs,  and  strong,  hard-handed 
Alternate  ranged,  extend  in  circling  rows,     [beaus, 
Assume  their  seats,  the  solid  mass  attack ; 
The  dry  husks  rustle,  and  the  corncobs  crack ; 
The  song,  the  laugh,  alternate  notes  resound, 
And  the  sweet  cider  trips  in  silence  round. 

The  laws  of  husking  every  wight  can  tell, 
And  sure  no  laws  he  ever  keeps  so  well : 
For  each  red  ear  a  general  kiss  he  gains, 
With  each  smut  ear  he  smuts  the  luckless  swains ; 


JOEL   BARLOW. 


5i 


But  when  to  some  sweet  maid  a  prize  is  cast, 
Red  as  her  lips  and  taper  as  her  waist, 
She  walks  the  round  and  culls  one  favour'd  beau, 
Who  leaps  the  luscious  tribute  to  bestow. 
Various  the  sport,  as  are  the  wits  and  brains 
Of  well-pleased  lasses  and  contending  swains; 
Till  the  vast  mound  of  corn  is  swept  away, 
And  he  that  gets  the  last  ear  wins  the  day. 

Meanwhile,  the  housewife  urges  all  her  care, 
The  well-earn'd  feast  to  hasten  and  prepare. 
The  sifted  meal  already  waits  her  hand, 
The  milk  is  strain'd,  the  bowls  in  order  stand, 
The  fire  flames  high ;  and  as  a  pool  (that  takes 
The  headlong  stream  that  o'er  the  milldam  breaks) 
Foams,  roars,  and  rages  with  incessant  toils, 
So  the  vcx'd  caldron  rages,  roars,  and  boils. 

Fir-st  with  clean  salt  she  seasons  well  the  food, 
Then  strews  the  flour,  and  thickens  all  the  flood. 
Long  o'er  the  simmering  fire  she  lets  it  stand ; 
To  stir  it  well  demands  a  stronger  hand ; 
The  husband  takes  his  turn :  and  round  and  round 
The  ladle  flies ;  at  last  the  toil  is  crown'd ; 
When  to  the  board  the  thronging  huskers  pour, 
And  take  their  seats  as  at  the  corn  before. 

I  leave  them  to  their  feast.     There  still  belong 
More  copious  matters  to  my  faithful  song. 
For  rules  there  are,  though  ne'er  unfolded  yet, 
Nice  rules  and  wise,  how  pudding  should  be  ate. 

Some  with  molasses  line  the  luscious  treat, 
And  mix,  like  bards,  the  useful  with  the  sweet 
A  wholesome  dish,  and  well  deserving  praise ; 
A  great  resource  in  those  bleak  wintry  days, 
When  the  chill'd  earth  lies  buried  deep  hi  snow, 
And  raging  Boreas  dries  the  shivering  cow. 

Bless'd  cow !  thy  praise  shall  still  my  notes  em- 
ploy, 

Great  source  of  health,  the  only  source  of  joy ; 
Mother  of  Egypt's  god — but  sure,  for  me, 
Were  I  to  leave  my  God,  I  'd  worship  thee. 
How  oft  thy  teats  these  precious  hands  have  press'd ! 
How  oft  thy  bounties  proved  my  only  feast! 
How  oft  I  've  fed  thee  with  my  favourite  grain ! 
And  roar'd,  like  thee,  to  find  thy  children  slain ! 

Yes,  swains  who  know  her  various  worth  to  prize, 
Ah !  house  her  well  from  winter's  angry  skies. 
Potatoes,  pumpkins  should  her  sadness  cheer, 
Corn  from  your  crib,  and  mashes  from  your  beer; 
When  spring  returns,  she'll  well  acquit  the  loan, 
And  nurse  at  once  your  infants  and  her  own. 

Milk  then  with  pudding  I  would  always  choose; 
To  this  in  future  I  confine  my  muse, 
Till  she  in  haste  some  further  hints  unfold, 
Well  for  the  young,  nor  useless  to  the  old. 
First  in  your  bowl  the  milk  abundant  take, 
Then  drop  with  care  along  the  silver  lake 
Your  flakes  of  pudding ;  these  at  first  will  hide 
Their  little  bulk  beneath  the  swelling  tide ; 
But  when  their  growing  mass  no  more  can  sink, 
When  the  soft  island  looms  above  the  brink, 
Then  check  your  hand ;  you've  got  the  portion  due : 
So  taught  our  sires,  and  what  they  taught  is  true. 

There  is  a  choice  in  spoons.  Though  small  appear 
The  nice  distinction,  yet  to  me  'tis  clear. 
The  deep-bowl'd  Gallic  spoon,  contrived  to  scoop 
In  ample  draughts  the  thin,  diluted  soup, 
8 


Performs  not  well  in  those  substantial  things, 
Whose  mass  adhesive  to  the  metal  chV.gs; 
Where  the  strong  labial  muscles  must  f.mbrace 
The  gentle  curve,  and  sweep  the  hollow  space. 
With  ease  to  enter  and  discharge  the  fre'ght, 
A  bowl  less  concave,  but  still  more  dilate, 
Becomes  the  pudding  best.     The  shape,  the  size, 
A  secret  rests,  unknown  to  vulgar  eyes. 
Experienced  feeders  can  alone  impart 
A  rule  so  much  above  the  lore  of  art. 
These  tuneful  lips,  that  thousand  spoons  have  tried, 
With  just  precision  could  the  point  decide, 
Though  not  in  song ;  the  muse  but  poorly  shines 
In  cones,  and  cubes,  and  geometric  lines ; 
Yet  the  true  form,  as  near  as  she  can  tell, 
Is  that  small  section  of  a  goose-egg  shell, 
Which  in  two  equal  portions  shall  divide 
The  distance  from  the  centre  to  the  side. 
Fear  not  to  slaver;  'tis  no  deadly  sin: 
Like  the  free  Frenchman,  from  your  joyous  chin 
Suspend  the  ready  napkin ;  or,  like  me, 
Poise  with  one  hlkd  your  bowl  upon  your  knee' 
Just  in  the  zenith  your  wise  head  project; 
Your  full  spoon,  rising  in  a  line  direct, 
Bold  as  a  bucket,  heeds  no  drops  that  fall, — 
The  wide-mouth'd  bowl  will  surely  catch  them  all ' 


BURNING  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND 
VILLAGES.* 

THROUGH  solid  curls  of  smoke,  the  bursting  fires 
Climb  in  tall  pyramids  above  the  spires, 
Concentring  all  the  winds ;  whose  forces,  driven 
With  equal  rage  from  every  point  of  heaven, 
Whirl  into  conflict,  round  the  scantling  pour 
The  twisting  flames,  and  through  the  rafters  roar; 
Suck  up  the  cinders,  send  them  sailing  far, 
To  warn  the  nations  of  the  raging  war ; 
Bend  high  the  blazing  vortex,  swell'd  and  curl'd, 
Careering,  brightening  o'er  the  lustred  world  : 
Seas  catch  the  splendour,  kindling  skies  resound, 
And   falling   structures    shake    the    smouldering 

ground. 

Crowds  of  wild  fugitives,  with  frantic  tread, 
Flit  through  the  flames  that  pierce  the  midnight 

shade, 

Back  on  the  burning  domes  revert  their  eyes, 
Where  some  lost  friend,  some  perish'd  infant  lies. 
Their  maim'd,  their  sick,  their  age-enfeebled  sires 
Have  sunk  sad  victims  to  the  sateless  fires  ; 
They  greet  with  one  last  look  their  tottering  walls, 
See  the  blaze  thicken,  as  the  ruin  falls, 
Then  o'er  the  country  train  their  dumb  despair, 
And  far  behind  them  leave  the  dancing  glare  ; 
Their  own  crush'd  roofs  still  lend  a  trembling  light, 
Point  their  long  shadows  and  direct  their  flight. 
Till,  wandering  wide,  they  seek  some  cottage  door, 
Ask  the  vile  pittance  due  the  vagrant  poor ; 
Or,  faint  and  faltering  on  the  devious  road, 
They  sink  at  last  and  yield  their  mortal  load. 

*  This  and  the  following  extracts  arc  from  the  "  Colum- 
biad." 


58 


JOEL   BARLOW. 


TO  FREEDOM. 

SUN  of  the  moral  world  !  effulgent  source 
Of  man's  best  wisdom  and  his  steadiest  force, 
Soul-searching  Freedom  !  here  assume  thy  stand, 
And  radiate  hence  to  every  distant  land ; 
Point  out  and  prove  how  all  the  scenes  of  strife, 
The  shock  of  states,  the  impassion'd  broils  of  life, 
Spring  from  unequal  sway ;  and  how  they  fly 
Before  the  splendour  of  thy  peaceful  eye  ; 
Unfold  at  last  the  genuine  social  plan, 
The  mind's  full  scope,  the  dignity  of  man, 
Bold  nature  bursting  through  her  long  disguise, 
And  nations  daring  to  be  just  arid  wise. 
Yes !  righteous  Freedom,  heaven  and  earth  and  sea 
Yield  or  withhold  their  various  gifts  for  thee ; 
Protected  Industry  beneath  thy  reign 
Leads  all  the  virtues  in  her  filial  train ; 
Courageous  Probity,  with  brow  serene, 
And  Temperance  calm  presents  her  placid  mien; 
Contentment,  Moderation,  Lahmir,  Art, 
Mould  the  new  man  and  hum tmize  his  heart ; 
To  public  plenty  private  ease  dilates, 
Domestic  peace  to  harmony  of  states. 
Protected  Industry,  careering  far, 
Detects  the  cause  and  cures  the  rage  of  war, 
And  sweeps,  with  forceful  arm,  to  their  last  graves, 
Kings  from  the  earth  and  pirates  from  the  waves. 


MORGAN  AND  TELL. 


in  front  of  his  bold  riflers  towers, 
His  host  of  keen-eyed  marksmen,  skill'd  to  pour 
Their  slugs  unerring  from  the  twisted  bore. 
No  sword,  no  bayonet  they  learn  to  wield, 
They  gall  the  flank,  they  skirt  the  battling  field, 
Cull  out  the  distant  foe  in  full  horse  speed, 
Couch  the  long  tube,  and  eye  the  silver  bead, 
Turn  as  he  turns,  dismiss  the  whizzing  lead, 
And  lodge  the  death-ball  in  his  heedless  head. 
So  toil'd  the  huntsman  TELL.  His  quivering  dart, 
Press'd  by  the  bended  bowstring,  fears  to  part, 
Dread  the  tremendous  task,  to  graze  but  shun 
The  tender  temples  of  his  infant  son  ; 
As  the  loved  youth  (the  tyrant's  victim  led) 
Bears  the  poised  apple  tottering  on  his  head. 
The  sullen  father,  with  reverted  eye, 
Now  marks  the  satrap,  now  the  bright-hair'd  hoy  ; 
His  second  shaft  impatient  lies,  athirst 
To  mend  the  expected  error  of  the  first, 
To  pierce  the  monster,  mid  the  insulted  crowd, 
And  steep  the  pangs  of  nature  in  his  blood. 
Deep  doubling  toward  his  breast,  well  poised  and 

slow, 

Curve  the  strain'd  horns  of  his  indignant  how  ; 
His  left  arm  straightens  as  the  dexter  bends, 
And  his  nerved  knuckle  with  the  gripe  distends  ; 
Soft  slides  the  reed  back  with  the  stiff  drawn  strand, 
Till  the  steel  point  has  reach'd  his  steady  hand  ; 
Then  to  his  keen  fix'd  eye  the  shank  he  brings  ; 
Twangs  the  loud  cord,  the  feather'd  arrow  sings, 


Picks  off  the  pippin  from  the  smiling  boy, 
And  Uri's  rocks  resound  with  shouts  of  joy. 
Soon  by  an  equal  dart  the  tyrant  bleeds ; 
The  cantons  league,  the  work  of  fate  proceeds  ; 
Till  Austria's  titled  hordes,  with  their  own  gore, 
Fat  the  fair  fields  they  lorded  long  before ; 
On  Gothard's  height  while  Freedom  first  unfurl'd 
Her  infant  banner  o'er  the  modern  world. 


THE  ZONES  OF  AMERICA. 

WHERE  Spring's  coy  steps   in  cold   Canadia 

stray, 

And  joyless  seasons  hold  unequal  sway, 
He  saw  the  pine  its  daring  mantle  rear, 
Break  the  rude  blast,  and  mock  the  brumal  year, 
Shag  the  green  zone  that  bounds  the  boreal  skies, 
And  bid  all  southern  vegetation  rise. 
Wild  o'er  the  vast,  impenetrable  round 
The  untrod  bowers  of  shadowy  nature  frown'd ; 
Millennial  cedars  wave  their  honours  wide, 
The  fir's  tall  boughs,  the  oak's  umbrageous  pride, 
The  branching  beach,  the  aspen's  trembling  shade 
Veil  the  dim  heaven,  and  brown  the  dusky  glade. 
For  in  dense  crowds  these  sturdy  sons  of  earth, 
In  frosty  regions,  claim  a  stronger  birth ; 
Where  heavy  beams  the  sheltering  dome  requires, 
And  copious  trunks  to  feed  its  wintry  fires. 
But  warmer  suns,  that  southern  zones  emblaze, 
A  cool,  thin  umbrage  o'er  their  woodland  raise  ; 
Floridia's  shores  their  blooms  around  him  spread, 
And  Georgian  hills  erect  their  shady  head ; 
Whose  flowery  shrubs  regale  the  passing  air 
With  all  the  untasted  fragrance  of  the  year. 
Beneath  tall  trees,  dispersed  in  loose  array, 
The  rice-grown  lawns  their  humble  garb  display ; 
The  infant  maize,  unconscious  of  its  worth, 
Points   the   green   spire   and   bends   the   foliage 

forth ; 

In  various  forms  unbidden  harvests  rise, 
Aud  blooming  life  repays  the  genial  skies. 
Where  Mexic  hills  the  breezy  gulf  defend, 
Spontaneous  groves  with  richer  burdens  bend : 
Anana's  stalk  its  shaggy  honours  yields  ; 
Acassia's  flowers  perfume  a  thousand  fields ; 
Their  cluster'd  dates  the  mast-like  palms  unfold ; 
The  spreading  orange  waves  a  load  of  gold ; 
Connubial  vines  o'ertop  the  larch  they  climb ; 
The  long-lived  olive  mocks  the  moth  of  time ; 
Pomona's  pride,  that  old  Grenada  claims, 
Here  smiles  and  reddens  in  diviner  flames ; 
Pimento,  citron  scent  the  sky  serene ; 
White,  woolly  clusters  fringe  the  cotton's  green; 
The  sturdy  fig,  the  frail,  deciduous  cane, 
And  foodful  cocoa  fan  the  sultry  plain. 
Here,  in  one  view,  the  same  glad  branches  bring 
The  fruits  of  autumn  and  the  flowers  of  spring ; 
No  wintry  blasts  the  unchanging  year  deform, 
Nor  beasts  unsheltcr'd  fear  the  pinching  storm ; 
But  vernal  breezes  o'er  the  blossoms  rove, 
And  breathe  the  ripen'd  juices  through  the  grove. 


RICHARD   ALSOP. 


[Born  1759.    Died  1815.] 


RICHARD  ALSOP  was  a  native  of  Middletown, 
Connecticut,  where  he  resided  during  the  greater 
part  of  his  life.  ,  He  commenced  writing  for  the 
gazettes  at  a  very  early  age,  but  was  first  known 
to  the  public  as  the  author  of  satires  on  public 
characters  and  events,  entitled  "  The  Echo,"  "  The 
Political  Greenhouse,"  etc.,  printed  in  periodicals 
at  New  York  and  Hartford,  and  afterward  col- 
lected and  published  in  an  octavo  volume,  in 
1807.  In  these  works  he  was  aided  by  TRUM- 
BCLL,  HOPKINS,  THEODORE  DWIGHT,  and  others, 
though  he  was  himself  their  principal  author. 
"The  Echo"  was  at  first  designed  to  exhibit  the 
wretched  style  of  the  newspaper  writers,  and  the 
earliest  numbers  contain  extracts  from  contem- 
porary journals,  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  "done 
into  heroic  verse  and  printed  beside  the  originals." 
ALSOP  and  his  associates  were  members  of  the 
Federal  party,  and  the  "Echo"  contained  many 
ludicrous  travesties  of  political  speeches  and 
essays  made  by  the  opponents  of  the  administra- 
tion of  JOHN  ADAMS.  The  work  had  much  wit 
and  sprightliness,  and  was  very  popular  in  its 
time ;  but,  with  the  greater  part  of  the  characters 
and  circumstances  to  which  it  related,  it  is  now 
nearly  forgotten.  In  1800,  ALSOP  published  a 
"Monody  on  the  Death  of  Washington,"  which 
was  much  admired;  and  in  the  following  year  a 
translation  of  the  second  canto  of  BERNI'S  "Or- 
lando Inamorato,"  under  the  title  of  "  The  Fairy 


FROM 


'A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  WASHINGTON." 


BEFORE  the  splendours  of  thy  high  renown, 
How  fade  the  glow-worm  lustres  of  a  crown ! 
How  sink,  diminish'd,  in  that  radiance  lost, 
The  glare  of  conquest  and  of  power  the  boast! 
Let  Greece  her  ALEXANDER'S  deeds  proclaim, 
Or  C.-ESAR'S  triumphs  gild  the  Roman  name; 
Stript  of  the  dazzling  glare  around  them  cast, 
Shrinks  at  their  crimes  humanity  aghast ; 
With  equal  claim  to  honour's  glorious  meed, 
See  ATTILA  his  course  of  havoc  lead; 
O'er  Asia's  realm,  in  one  vast  ruin  hurl'd, 
See  furious  ZINGES'  bloody  flag  unfurl'd. 
On  base  far  different  from  the  conqueror's  claim, 
Rests  the  unsullied  column  of  thy  fame; 
Hi*  on  the  graves  of  millions  proudly  based, 
With  blood  cemented  and  with  tears  defaced; 
Thine  on  a  nation's  welfare  fixed  sublime, 
By  freedom  strengthen'd,  and  revered  by  time : 
He,  as  the  comet  whose  portentous  light 
Spreads  baleful  splendour  o'er  the  glooms  of  night, 
With  dire  amazement  chills  the  startled  breast, 
While  storms  and  earthquakes  dread  its  course  attest; 


of  the  Lake,"  and  another  of  the  Poem  of  Si- 
LIUS  ITALICCS  on  the  Second  Punic  War.  In 
1807,  he  translated  from  the  Italian  the  «  History 
of  Chili,"  by  the  Abbe  MOLINA,  to  which  he 
added  original  notes,  and  others  from  the  French 
and  Spanish  versions  of  the  same  history.  At 
different  periods  he  translated  several  less  im- 
portant works  from  the  Greek,  Latin,  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  French  languages,  and  wrote  a 
number  of  poems  and  essays  for  the  periodicals. 
His  last  publication  was  "The  Adventures  of 
John  Jewett,"  printed  in  1815.  He  died  on  the 
twentieth  of  August,  in  that  year,  at  Flatbush, 
Long  Island,  in  the  fifty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 
He  had,  for  a  considerable  period,  been  writing 
"The  Charms  of  Fancy,"  a  poem;  and  besides 
this,  he  left  manuscript  fragments  of  a  poem  on 
the  Conquest  of  Scandinavia  by  ODIN;  "Aris- 
todemus,"  a  tragedy,  from  the  Italian  of  MONTI  ; 
the  poem  of  QUINTCS  CALABER  on  the  Trojan 
war,  from  the  Greek,  and  a  prose  translation  of  a 
posthumous  work  by  FLORIAN.  As  a  poet  ALSOP 
was  often  elegant,  but  his  verse  was  generally 
without  energy.  Probably  no  other  American  of 
his  time  was  so  well  acquainted  with  the  litera- 
ture of  England,  France,  and  Italy,  and  few  were 
more  familiar  with  the  natural  sciences.  He  is 
said  to  have  been  deficient  in  strength  and  deci- 
sion of  character,  but  he  was  amiable  and  ho- 
nourable, and  had  many  friends  and  few  enemies. 


And  nature  trembles,  lest  in  chaos  hurl'd 
Should  sink  the  tottering  fragment  of  the  world ; 
Thine,  like  the  sun,  whose  kind,  propitious  ray, 
Opes  the  glad  morn,  and  lights  the  fields  of  day, 
Dispels  the  wintry  storm,  the  chilling  rain, 
With  rich  abundance  clothes  the  fertile  plain, 
Gives  all  creation  to  rejoice  around, 
And  light  and  life  extends,  o'er  nature's  utmost 

bound. 

Though  shone  thy  life  a  model  bright  of  praise, 
Not  less  the  example  bright  thy  death  portrays ; 
When,  plunged  in  deepest  wo  around  thy  bed, 
Each  eye  was  fix'd,  despairing  sunk  each  head, 
While  nature  struggled  with  extremes!  pain, 
And  scarce  could  life's  last  lingering  powers  retain ; 
In  that  dread  moment,  awfully  serene, 
No  trace  of  suffering  marked  thy  placid  mien, 
No  groan,  no  murmuring  plaint  escaped  thy  tongue ; 
No  longing  shadows  o'er  thy  brow  were  hung ; 
But,  calm  in  Christian  hope,  undamp'd  with  fear, 
Thou  sawest  the  high  reward  of  virtue  near. 
On  that  bright  meed,  in  surest  trust  reposed, 
As  thy  firm  hand  thine  eyes  expiring  closed, 
Pleased,  to  the  will  of  Heaven  resign'd  thy  breath, 
And  smiled,  as  nature's  struggles  closed  in  death. 

59 


ST.   JOHN    HONEYWOOD. 


[Born  1763.    Died  179S.] 


ST.  JOHN  HOXF.YWOOD  was  a  native  of  Lei- 
cester, Massachusetts,  and  was  educated  at  Yale 
College.  In  1785,  being  at  that  time  about 
twenty  years  old,  he  removed  to  Schenectady, 
New  York,  where,  during  the  two  succeeding 
years,  he  was  the  principal  of  a  classical  school. 
In  1787  he  became  a  law  student  in  the  office  of 
PETER  W.  YATES,  Esquire,  of  Albany,  and  on 
being  admitted  to  the  bar  removed  to  Salem,  in 
the  same  state,  where  he  remained  until  his  death, 
in  September,  1798.  He  was  one  of  the  electors 
of  President  of  the  United  States  when  Mr. 


ATIAMS  became  the  successor  of  General  WASH- 
JXGTOX,  and  he  held  other  honourable  offices. 
He  was  a  man  of  much  professional  and  general 
learning,  rare  conversational  abilities,  and  scru- 
pulous integrity ;  and  would  probably  have  been 
distinguished  as  a  man  of  letters  and  a  jurist,  had 
he  lived  to  a  riper  age.  The  poems  embraced  in 
the  volume  of  his  writings  published  in  1801,  are 
generally  political,  and  are  distinguished  for  wit 
and  vigour.  The  longest  in  the  collection  was 
addressed  to  M.  ADET,  on  his  leaving  this  coun- 
try for  France. 


CRIMES  AND  PUNISHMENTS.* 

OF  crimes,  empoison'd  source  of  human  woes, 
Whence  the  black  flood  of  shame  and  sorrow  flows, 
How  best  to  check  the  venom's  deadly  force, 
To  stem  its  torrent,  or  direct  its  course, 
To  scan  the  merits  of  vindictive  codes, 
Nor  pass  the  faults  humanity  explodes, 
I  sing — what  theme  more  worthy  to  engage 
The  poet's  song,  the  wisdom  of  the  sage  1 
Ah !  were  I  equal  to  the  great  design, 
Were  thy  bold  genius,  blest  BECCAHIA!  mine, 
Then  should  my  work,  ennobled  as  my  aim, 
Like  thine,  receive  the  meed  of  deathless  fame. 
O  JAY  !  deserving  of  a  purer  age, 
Pride  of  thy  country,  statesman,  patriot,  sage, 
Beneath  whose  guardian  care  oar  laws  assume 
A  milder  form,  and  lose  their  Gothic  gloom, 
Read  with  indulgent  eyes,  nor  yet  refuse 
This  humble  tribute  of  an  artless  muse. 

Great  is  the  question  which  the  learn'd  contest, 
What  grade,  what  mode  of  punishment  is  best; 
In  two  famed  sects  the  disputants  decide, 
These  ranged  on  Terror's,  those  on  Reason's  side ; 
Ancient  as  empire  Terror's  temple  stood, 
Capt  with  black  clouds,  and  founded  deep  in  blood ; 
Grim  despots  here  their  trembling  honours  paid, 
And  guilty  offerings  to  their  idol  made : 
The  monarch  led — a  servile  crowd  ensued, 
Their  robes  distain'd  in  gore,  in  gore  imbrued ; 
O'er  mangled  limbs  they  held  infernal  feast, 
MOLOCH  the  god,  and  DRACO'S  self  the  priest. 
Mild  Reason's  fane,  in  later  ages  rear'd, 
With  sunbeams  crown'd,  in  Attic  grace  appear'd ; 
In  just  proportion  finish'd  every  part, 
With  the  fine  touches  of  enligbten'd  art. 
A  thinking  few,  selected  from  the  crowd, 
At  the  fair  shrine  with  filial  rev'rence  bow'd; 
The  sage  of  Milan  led  the  virtuous  choir, 
To  them  sublime  he  strung  the  tuneful  lyre: 


*  This  poem   was  found  among  the  author's    inanii- 
scriptB,  after  his  decease ;  and  was,  doubtless,  unfinished. 


Of  laws,  of  crimes,  and  punishments  he  sung, 
And  on  his  glowing  lips  persuasion  hung: 
From  Reason's  source  each  inference  just  he  drew, 
While  truths  fresh  polish'd  struck  the  mind  as  new  ; 
Full  in  the  front,  in  vestal  robes  array 'd, 
The  holy  form  of  Justice  stood  display'd : 
Firm  was  her  eye,  not  vengeful,  though  severe, 
And  e'er  she  frown'd  she  check'd  the  starting  tear. 
A  sister  form,  of  more  benignant  face, 
Celestial  Mercy,  held  the  second  place ; 
Her  hands  outspread,  in  suppliant  guise  she  stood, 
And  oft  with  eloquence  resistless  sued ; 
But  where  'twas  impious  e'en  to  deprecate, 
She  sigh'd  assent,  and  wept  the  wretch's  fate. 

In  savage  times,  fair  Freedom  yet  unknown, 
The  despot,  clad  in  vengeance,  fill'd  the  throne; 
His  gloomy  caprice  scrawl'd  the  ambiguous  code, 
And  dyed  each  page  in  characters  of  blood: 
The  laws  transgrcss'd,  the  prince  in  judgment  sat, 
And  Rage  decided  on  the  culprit's  fate: 
Nor  stopp'd  he  here,  but,  skill'd  in  murderous  art, 
The  scepter'd  brute  usurp'd  the  hangman's  part ; 
With  his  own  hands  the  trembling  victim  hew'd, 
And  basely  wallow'd  in  a  subject's  blood. 
Pleased  with  the  fatal  game,  the  royal  mind 
On  modes  of  death  and  cruelty  refined : 
Hence  the  dank  caverns  of  the  cheerless  mine, 
Where,  shut  from  light,  the   famish'd  wretches 

pine; 

The  face  divine,  in  seams  unsightly  sear'd, 
The  eyeballs  gouged,  the  wheel  with  gore  besmear' d, 
The  Russian  knout,  the  suffocating  flame, 
And  forms  of  torture  wanting  yet  a  name. 
Nor  was  this  rage  to  savage  times  confined; 
It  rcach'd  to  later  years  and  courts  refined. 
Blush,  polish'd  France,  nor  let  the  muse  relate 
The  tragic  story  of  your  DATMIEN'S  fate; 
The  bed  of  steel,  where  long  the  assassin  lay, 
In  the  dark  vault,  secluded  from  the  day; 
The  quivering  flesh  which  burning  pincers  tore, 
The  pitch,  pour'd  flaming  in  the  recent  sore; 
His  carcase,  warm  with  life,  convulsed  with  pain, 
By  steeds  dismember'd,  dragg'd  along  the  plain. 

60 


ST.  JOHN   HONEYWOOD. 


61 


As  daring  quacks,  unskill'd  in  medic  lore, 
Prescribed  the  nostrums  quacks  prescribed  before ; 
Careless  of  age  or  sex,  vvhate'cr  befall, 
The  same  dull  recipe  must  serve  for  all : 
Our  senates  thus,  with  reverence  be  it  said, 
Have  been  too  long  by  blind  tradition  led :        ' 
Our  civil  code,  from  feudal  dross  refined, 
Proclaims  the  liberal  and  enlighten'd  mind ; 
But  till  of  late  the  penal  statutes  stood 
In  Gothic  rudeness,  smear'd  with  civic  blood; 
What  base  memorials  of  a  barbarous  age, 
What  monkish  whimsies  sullied  every  page ! 
The  clergy's  benefit,  a  trifling  brand, 
Jest  of  the  law,  a  holy  sleight  of  hand: 
Beneath  this  saintly  cloak  what  crimes  abhorr'd, 
Of  sable  dye,  were  sheltcr'd  from  the  lord ; 
While  the  poor  starveling,  who  a  cent  purloin'd, 
No  reading  saved,  no  juggling  trick  essoin'd; 
His  was  the  servile  lash,  a  foul  disgrace, 
Through  time  transmitted  to  his  hapless  race; 
The  fort  and  dure,  the  traitor's  motley  doom, 
Might  blot  the  story  of  imperial  Rome. 
What  late  disgraced  our  laws  yet  stand  to  stain 
The  splendid  annals  of  a  GEORGE'S  reign. 

Say,  legislators,  for  what  end  design'd 
This  waste  of  lives,  this  havoc  of  mankind  1 
Say,  by  what  right  (one  case  exempt  alone) 
Do  ye  prescribe,  that  blood  can  crimes  atone  ? 
If,  when  our  fortunes  frown,  and  dangers  press, 
To  act  the  Roman's  part  be  to  transgress ; 
For  man  the  use  of  life  alone  commands, 
The  fee  residing  in  the  grantor's  hands. 
Could  man,  what  time  the  social  pact  he  seal'd, 
Cede  to  the  state  a  right  he  never  held"? 
For  all  the  powers  which  in  the  state  reside, 
Result  from  compact,  actual  or  implied. 
Too  well  the  savage  policy  we  trace 
To  times  remote,  Humanity's  disgrace; 
E'en  while  I  ask,  the  trite  response  recurs, 
Example  warns,  severity  deters. 
No  milder  means  can  keep  the  vile  in  awe, 
And  state  necessity  compels  the  law. 
But  let  Experience  speak,  she  claims  our  trust; 
The  data  false,  the  inference  is  unjust. 
Ills  at  a  distance,  men  but  slightly  fear; 
Delusive  Fancy  never  thinks  them  near: 
With  stronger  force  than  fear  temptations  draw, 
And  Cunning  thinks  to  parry  with  the  law. 
'•  My  brother  swung,  poor  novice  in  his  art, 
He  blindly  stumbled  on  a  hangman's  cart ; 
But  wiser  I,  assuming  every  shape, 
As  PROTEUS  erst,  am  certain  to  escape." 
The  knave,  thus  jeering,  on  his  skill  relies, 
For  never  villain  deem'd  himself  unwise. 

When  earth  convulsive  heaved,  and,  yawning 

wide, 

Engulf 'd  in  darkness  Lisbon's  spiry  pride, 
At  that  dread  hour  of  ruin  and  dismay, 
'T  is  famed  the  harden'd  felon  prowl'd  for  prey ; 
Nor  trembling  earth,  nor  thunders  could  restrain 
His  d,aring  feet,  which  trod  the  sinking  fane; 
Whence,  while  the  fabric  to  its  centre  shook, 
By  impious  stealth  the  hallow'd  vase  he  took. 
What  time  the  gaping  vulgar  throng  to  see 
Some  wretch  expire  on  Tyburn's  fatal  tree ; 


Fast  by  the  crowd  the  luckier  villain  clings, 
And  pilfers  while  the  hapless  culprit  swings. 
If  then  the  knave  can  view,  with  careless  eyes, 
The  bolt  of  vengeance  darting  from  the  skies, 
If  Death,  with  all  the  pomp  of  Justice  join'd, 
Scarce  strikes  a  panic  in  the  guilty  mind, 
What  can  we  hope,  though  every  penal  code, 
As  DRACO'S  once,  were  stamp'd  in  chic  blood? 

The  blinded  wretch,  whose  mind  is  bent  on  ill, 
Would  laugh  at  threats,  and  sport  with  halters  still ; 
Temptations  gain  more  vigour  as  they  throng, 
Crime  fosters  crime,  and  wrong  engenders  wrong; 
Fondly  he  hopes  the  threaten'd  fate  to  shun, 
Nor  sees  his  fatal  error  till  undone. 
Wise  is  the  law,  and  godlike  is  its  aim, 
Which  frowns  to  mend,  and  chastens  to  reclaim, 
Which  seeks  the  storms  of  passion  to  control, 
And  wake  the  latent  virtues  of  the  soul ; 
For  all,  perhaps,  the  vilest  of  our  race, 
Bear  in  their  breasts  some  smother'd  sparks  of  grace ; 
Nor  vain  the  hope,  nor  mad  the  attempt  to  raise 
Those  smother'd  sparks  to  Virtue's  purer  blaze. 
When,  on  the  cross  accursed,  the  robber  writhed, 
The  parting  prayer  of  penitence  he  breathed ; 
Cheer'd  by  the  Saviour's  smile,  to  grace  restored, 
He  died  distinguished  with  his  suffering  Lord. 
As  seeds  long  sterile  in  a  poisonous  soil, 
If  nurs'd  by  culture  and  assiduous  toil, 
May  wake  to  life  and  vegtfative  power, 
Protrude  the  germ  and  yield  a  fragrant  flower  : 
E'en  thus  may  man,  rapacious  and  unjust, 
The  slave  of  sin,  the  prey  of  lawless  lust, 
In  the  drear  prison's  gloomy  round  confined, 
To  awful  solitude  and  toil  consign'd; 
Debarr'd  from  social  intercourse,  nor  less 
From  the  vain  world's  seductions  and  caress, 
With  late  and  trembling  steps  he  measures  back 
Life's  narrow  road,  a  long  abandon'd  track ; 
By  Conscience  roused,  and  left  to  keen  Remorse, 
The  mind  at  length  acquires  its  pristine  force: 
Then  pardoning  Mercy,  with  cherubic  smile, 
Dispels  the  gloom,  and  smooths  the  brow  of  Toil, 
Till  friendly  Death,  full  oft  implored  in  vain, 
Shall  burst  the  ponderous  bar  and  loose  the  chain ; 
Fraught  with  fresh  life,  an  offering  meet  for  God, 
The  rescued  spirit  leaves  the  dread  abode. 

Nor  yet  can  laws,  though  SOLOS'S  self  should 

frame, 

Each  shade  of  guilt  discriminate  aiid  name; 
For  senates  well  their  sacred  trust  fulfil, 
Who  general  cures  provide  for  general  ill. 
Much  must  by  his  direction  be  supplied, 
In  whom  the  laws  the  pardoning  power  confide ; 
He  best  can  measure  every  varying  grade 
Of  guilt,  and  mark  the  bounds  of  light  and  shade ; 
Weigh  each  essoin,  each  incident  review, 
And  yield  to  Mercy,  where  she  claims  her  due: 
And  wise  it  were  so  to  extend  his  trust, 
With  power  to  mitigate — when  't  were  unjust 
Full  amnesty  to  give — for  though  so  dear 
The  name  of  Mercy  to  a  mortal's  ear, 
Yet  should  the  chief,  to  human  weakness  steel'd, 
Rarely  indeed  to  suits  for  pardon  yield ; 
For  neither  laws  nor  pardons  can  efface 
The  sense  of  guilt  and  memorv  of  disgrace 
F 


ST.  JOHN  HONEYWOOD. 


Say,  can  the  man  whom  Justice  doom'd  to  shame, 
With  front  erect,  his  country's  honours  claim  ? 
Can  he  with  cheek  unblushing  join  the  crowd, 
Claim  equal  rights,  and  have  his  claim  allow'dl 
What  though  he  mourn,  a  penitent  sincere ; 
Though  every  dawn  be  usher'd  with  a  tear ; 
The  world,  more  prone  to  censure  than  forgive, 
Quick  to  suspect,  and  tardy  to  believe, 
Will  still  the  hapless  penitent  despise, 
And  watch  his  conduct  with  invidious  eyes  : 
But  the  chief  end  of  justice  once  achieved, 
The  public  weal  secured,  a  soul  reprieved, 
'T  were  wise  in  laws,  't  were  generous  to  provide 
Some  place  where  blushing  penitence  might  hide ; 
Yes,  'twere  humane,  'twere  godlike  to  protect 
Returning  virtue  from  the  world's  neglect 
And  taunting  scorn,  which  pierce  with  keener  pains 
The  feeling  mind,  than  dungeons,  racks,  and  chains : 
Enlarge  their  bounds;  admit  a  purer  air; 
Dismiss  the  servile  badge  and  scanty  fare ; 
The  stint  of  labour  lessen  or  suspend, 
Admit  at  times  the  sympathizing  friend. 

Repentance  courts  the  shade ;  alone  she  roves 
By  ruin'd  towers  and  night-embrowning  groves ; 
Or  midst  dark  vaults,  by  Melancholy  led, 
She  holds  ideal  converse  with  the  dead : 
Lost  to  the  world  and  each  profaner  joy, 
Her  solace  tears,  and  prayer  her  best  employ. 


A  RADICAL  SONG  OF  1786. 

HUZZA,  my  Jo  Bunkers !  no  taxes  we'll  pay; 
Here's  a  pardon  for  WHEELER,  SHAYS,  PAHSOXS, 

and  DAT;* 
Put  green  boughs  in  your  hats,  and  renew  the  old 

cause ; 

Stop  the  courts  in  each  county,  and  bully  the  laws : 
Constitutions  and  oaths,  sir,  we  mind  not  a  rush ; 
Such  trifles  must  yield  to  us  lads  of  the  bush. 
New  laws  and  new  charters  our  books  shall  display, 
Composed  by  conventions  and  Counsellor  GREY. 

Since  Boston  and  Salem  so  haughty  have  grown, 
We  '11  make  them  to  know  we  can  let  them  alone. 
Of  Glasgow  or  Pelham  we  '11  make  a  seaport, 
And  there  we'll  assemble  our  General  Court: 
Our  governor,  now,  boys,  shall  turn  out  to  work, 
And  live,  like  ourselves,  on  molasses  and  pork ; 
In  Adams  or  Greenwich  he  '11  live  like  a  peer 
On  three  hundred  pounds,  paper  money,  a  year. 

Grand  jurors,  and  sheriffs,  and  lawyers  we  '11  spurn, 
As  judges,  we'll  all  take  the  bench  in  our  turn, 
And  sit  the  whole  term,  without  pension  or  fee, 
Nor  CCSHIXG  or  SEWAL  look  graver  than  we. 
Our  wigs,  though  they  're  rusty,  are  decent  enough ; 
Our  aprons,  though  black,  are  of  durable  stuff; 

*  Names  of  the  leaders  of  the  insurrection  that  arose, 
in  1786,  in  the  state  of  Massachusetts,  chiefly  in  the  coun- 
ties of  Hampshire,  Berkshire,  and  Worcester;  which, 
after  convulsing  the  state  for  about  a  year,  was  finally 
quelled  by  a  military  force  under  the  command  of  Gene- 
ral LINCOLN  and  General  SHEPHERD.  The  leaders  fled 
from  the  state,  and  were  afterwards  pardoned.  See 
Minor's  History  of  the  Insurrection  in  Massachusetts. 


Array'd  in  such  gear,  the  laws  we'll  explain, 
That  poor  people  no  more  shall  have  cause  to  com- 
plain. 

To  Congress  and  impost  we  '11  plead  a  release ; 
The  French  we  can  beat  half-a-dozen  a  piece; 
We  want  not  their  guineas,  their  arms,  or  alliance ; 
And  as  for  the  Dutchmen,  we  bid  them  defiance. 
Then  huzza,  my  Jo  Bunkers  !  no  taxes  we'll  pay; 
Here's  a  pardon  for  WHEELER,  SHAYS,  PAUSOXS, 

and  DAY; 
Put  green  boughs  in  your  hats,  and  renew  the  old 

cause ; 
Stop  the  courts  in  each  county,  and  bully  the  laws. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  SEEING  A  BULL 
SLAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

THE  sottish  clown  who  never  knew  a  charm 
Beyond  the  powers  of  his  nervous  arm, 
Proud  of  his  might,  with  self-importance  full, 
Or  climbs  the  spire,  or  fights  the  maddening  bull ; 
The  love  of  praise,  impatient  of  control, 
O'erflows  the  scanty  limits  of  his  soul ; 
In  uncouth  jargon,  turbulently  loud, 
He  bawls  his  triumphs  to  the  wondering  crowd : 
"  This  well-strung  arm  dispensed  the  deadly  blow, 
Fell'd  the  proud  bull  and  sunk  his  glories  low :" 
Not  thoughts  more  towering  fill'd  PELIDES'  breast, 
When  thus  to  Greece  his  haughty  vaunts  express'd : 
"  I  sack'd  twelve  ample  cities  on  the  main, 
And  six  lay  smoking  on  the  Trojan  plain ;" 
Thus  full  and  fervid  throbb'd  the  pulse  of  pride, 
When  "  Ve.nl,  vidi,  vici,"  C;BSAH  cried. 
Each  vain  alike,  and  differing  but  in  names; 
These  poets  flatter — those  the  mob  acclaims ; 
Impartial  Death  soon  stops  the  proud  career, 
And  bids  LEGEXDIIE  rot  with  DUMOUHIER. 
The  God  whose  sovereign  care  o'er  all  extends, 
Sees  whence  their  madness  springs,  and  where  it 

ends; 
From  his  blest  height,  with  just  contempt,  looks 

down 

On  thundering  heroes  and  the  swaggering  clown  : 
But  if  our  erring  reason  may  presume 
The  future  to  divine,  more  mild  his  doom 
Whose  pride  was  wreck'd  on  vanquish'd  brutes 

alone, 
Than  his  whose  conquests  made  whole  nations 

groan. 

Can  Ganges'  sacred  wave,  or  Lethe's  flood, 
Wash  clear  the  garments  smear'd  with  civic  blood  ? 
What  hand  from  heaven's  dread  register  shall  tear 
The  page  where,  stamp'd  in  blood,  the  conqueror's 

crimes  appear? 


IMPROMPTU  ON  AN  ORDER  TO  KILL 
THE  DOGS  IN  ALBANY. 

'Tis  done!  the  dreadful  sentence  is  decreed! 
The  town  is  mad,  and  all  the  dogs  must  bleed ! 
Ah  me  !  what  boots  it  that  the  dogs  are  slain, 
Since  the  whole  race  of  puppies  yet  remain ! 


WILLIAM   CLIFFTON. 


Born  1772.    Died  1799.] 


THE  father  of  WILLIAM  CLIFFTON  was  a 
wealthy  member  of  the  society  of  Friends,  in 
Philadelphia.  The  poet,  from  his  childhood,  had 
little  physical  strength,  and  was  generally  a  suf- 
ferer from  disease;  but  his  mind  was  vigorous 
and  carefully  educated,  and  had  he  lived  to  a 
mature  age,  he  would  probably  have  won  an  en- 
during reputation  as  an  author.  His  life  was 
marked  by  few  incidents.  He  made  himself  ac- 
quainted with  the  classical  studies  pursued  in  the 
universities,  and  with  music,  painting,  and  such 
field-sports  as  he  supposed  he  could  indulge  in 
with  most  advantage  to  his  health.  He  was 
considered  an  amiable  and  accomplished  gen- 
tleman, and  his  society  was  courted  alike  by 


the  fashionable  and  the  learned.  He  died  in 
December,  1799,  in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of 
his  age. 

The  poetry  of  CLIFF-TOW  has  more  energy  of 
thought  and  diction,  and  is  generally  more  cor- 
rect and  harmonious,  than  any  which  had  been 
previously  written  in  this  country.  Much  of  it 
is  satirical,  and  relates  to  persons  and  events  of 
the  period  in  which  he  lived;  and  the  small 
volume  of  his  writings  published  after  his  death 
doubtless  contains  pome  pieces  which  would  have 
been  excluded  fro',  a  an  edition  prepared  by  him- 
self, for  this  reason,  and  because  they  were  un- 
finished and  not  originally  intended  to  meet  the 
eye  of  the  world. 


TO  WILLIAM  GIFFORD,  ESQ.* 

Ix  these  cold  shades,  beneath  these  shifting  skies, 
Where  Fancy  sickens,  and  where  Genius  dies ; 
Where  few  and  feeble  are  the  muse's  strains, 
And  no  fine  frenzy  riots  in  the  veins, 
There  still  are  found  a  few  to  whom  belong 
The  fire  of  virtue  and  the  soul  of  song; 
Whose  kindling  ardour  still  can  wake  the  strings, 
When  learning  triumphs,  and  when  GIFFOUD  sings. 
To  thee  the  lowliest  bard  his  tribute  pays, 
His  little  wild-flower  to  thy  wreath  conveys; 
Pleased,  if  permitted  round  thy  name  to  bloom, 
To  boast  one  effort  rescued  from  the  tomb. 

While  this  delirious  age  enchanted  seems 
With  hectic  Fancy's  desultory  dreams ; 
While  wearing  fast  away  is  every  trace 
Of  Grecian  vigour,  and  of  Roman  grace, 
With  fond  delight,  we  yet  one  bard  behold, 
As  Horace  polish'd,  and  as  Perseus  bold, 
Reclaim  the  art,  assert  the  muse  divine, 
And  drive  obtrusive  dulness  from  the  shrine. 
Since  that  great  day  which  saw  the  Tablet  rise, 
A  thinking  block,  and  whisper  to  the  eyes, 
No  time  has  been  that  touch'd  the  muse  so  near, 
No  Age  when  Learning  had  so  much  to  fear, 
As  now,  when  love-lorn  ladies  light  verse  frame, 
And  every  rebus-weaver  talks  of  Fame. 

When  Truth  in  classic  majesty  appear'd, 
And  Greece,  on  high,  the  dome  of  science  rear'd, 
Patience  and  perseverance,  care  and  pain 
Alone  the  steep,  the  rough  ascent  could  gain: 
None  but  the  great  the  sun-clad  summit  found ; 
The  weak  were  baffled,  and  the  strong  were  crown'd. 

*  Prefixed  to  WILLIAM  COBBETT'S  edition  of  the  "Ba- 
riad  and  Mseviad,"  published  in  Philadelphia,  in  1799. 


The  tardy  transcript's  nigh-wrought  page  confined 
To  one  pursuit  the  undivided  mind. 
No  venal  critic  fatten'd  on  the  trade ; 
Books  for  delight,  and  not  for  sale  were  made ; 
Then  shone,  superior,  in  the  realms  of  thought, 
The  chief  who  govern'd,  and  the  sage  who  taught : 
The  drama  then  with  deathless  bays  was  wreath'd, 
The  statue  quicken'd,  and  the  canvass  breathed. 
The  poet,  then,  with  unresisted  art, 
Sway'd  every  impulse  of  the  captive  heart. 
Touch'd  with  a  beam  of  Heaven's  creative  mind, 
His  spirit  kindled,  and  his  taste  refined : 
Incessant  toil  inform'd  his  rising  youth ; 
Thought  grew  to  thought,  and  truth  attracted  truth, 
Till,  all  complete,  his  perfect  soul  display'd 
Some  bloom  of  genius  which  could  never  fade. 
So  the  sage  oak,  to  Nature's  mandate  true, 
Advanced  but  slow,  and  strengthen'd  as  it  grew ! 
But  when,  at  length,  (full  many  a  season  o'er,) 
Its  virile  head,  in  pride,  aloft  it  bore ; 
When  steadfast  were  its  roots,  and  sound  its  heart, 
It  bade  defiance  to  the  insect's  art, 
And,  storm  and  time  resisting,  still  remains 
The  never-dying  glory  of  the  plains. 

Then,  if  some  thoughtless  BAVIUS  dared  appear, 
Short  was  his  date,  and  limited  his  sphere ; 
He  could  but  please  the  changeling  mob  a  day, 
Then,  like  his  noxious  labours,  pass  away : 
So,  near  a  forest  tall,  some  worthless  flower 
Enjoys  the  triumph  of  its  gaudy  hour, 
Scatters  its  little  poison  through  the  skies, 
Then  droops  its  empty,  hated  head,  and  dies. 

Still,  as  from  famed  Ilyssus'  classic  shore, 
To  Mincius'  banks,  the  muse  her  laurel  bore, 
The  sacred  plant  to  hands  divine  was  given, 
And  deathless  MAIIO  nursed  the  boon  of  Heaven. 
Exalted  bard !  to  hear  thy  gentler  voice, 
The  valleys  listen,  and  their  swains  rejoice ; 

63 


64 


WILLIAM   CLIFFTON. 


But  when,  on  some  wild  mountain's  awful  form, 
We  hear  thy  spirit  chanting  to  the  storm, 
Of  battling  chiefs,  and  armies  laid  in  gore, 
We  rage,  we  sigh,  we  wonder,  and  adore. 
Thus  Rome  with  Greece  in  rival  splendour  shone, 
But  claim'd  immortal  satire  for  her  own; 
While  HORACE  pierced,  full  oft,  the  wanton  breast 
With  sportive  censure,  and  resistless  jest ; 
And  that  Etrurian,  whose  indignant  lay 
Thy  kindred  genius  can  so  well  display, 
With  many  a  well-aim'd  thought,  and  pointed  line, 
Drove  the  bold  villain  from  his  black  design. 
For,  as  those  mighty  masters  of  the  lyre, 
With  tempcr'd  dignity,  or  quenchless  ire, 
Through  all  the  various  paths  of  science  trod, 
Their  school  was  NATURE  and  their  teacher  GOD. 
Nor  did  the  muse  decline  till,  o'er  her  head, 
The  savage  tempest  of  the  north  was  spread ; 
Till  arm'd  with  desolation's  bolt  it  came, 
And  wrapp'd  her  temple  in  funereal  flame. 

But  soon  the  arts  once  more  a  dawn  diffuse, 
And  DAXTE  hail'd  it  with  his  morning  muse; 
PETRARCH  and  BOCCACE  join'd  the  choral  lay, 
And  Arno  glisten'd  with  returning  day. 
Thus  science  rose ;  and,  all  her  troubles  pass'd, 
She  hoped  a  steady,  tranquil  reign  at  last; 
But  FAUSTCS  came :  (indulge  the  painful  thought,) 
Were  not  his  countless  volumes  dearly  bought1? 
For,  while  to  every  clime  and  class  they  flew, 
Their  worth  diminish'd  as  their  numbers  grew. 
Some  pressman,  rich  in  HOMER'S  glowing  page, 
Could  give  ten  epics  to  one  wondering  age ; 
A  single  thought  supplied  the  great  design, 
And  clouds  of  Iliads  spread  from  every  line. 
Nor  HOMER'S  glowing  page,  nor  VIRGIL'S  fire 
Could  one  lone  breast  with  equal  flame  inspire, 
But,  lost  in  books,  irregular  and  wild, 
The  poet  wonder'd,  and  the  critic  smiled : 
The  friendly  smile,  a  bulkier  work  repays ; 
For  fools  will  print,  while  greater  fools  will  praise. 

Touch'd  with  the  mania,  now,  what  millions  rage 
To  shine  the  laureat  blockheads  of  the  age. 
The  dire  contagion  creeps  through  every  grade; 
Girls,  coxcombs,  peers,  and  patriots  drive  the  trade : 
And  e'en  the  hind,  his  fruitful  fields  forgot, 
For  rhyme  and  misery  leaves  his  wife  and  cot. 
Ere  to  his  breast  the  wasteful  mischief  spread, 
Content  and  plenty  cheer'd  his  little  shed ; 
And,  while  no  thoughts  of  state  perplex'd  his  mind, 
His  harvests  ripening,  and  Pastora  kind, 
He  laugh'd  at  toil,  with  health  and  vigour  bless'd, 
For  days  of  labour  brought  their  nights  of  rest: 
But  now  in  rags,  ambitious  for  a  name, 
The  fool  of  faction,  and  the  dupe  of  fame, 
His  conscience  haunts  him  with  his  guilty  life, 
His  starving  children,  and  his  ruin'd  wife. 
Thus  swarming  wits,  of  all  materials  made, 
Their  Gothic  hands  on  social  quiet  laid, 
And,  as  they  rave,  unmindful  of  the  storm, 
Call  lust,  refinement;  anarchy,  reform. 


No  love  to  foster,  no  dear  friend  to  wrong, 
Wild  as  the  mountain  flood,  they  drive  along : 
And  sweep,  remorseless,  every  social  bloom 
To  the  dark  level  of  an  endless  tomb. 

By  arms  assail'd  we  still  can  arms  oppose, 
And  rescue  learning  from  her  brutal  foes; 
But  when  those  foes  to  friendship  make  pretence, 
And  tempt  the  judgment  with  the  baits  of  sense, 
Carouse  with  passion,  laugh  at  GOD'S  control, 
And  sack  the  little  empire  of  the  soul, 
What  warning  voice  can  pave!     Alas!  'tis  o'er, 
The  age  of  virtue  will  return  no  more; 
The  doating  world,  its  manly  vigour  flown, 
Wanders  in  mind,  and  dreams  on  folly's  throne. 
Come  then,  sweet  bard,  again  the  cause  defend, 
Be  still  the  muses'  and  religion's  friend; 
Again  the  banner  of  thy  wrath  display, 
And  save  the  world  from  DARWIN'S  tinsel  lay. 
A  soul  like  thine  no  listless  pause  should  know ; 
Truth  bids  thee  strike,  and  virtue  guides  the  blow 
From  every  conquest  still  more  dreadful  come, 
Till  dulness  fly,  and  folly's  self  be  dumb. 


MARY  WILL  SMILE. 


THE  morn  was  fresh,  and  pure  the  gale, 

When  MART,  from  her  cot  a  rover, 
Pluck'd  many  a  wild  rose  of  the  vale 

To  bind  the  temples  of  her  lover. 
As  near  his  little  farm  she  stray'd, 

Wrhere  birds  of  love  were  ever  pairing, 
She  saw  her  WIILIAM  in  the  shade, 

The  arms  of  ruthless  war  preparing. 
"Though  now,"  he  cried.  "I  seek  the  hostile  plain, 
MART  shall  smile,  and  all  be  fair  again." 

She  seized  his  hand,  and  "Ah!"  she  cried, 

"  Wilt  thou,  to  camps  and  war  a  stranger, 
Desert  thy  MART'S  faithful  side, 

And  bare  thy  life  to  every  danger? 
Yet,  go,  brave  youth !  to  arms  away ! 

My  maiden  hands  for  fight  shall  dress  thee, 
And  when  the  drum  beats  far  away, 

I'll  drop  a  silent  tear,  and  bless  thee. 
Return'd  with  honour,  from  the  hostile  plain, 
MART  will  smile,  and  all  be  fair  again. 

"  The  bugles  through  the  forest  wind, 

The  woodland  soldiers  call  to  battle : 
Be  some  protecting  angel  kind, 

And  guard  thy  life  when  cannons  rattle !" 
She  sung — and  as  the  rose  appears 

In  sunshine,  when  the  storm  is  over, 
A  smile  beam'd  sweetly  through  her  tears — 

The  blush  of  promise  to  her  lover. 
Return'd  in  triumph  from  the  hostile  plain, 
All  shall  be  fair,  and  MART  smile  again. 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON 


[Born,  1779.    Died,  1843.] 


MR.  ALLSTON  was  born  in  South  Carolina,  of  a 
family  which  has  contributed  some  eminent  names 
to  our  annals,  though  none  that  sheda  more  lustre 
upon  the  parent  stock  than  his  own.  When  very 
young-,  by  the  advice  of  physicians,  he  was  sent  to 
Newport,  Rhode  Island,  where  he  remained  until 
he  entered  Harvard  College  in  1796.  In  his  boy- 
hood he  delighted  to  listen  to  the  wild  tales  and 
traditions  of  the  negroes  upon  his  father's  planta- 
tion ;  and  while  preparing  for  college,  and  after 
his  removal  to  Cambridge,  no  books  gave  him  so 
much  pleasure  as  the  most  marvellous  and  terrible 
creations  of  the  imagination.  At  Newport  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  MALHONE,  the  painter,  and 
was  thus,  perhaps,  led  to  the  choice  of  his  profes- 
sion. He  began  to  paint  in  oil  before  he  went  to 
Cambridge,  and  while  there  divided  his  attention 
between  his  pencil  and  his  books.  Upon  being 
graduated  he  returned  to  South  Carolina,  to  make 
arrangements  for  prosecuting  his  studies  in  Eu> 
rope.  He  had  friends  who  offered  to  assist  him 
with  money,  and  one  of  them,  a  Scottish  gentle- 
man named  BOWMAN,  who  had  seen  and  admired 
a  head  which  he  had  painted  of  Peter  hearing  the 
cock  crow,  pressed  him  to  accept  an  annuity  of  one 
hundred  pounds  while  he  should  remain  abroad  ; 
but  he  declined'  it,  having  already  sold  his  paternal 
estate  for  a  sum  sufficient  to  defray  his  looked- 
for  expenses  ;  and,  with  his  friend  MALBONE,  em- 
barked for  England  in  the  summer  of  1801. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  hi  London,  he  became  a 
student  of  the  Royal  Academy,  then  under  the 
presidency  of  our  countryman,  WKST,  with  whom 
he  contracted  an  intimate  and  lasting  friendship. 
His  abilities  as  an  artist,  brilliant  conversation, and 
gentlemanly  manners,  made  him  a  welcome  guest 
at  the  houses  of  the  great  painters  of  the  time ; 
and  within  a  .year  from  the  beginning  of  his  resi- 
dence in  London,  he  was  a  successful  exhibitor  at 
Somerset  House,  and  a  general  favourite  with  the 
most  distinguished  members  of  his  profession. 

In  1804,  having  been  three  years  in  England, 
he  accompanied  JOHN  VANDEIILYN  to  Paris.  Af- 
ter passing  a  few  months  in  that  capital,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Italy,  where  he  remained  four  years. 
Among  his  fellow-students  and  intimate  asso- 
ciates here,  were  VANDERLYN  and  the  Danish 
sculptor  THOIIWALDSEX.  Another  friend  with 
whom  he  now  became  acquainted,  was  COLE- 
RIDGE. In  one  of  his  letters  he  says.-  "To  no 
other  man  do  I  owe  so  much,  intellectually,  as  to 
Mr.  COLERIDGE,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted 
in  Rome,  and  who  has  honoured  me  with  his 
friendship  for  more  than  five-and-twenty  years. 
He  used  to  call  Rome  the  silent  city  ;  but  I  never 
could  think  of  it  as  such,  while  with  him ;  for 
meet  him  when  or  where  I  would,  the  fountain  of 


his  mind  was  never  dry,  but,  like  the  far-reaching 
aqueducts  that  once  supplied  this  mistress  of  the 
world,  its  living  stream  seemed  specially  to  flow 
for  every  classic  ruin  over  which  we  wandered. 
And  when  I  recall  some  of  our  walks  under  the, 
pines  of  the  villa  Borghese,  I  am  almost  tempted 
to  dream  that  I  had  once  listened  to  PLATO  in  the 
groves  of  the  Academy." 

In  1809  ALLSTON  returned  to  America,  and 
was  soon  after  married  at  Boston  to  a  sister  of  Dr. 
CHANGING.  In  1811  he  went  a  second  time  to 
England.  His  reputation  as  a  painter  was  now 
well  established,  and  he  gained  by  his  picture  of 
the  "  Dead  Man  raised  by  the  Bones  of  Elisha"*  a 
prize  of  two  hundred  guineas,  at  the  British  In- 
stitution, where  the  first  artists  in  the  world  were 
his  competitors.  A  long  and  dangerous  illness 
succeeded  his  return  to  London,  and  he  removed 
to  the  village  of  Clifton,  where  he  wrote  "  The 
Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,"  and  some  of  the  other 
poems  included  in  a  volume  which  he  published  hi 
1813.  Within  two  weeks  after  the  renewal  of  his 
residence  in  the  metropolis,  in  the  last-mentioned 
year,  his  wife  died,  very  suddenly ;  and  the  event, 
inducing  the  deepest  depression  and  melancholy, 
caused  a  temporary  suspension  of  his  labours. 

In  1818  he  accompanied  LESLIE  to  Paris,  and 
in  the  autumn  of  the  following  year  came  back  to 
America,  having  been  previously  elected  an  asso- 
ciate of  the  English  Royal  Academy.  In  1830 
he  married  a  sister  of  RICHARD  H.  DANA,  and 
the  remainder  of  his  life  was  tranquilly  passed  at 
Cambridgeport,  near  Boston,  where  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  warm  and  genial  friends,  in  assiduous 
devotion  to  his  art.  He  died  very  suddenly,  on 
the  night  of  the  eighth  of  July,  1843. 

As  a  painter  ALLSTON  had  no  superior,  perhaps 
not  an  equal,  in  his  age.  He  differed  from  his 
contemporaries,  as  he  said  of  MOXALDI,  "  no  less 
in  kind  than  in  degree.  If  he  held  any  thing  in 
common  with  others,  it  was  with  those  of  ages 
past,  with  the  mighty  dead  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. From  them  he  had  learned  the  language  of 
his  art,  but  his  thoughts,  and  their  turn  of  expres- 
sion, were  his  own."  Among  his  principal  works 
are  "  The  Dead  Man  restored  to  Life  by  Elisha  ;'* 
the  "Angel  liberating  Peter  from  Prison;''  "Jacob's 
Dream  ;"  "  Elijah  in  the  Desert ;"  the  "  Trium. 
phant  Song  of  Miriam ;"  "  The  Angel  Uriel  in  the 
Sun ;"  "  Saul  and  the  Witch  of  Endor ;"  "  Spala- 
tro's  Vision  of  the  bloody  Hand  ;"  "  Gabriel  setting 
the  Guard  of  the  Heavenly  Host ;"  «  Anne  Page 
and  Slender;"  "Rosalie;"  "Donna  Marcia  in  the 
Robber's  Cave ;"  and  "  Belshazzar's  Feast,  or  the 


*  This  work  he  subsequently  sold  to  the  Pennsylvania 
Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  for  thirty-live  hundred  dollars, 
i-  2  65 


66 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


} 


Handwriting  on  the  Wall."  The  last  work,  upon 
which  he  had  been  engaged  at  intervals  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  he  left  unfinished. 

Besides  the  volume  of  poems  already  mentioned, 
and  many  short  pieces  which  have  since  been  given 
to  the  public,  Mr.  ALLSTON  was  the  author  of 
«  MONALDI,"  a  story  of  extraordinary  power  and 
interest,  in  which  he  displays  a  deep  sensibility  to 
beauty,  and  philosophic  knowledge  of  human  pas- 
sion. He  wrote  also  a  series  of  discourses  on  art,  and 
various  essays  and  poems,  which  are  unpublished. 

Although  ALLSTON  owed  his  chief  celebrity  to 
his  paintings,  which  will  preserve  for  his  name  a 
place  in  the  list  of  the  greatest  artists  of  all  the 
nations  and  ages,  his  literary  works  alone  would 
have  given  him  a  high  rank  among  men  of  genius. 
A  great  painter,  indeed,  is  of  necessity  a  poet, 
though  he  may  lack  the  power  to  express  fittingly 
his  conceptions  in  language.  ALLSTON  had  in 
remarkable  perfection  all  the  faculties  required  for 
either  art  "The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,"  his 
longest  poem,  in  which  he  describes  the  scenery 


THE  PAINT  KING. 

Ellen  was  long  the  delight  of  the  young, 
JVo  damsel  could  with  her  compare ;       [tongue, 
Her  charms  were  the  theme  of  the  heart  and  the 
And  bards  without  number  in  ecstasies  sung 
The  beauties  of  Ellen  the  fair. 

Yet  cold  was  the  maid ;  and  though  legions  advanced, 

All  drill'd  by  Ovidean  art, 
And  languish'd,  and  ogled,  protested  and  danced, 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  shadows  they 

From  the  hard  polish'd  ice  of  her  heart   [glanced 

Yet  still  did  the  heart  of  fair  Ellen  implore 

A  something  that  could  not  be  found ; 
Like  a  sailor  she  seein'd  on  a  desolate  shore, 
With  nor  house,  nor  a  tree,  nor  a  sound  but  the  roar 
Of  breakers  high  dashing  around. 

From  object  to  object  still,  still  would  she  veer, 

Though  nothing,  alas,  could  she  find  ;       [clear, 
Like  the  moon,  without  atmosphere,  brilliant  and 
Yet  doom'd,  like  the  moon,  with  no  being  to  cheer 
The  bright  barren  waste  of  her  mind. 

But  rather  than  sit  like  a  statue  so  still 

When  the  rain  made  her  mansion  a  pound, 
Up  and  down  would  she  go,  like  the  sails  of  a  mill, 
And  pat  every  stair,  like  a  woodpecker's  bill, 
From  the  tiles  of  the  roof  to  the  ground. 

One  morn,  as  the  maid  from  her  casement  inclined} 
Passed  a  youth,  with  a  frame  in  his  hand. 

The  casement  she  closed — not  the  eye  of  her  mind; 

For,  do  all  she  could,  no,  she  could  not  be  blind ; 
Still  before  her  she  saw  the  youth  stand. 

"  Ah,  what  can  he  do,"  said  the  languishing  maid, 

«  Ah,  what  with  that  frame  can  he  do  ?" 
And  she  knelt  to  the  goddess  of  secrets  and  pray'd, 
When  the  youth  pass'd  again,  and  again  he  display 'd 
The  frame  and  a  picture  to  view. 


of  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  and  Winter,  and  the 
effects  of  each  season  on  the  mind,  show  that  he 
regarded  nature  with  a  curious  eye,  and  had 
power  to  exhibit  her  beauties  with  wonderful  dis- 
tinctness and  fidelity.  "The  Two  Painters"  is 
an  admirable  satire,  intended  to  ridicule  attempts 
to  reach  perfection  in  one  excellency  in  the  art  of 
painting,  to  the  neglect  of  every  other;  the  "Paint 
King"  is  a  singularly  wild,  imaginative  story ;  and 
nearly  all  his  minor  poems  are  strikingly  original 
and  beautiful.  It  was  in  his  paintings,  however, 
that  the  power  and  religious  grandeur  of  his  ima- 
gination were  most  strongly  developed. 

When  this  work  was  originally  published,  I 
dedicated  it  to  Mr.  ALLSTON,  with  whom  I  had  the 
happiness  to  be  personally  acquainted,  addressing 
him  as  "  the  eldest  of  the  living  poets,  and  the  most 
illustrious  of  the  painters"  of  our  country.  I  retain 
the  dedication  in  this  edition,  as  an  expression  of 
the  admiration  and  reverence  in  which  I,  with  all 
who  knew  him,  continue  to  hold  his  genius  and 
character. 


"  Oh,  beautiful  picture !"  the  fair  Ellen  cried, 

"  I  must  see  thee  again  or  I  die." 
Then  under  her  white  chin  her  bonnet  she  tied, 
And  after  the  youth  and  the  picture  she  hied, 

When  the  youth,  looking  back,  met  her  eye. 

"  Fair  damsel,"  said  he,  (and  he  chuckled  the  while,) 

"This  picture  I  see  you  admire  : 
Then  take  it,  I  pray  you,  perhaps  'twill  beguile 
Some  moments  of  sorrow ;  (nay,  pardon  my  smile) 

Or,  at  least,  keep  you  home  by  the  fire." 

Then  Ellen  the  gift  with  delight  and  surprise 
From  the  cunning  young  stripling  received, 
But  she  knew  not  the  poison  that  enter'd  her  eyes, 
When  sparkling  with  rapture  they  gazed  on  her 
Thus,  alas,  are  fair  maidens  deceived  !       [prize — 

'T  was  a  youth  o'er  the  form  of  a  statue  inclined, 

And  the  sculptor  he  seem'd  of  the  stone ; 
Yet  he  languish'd  as  though  for  its  beauty  he  pined, 
And  gazed  as  the  eyes  of  the  statue  so  blind 
Reflected  the  beams  of  his  own. 

'T  was  the  tale  of  the  sculptor  Pygmalion  of  old ; 

Fair  Ellen  remember'd  and  sigh'd ; 
"  Ah,  couldst  thou  but  lift  from  that  marble  so  cold, 
Thine  eyes  too  imploring,  thy  arms  should  enfold, 

And  press  me  this  day  as  thy  bride." 

She  said :  when,  behold,  from  the  canvas  arose 

The  youth,  and  he  stepp'd fiom  the  frame: 
With  a  furious  transport  his  arms  did  enclose 
The  love-plighted  Ellen:  and,  clasping,  he  froze 
The  blood  of  the  maid  with  his  flame ! 

She  turn'd  and  beheld  on  each  shoulder  a  wing. 

«  Oh,  Heaven!"  cried  she,  "who  art  thoul" 
From  the  roof  to  the  ground  did  his  fierce  answer 

ring, 
As,  frowning,  he  thunder  d  « I  am  the  PAINT  KIXG! 

And  mine,  lovely  maid,  thou  art  now !'' 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


67 


Then  high  from  the  ground  did  the  grim  monster  lift 

The  loud-screaming  maid  like  a  blast ; 
And  he  sped  through  the  air  like  a  meteor  swift, 
While  the  clouds,  wand'ring  by  him. did  fearfully  drift 
To  the  right  and  the  left  as  he  pass'd. 

Now  suddenly  sloping  his  hurricane  flight, 

With  an  eddying  whirl  he  descends ; 
The  air  all  below  him  becomes  black  as  night, 
And  the  ground  where  he  treads,  as  if  moved  with 
Like  the  surge  of  the  Caspian,  bends,    [affright, 

« I  am  here !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  thundering 

At  the  gates  of  a  mountainous  cave;      [knocked 

The  gates  open  flew,  as  by  magic  unlock'd, 

While  the  peaks  of  the  mount,  reeling  to  and  fro, 

Like  an  island  of  ice  on  the  wave.  [rocked 

"  Oh,  merry !"  cried  Ellen,  and  swoon'd  in  his  arms, 
But  the  PAIXT-KI\G,  he  scoff'd  at  her  pain. 

"  Prithee,  love,"  said  the  monster, "  what  mean  these 
alarms'?" 

She  hears  not,  she  sens  not  the  terrible  charms, 
That  work  her  to  horror  again. 

She  opens  her  lids,  but  no  longer  her  eyes 
Behold  the  fair  youth  she  would  woo ; 

Now  appears  the  PAIXT-KIXG  in  his  natural  guise ; 

His  face,  like  a  palette  of  villanous  dyes, 
Black  and  white,  red  and  yellow,  and  blue. 

On  the  skull  of  a  Titan,  that  Heaven  defied, 

Sat  the  fiend,  like  the  grim  giant  Gog, 
While  aloft  to  his  mouth  a  hugh  pipe  he  applied, 
Twice  as  big  as  the  Eddystone  Lighthouse,  descried 
As  it  looms  through  an  easterly  fog. 

And  anon,  as  he  pufF'd  the  vast  volumes,  were  seen, 

In  horrid  festoons  on  the  wall, 
Legs  and  arms,  heads  and  bodies  emerging  between, 
Like  the  drawing-room  grim  of  the  Scotch  Sawney 

By  the  Devil  dressed  out  for  a  ball.         [Beane, 

«  Ah  me  !"  cried  the  damsel,  and  fell  at  his  feet, 

"Must  I  hang  on  these  walls  to  be  dried  1" 
"  Oh,  no  !"  said  the  fiend,  while  he  sprung  from  his 
«  A  far  nobler  fortune  thy  person  shall  meet ;     [seat, 
Into  paint  will  I  grind  thee,  my  bride  !" 

Then,  seizing  the  maid  by  her  dark  auburn  hair, 

An  oil  jug  he  plunged  her  within  ; 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  with  the  shrieks  of  despair, 
Did  Ellen  in  torment  convulse  the  dun  air, 

All  covered  with  oil  to  the  chin. 

On  the  morn  of  the  eighth,  on  a  huge  sable  stone 

Then  Ellen,  all  recking,  he  laid  ; 
With  a  rock  for  his  mullrr  he  crushed  every  bone, 
But,  though  ground  to  jelly,  still,  still  did  she  groan ; 

For  life  had  forsook  not  the  maid. 
Now  reaching  his  palette,  with  masterly  care 

Each  tint  on  its  surface  he  spruad  ; 
The  blue,  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brown  of  her  hair, 
And  the  pearl  and  the  white  of  her  forehead  so  fair, 

And  her  lips'  and  her  checks'  rosy  red. 

Then,  stamping  his  foot,  did  the  monster  exclaim, 

"  Now  I  brave,  cruel  fairy,  thy  scorn  !'' 
Whenlo!  from  a  chasm  wide-yawning  there  came 
A  light  tiny  chariot  of  rose-colour'd  flame, 
By  a  team  of  ten  glow-worms  upborne. 


Enthroned  in  the  midst  on  an  emerald  bright, 

Fan-  Gcraldine  sat  without  peer ; 
Her  robe  was  a  gleam  of  the  first  blush  of  light, 
And  her  mantle  the  fleece  of  a  noon-cloud  white, 

And  a  beam  of  the  moon  was  her  spear. 

In  an  accent  that  stole  on  the  still  charmed  air 

Like  the  first  gentle  language  of  Eve, 
Thus  spake  from  her  chariot  the  fairy  so  fair  : 
"  I  come  at  the  call,  but,  oh  Paint-King,  beware, 
Beware  if  again  you  deceive." 

« 'T  is  true,"  said  the  monster,  « thou  queen  of  my 
Thy  portrait  I  oft  have  essay'd;  [heart, 

Yet  ne'er  to  the  canvas  could  I  with  my  art 
The  least  of  thy  wonderful  beauties  impart ; 
And  my  failure  with  scorn  you  repaid. 

"  Now  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  comet-king's  tail !" 

And  he  tower'd  with  pride  as  he  spoke, 
"  If  again  with  these  magical  colours  I  fail, 
The  crater  of  Etna  shall  hence  be  my  jail, 
And  my  food  shall  be  sulphur  and  smoke. 

«  But  if  I  succeed,  then,  oh,  fair  Geraldine ! 

Thy  promise  with  justice  I  claim, 
And  thou,  queen  of  fairies,  shalt  ever  be  mine, 
The  bride  of  my  bed  ;  and  thy  portrait  divine 

Shall  fill  all  the  earth  with  my  fame." 

He  spake ;  when,  behold,  the  fair  Geraldine's  form 
On  the  canvas  enchantingly  glow'd ; 

His  touches — they  flew  like  the  leaves  in  a  storm ; 

And  the  pure  pearly  white  and  the  carnation  warm 
Contending  in  harmony  flow'd. 

And  now  did  the  portrait  a  twin-sister  seem 

To  the  figure  of  Geraldine  fair : 
With  the  same  sweet  expression  did  faithfully  teem 
Each  muscle,  each  feature  ;  in  short  not  a  gleam 

Was  lost  of  her  beautiful  hair. 

'T  was  the  fairy  herself !  but,  alas,  her  blue  eyes 

Still  a  pupil  did  ruefully  lack ; 
And  who  shall  describe  the  terrific  surprise 
That  seized  the  PAIKT-KIXO  when, behold,  he  des- 

Not  a  speck  on  his  palette  of  black  !  [cries 

« I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  shook  like  a  leaf; 

When,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
He  saw  the  lost  pupils  of  Ellen  with  grief 
In  the  jaws  of  a  mouse,  and  the  sly  little  thief 

Whisk  away  from  his  sight  with  a  bound. 

"  I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  fell  like  a  stone ; 

Then  rising  the  fairy  in  ire 
With  a  touch  of  her  finger  she  looscn'd  her  zone, 
(While  the  limbs  on  the  wall  gave  a  terrible  groan,) 

And  she  swell'd  to  a  column  of  fire. 

Her  spear,  now  a  thunder-bolt,  flash'd  in  the  air, 

And  sulphur  the  vault  fill'd  around  : 
She  smote  the  grim  monster ;  and  now  by  the  hair 
High-lifting,  she  hurl'd  him  in  speechless  despair 
Down  the  depths  of  the  chasm  profound. 

Then  over  the  picture  thrice  waving  her  spear, 

"  Come  forth  !"  said  the  good  Geraldine  ; 
When,  behold,  from  the  canvas  descending,  appear 
Fair  Ellen,  in  person  more  lovely  than  e'er, 
With  grace  more  than  ever  divine  ! 


68 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


THE  SYLPHS  OF  THE  SEASONS, 
A  POET'S  DREAM. 

LONG  has  it  been  my  fate  to  hear 
The  slave  of  Mammon,  with  a  sneer, 

My  indolence  reprove. 
Ah,  little  knows  he  of  the  care, 
The  toil,  the  hardship  that  I  bear 
While  lolling  in  my  elbow-chair, 

And  seeming  scarce  to  move : 

For,  mounted  on  the  poet's  steed, 
I  there  my  ceaseless  journey  speed 

O'er  mountain,  wood,  and  stream : 
And  oft,  within  a  little  day, 
Mid  comets  fierce,  't  is  mine  to  stray, 
And  wander  o'er  the  milky-way 

To  catch  a  poet's  dream. 

But  would  the  man  of  lucre  know 
What  riches  from  my  labours  flow — 

A  DREAM  is  my  reply. 
And  who  for  wealth  has  ever  pined, 
That  had  a  world  within  his  mind, 
Where  every  treasure  he  may  find, 

And  joys  that  never  die ! 

One  night,  my  task  diurnal  done, 
(For  I  had  travell'd  with  the  sun 

O'er  burning  sands,  o'er  snows,) 
Fatigued,  I  sought  the  couch  of  rest ; 
My  wonted  prayer  to  Heaven  address'd ; 
But  scarce  had  I  my  pillow  press'd, 

When  thus  a  vision  rose : — 

Methought,  within  a  desert  cave, 
Cold,  dark,  and  solemn  as  the  grave, 

I  suddenly  awoke. 
It  seem'd  of  sable  night  the  cell, 
Where,  save  when  from  the  ceiling  fell 
An  oozing  drop,  her  silent  spell 

No  sound  had  ever  broke. 

There  motionless  I  stood  alone, 

Like  some  strange  monument  of  stone 

Upon  a  barren  wild  ; 
Or  like  (so  solid  and  profound 
The  darkness  seem'd  that  wall'd  me  round) 
A  man  that's  buried  under  ground, 

Where  pyramids  are  piled. 

Thus  fix'd,  a  dreadful  hour  I  pass'd, 
And  now  I  heard,  as  from  a  blaa£, 

A  voice  pronounce  my  name : 
Nor  long  upon  my  ear  it  dwelt, 
When  round  me  'gan  the  air  to  melt, 
And  motion  once  again  I  felt 

Quick  circling  o'er  my  frame. 

Again  it  call'd ;  and  then  a  ray, 
That  seem'd  a  gushing  fount  of  day, 

Across  the  cavern  stream'd. 
Half-struck  with  terror  and  delight, 
I  hail'd  the  little  blessed  light, 
And  follow'd  till  my  aching  sight 

An  orb  of  darkness  seem'd. 


Nor  long  I  felt  the  blinding  pain  ; 
For  soon  upon  a  mountain  plain 

I  gazed  with  wonder  new. 
There  high  a  castle  rear'd  its  head ; 
And  far  below  a  region  spread, 
Where  every  season  seem'd  to  shed 

Its  own  peculiar  hue. 

Now,  at  the  castle's  massy  gate, 
Like  one  that's  blindly  urged  by  fate, 

A  bugle-horn  I  blew. 
The  mountain-plain  it  shook  around, 
The  vales  return'd  a  hollow  sound, 
And,  moving  with  a  sigh  profound, 

The  portals  open  flew. 

Then  entering,  from  a  glittering  hall 
I  heard  a  voice  seraphic  call, 

That  bade  me  "  Ever  reign  ! 
All  hail !"  it  said  in  accent  wild, 
"  For  thou  art  Nature's  chosen  child, 
Whom  wealth  nor  blood  has  e'er  defiled, 

Hail,  lord  of  this  domain !" 

And  now  I  paced  a  bright  saloon, 
That  seem'd  illumined  by  the  moon, 

So  mellow  was  the  light. 
The  walls  with  jetty  darkness  teem'd, 
While  down  them  crystal  columns  stream'd, 
And  each  a  mountain  torrent  seem'd, 

High-flashing  through  the  night. 

Rear'd  in  the  midst,  a  double  throne 
Like  burnish'd  cloud  of  evening  shone  ; 

While,  group'd  the  base  around, 
Four  damsels  stood  of  fairy  race  ; 
Who,  turning  each  with  heavenly  grace 
Upon  me  her  immortal  face, 

Transfix'd  me  to  the  ground. 

And  thus  the  foremost  of  the  train : 
"Be  thine  the  throne,  and  thine  to  reign 

O'er  all  the  varying  year  ! 
But  ere  thou  rulest,  the  Fates  command, 
That  of  our  chosen  rival  band 
A  Sylph  shall  win  thy  heart  and  hand, 

Thy  sovereignty  to  share. 

"  For  we,  the  sisters  of  a  birth, 
Do  rule  by  turns  the  subject  earth 

To  serve  ungrateful  man  ; 
But  since  our  varied  toils  impart 
No  joy  to  his  capricious  heart, 
'Tis  now  ordain'd  that  human  art 

Shall  rectify  the  plan." 

Then  spake  the  Sylph  of  Spring  serene, 
"  'T  is  I  thy  joyous  heart,  I  ween, 

With  sympathy  shall  move  : 
For  I  with  living  melody 
Of  birds  in  choral  symphony, 
First  waked  thy  soul  to  poesy, 

To  piety  and  love. 

"  When  thou,  at  call  of  vernal  breeze, 
And  beckoning  bough  of  budding  trees, 
Hast  left  thy  sullen  fire  ; 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 


69 


And  stretch'd  thce  in  some  mossy  dell, 
And  heard  the  browsing  wether's  bell. 
Blithe  echoes  rousing  from  their  cell 
To  swell  the  tinkling  choir  : 

«  Or  heard  from  branch  of  flowering  thorn 
The  song  of  friendly  cuckoo  warn 

The  tardy-moving  swain ; 
Hast  bid  the  putple  swallow  hail ; 
And  seen  him  now  through  ether  sail, 
Now  sweeping  downward  o'er  the  vale, 

And  skimming  now  the  plain  ; 

«  Then,  catching  with  a  sudden  glance 
The  bright  and  silver-clear  expanse 

Of  some  broad  river's  stream, 
Beheld  the  boats  adown  it  glide, 
And  motion  wind  again  the  tide, 
Where,  chain'd  in  ice  by  winter's  pride, 

Late  roll'd  the  heavy  team  : 

"  Or,  lured  by  some  fresh-scented  gale 
That  woo'd  the  moored  fisher's  sail 

To  tempt  the  mighty  main, 
Hast  watch'd  the  dim,  receding  shore, 
Now  faintly  seen  the  ocean  o'er, 
Like  hanging  cloud,  and  now  no  more 

To  bound  the  sapphire  plain ; 

«  Then,  wrapt  in  night,  the  scudding  bark, 
(That  seem'd,  self-poised  amid  the  dark, 

Through  upper  air  to  leap,) 
Beheld,  from  thy  most  fearful  height, 
The  rapid  dolphin's  azure  light 
Cleave,  like  a  living  meteor  bright, 

The  darkness  of  the  deep: 

« 'T  was  mine  the  warm,  awakening  hand 
That  made  thy  grateful  heart  expand, 

And  feel  the  high  control 
Of  Him,  the  mighty  Power  that  moves 
Amid  the  waters  and  the  groves, 
And  through  his  vast  creation  proves 

His  omnipresent  soul. 

"  Or,  brooding  o'er  some  forest  rill, 
Fringed  with  the  early  daffodil, 

And  quivering  maiden-hair, 
When  thou  hast  mark'd  the  dusky  bed, 
With  leaves  and  water-rust  o'erspread, 
That  seem'd  an  amber  light  to  shed 

On  all  was  shadow'd  there ; 

"  And  thence,  as  by  its  murmur  call'd, 
The  current  traced  to  where  it  brawl'd 

Beneath  the  noontide  ray  ; 
And  there  beheld  the  checker'd  shade 
Of  waves,  in  many  a  sinuous  braid, 
That  o'er  the  sunny  channel  play'd, 

With  motion  ever  gay  : 

"  'T  was  I  to  these  the  magic  gave, 
That  made  thy  heart,  a  willing  slave, 

To  gentle  Nature  bend  ; 
And  taught  thee  how  with  tree  and  flower, 
And  whispering  gale,  and  dropping  shower, 
In  converse  sweet  to  pass  the  hour, 

As  with  an  early  friend : 


"  That  mid  the  noontide,  sunny  haze 
Did  in  thy  languid  bosom  raise 

The  raptures  of  the  boy  ; 
When,  waked  as  if  to  second  birth, 
Thy  soul  through  every  pore  look'd  forth, 
And  gazed  upon  the  beauteous  earth 

With  myriad  eyes  of  joy  : 

"  That  made  thy  heart,  like  HIS  above, 
To  flow  with  universal  love 

For  every  living  thing. 
And,  0  !  if  I,  with  ray  divine, 
Thus  tempering,  did  thy  soul  refine, 
Then  let  thy  gentle  heart  be  mine, 

And  bless  the  Sylph  of  Spring." 

And  next  the  Sylph  of  Summer  fair ; 
The  while  her  crisped,  golden  hair 

Half-veil'd  her  sunny  eyes : 
"  Nor  less  may  I  thy  homage  claim, 
At  touch  of  whose  exhaling  flame 
The  fog  of  Spring,  that  chill'd  thy  frame, 

In  genial  vapour  flies. 

"  Oft,  by  the  heat  of  noon  oppress'd 
With  flowing  hair  and  open  vest, 

Thy  footsteps  have  I  won 
To  mossy  couch  of  welling  grot, 
Where  thou  hast  bless'd  thy  happy  lot, 
That  thou  in  that  delicious  spot 

Mayst  see,  not  feel,  the  sun : 

«  Thence  tracing  from  the  body's  change, 
In  curious  philosophic  range, 

The  motion  of  the  mind  ; 
And  how  from  thought  to  thought  it  flew, 
Still  hoping  in  each  vision  new 
The  fairy  land  of  bliss  to  view, 

But  ne'er  that  land  to  find. 

"  And  then,  as  grew  thy  languid  mood, 
To  some  embowering,  silent  wood 

I  led  thy  careless  way  ; 
Where  high  from  tree  to  tree  in  air 
Thou  saw'st  the  spider  swing  her  snare, 
So  bright ! — as  if,  entangled  there, 

The  sun  had  left  a  ray  : 

"  Or  lured  thee  to  some  beetling  steep, 
To  mark  the  deep  and  quiet  sleep 

That  wrapt  the  tarn  below  ; 
And  mountain  blue  and  forest  green 
Inverted  on  its  plane  serene, 
Dim  gleaming  through  the  filmy  sheen 

That  glazed  the  painted  show ; 

"  Perchance,  to  mark  the  fisher's  skiff 
Swift  from  beneath  some  shadowy  cliff 

Dart,  like  a  gust  of  wind  ; 
And,  as  she  skimm'd  the  sunny  lake, 
In  many  a  playful  wreath  her  wake 
Far-trailing,  like  a  silvery  snake, 

With  sinuous  length  behind. 

"Not  less,  when  hill,  and  dale,  and  heath 
Still  Evening  wrapt  in  mimic  death, 
Thy  spirit  true  I  proved  : 


70 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


Around  thee  as  the  darkness  stole, 
Before  thy  wild,  creative  soul 
I  bade  each  fairy  vision  roll 
Thine  infancy  had  loved. 

"  Then  o'er  the  silent,  sleeping  land, 
Thy  fancy,  like  a  magic  wand, 

Forth  call'd  the  elfin  race  : 
And  now  around  the  fountain's  brim 
In  circling  dance  they  gayly  skim ; 
And  now  upon  its  surface  swim, 

And  water-spiders  chase ; 

"  Each  circumstance  of  sight  or  sound 
Peopling  the  vacant  air  around 

With  visionary  life: 
For  if  amid  a  thicket  stirr'd, 
Or  flitting  bat,  or  wakeful  bird, 
Then  straight  thy  eager  fancy  heard 

The  din  of  fairy  strife  ; 

"  Now,  in  the  passing  beetle's  hum 
The  elfin  army's  goblin  drum 

To  pigmy  battle  sound  ; 
And  now,  where  dripping  dew-drops  plash 
On  waving  grass,  their  bucklers  clash, 
And  now  their  quivering  lances  dash, 

Wide-dealing  death  around : 

"  Or  if  the  moon's  effulgent  form 
The  passing  clouds  of  sudden  storm 

In  quick  succession  veil ; 
Vast  serpents  now,  their  shadows  glide, 
And,  coursing  now  the  mountain's  side, 
A  band  of  giants  huge,  they  stride 

O'er  hill,  and  wood,  and  dale. 

"  And  still  on  many  a  service  rare 
Could  I  descant,  if  need  there  were, 

My  firmer  claim  to  bind. 
But  rest  I  most  my  high  pretence 
On  that,  my  genial  influence, 
Which  made  the  body's  indolence 

The  vigour  of  the  mind." 

And  now,  in  accents  deep  and  low, 
Like  voice  of  fondly-cherish'd  wo, 

The  Sylph  of  Autumn  sad : 
"  Though  I  may  not  of  raptures  sing, 
That  graced  the  gentle  song  of  Spring, 
Like  Summer,  playful  pleasures  bring, 

Thy  youthful  heart  to  glad  ; 

"  Yet  still  may  I  in  hope  aspire 
Thy  heart  to  touch  with  chaster  fire, 

And  purifying  love : 
For  I  with  vision  high  and  holy, 
And  spell  of  quickening  melancholy, 
Thy  soul  from  sublunary  folly 

First  raised  to  worlds  above. 

"  What  though  be  mine  the  treasures  fair 
Of  purple  grape  and  yellow  pear, 

And  fruits  of  various  hue, 
And  harvests  rich  of  golden  grain, 
That  dance  in  waves  along  the  plain 
To  merry  song  of  reaping  swain, 

Beneath  the  welkin  blue  ; 


"  Witli  these  I  may  not  urge  my  suit, 
Of  Summer's  patient  toil  the  fruit, 

For  mortal  purpose  given ; 
Nor  may  it  fit  my  sober  mood 
To  sing  of  sweetly  murmuring  flood, 
Or  dyes  of  many-colour'd  wood, 

That  mock  the  bow  of  heaven. 

"  But,  know,  't  was  mine  the  secret  power 
That  wak'd  thee  at  the  midnight  hour 

In  bleak  November's  reign  : 
'T  was  I  the  spell  around  thee  cast, 
When  thou  didst  hear  the  hollow  blast 
In  murmurs  tell  of  pleasures  past, 

That  ne'er  would  come  again  : 

"  And  led  thee,  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
To  hear  the  sullen  ocean  roar, 

By  dreadful  calm  oppress'd  ; 
Which  still,  though  not  a  breeze  was  there, 
Its  mountain-billows  heav'd  in  air, 
As  if  a  living  thing  it  were, 

That  strove  in  vain  for  rest. 

"  'T  was  I,  when  thou,  subdued  by  wo, 
Didst  watch  the  leaves  descending  slow, 

To  each  a  moral  gave  ; 
And  as  they  moved  in  mournful  train, 
With  rustling  sound,  along  the  plain, 
Taught  them  to  sing  a  seraph's  strain 

Of  peace  within  the  grave. 

"  And  then,  upraised  thy  streaming  eye, 
I  met  thee  in  the  western  sky 

In  pomp  of  evening  cloud ; 
That,  while  with  varying  form  it  roll'd, 
Some  wizard's  castle  seern'd  of  gold, 
And  now  a  crimson'd  knight  of  old, 

Or  king  in  purple  proud. 

"And  last,  as  sunk  the  setting  sun, 
And  Evening  with  her  shadows  dun 

The  gorgeous  pageant  past, 
'T  was  then  of  life  a  mimic  show, 
Of  human  grandeur  here  below, 
Which  thus  beneath  the  fatal  blow 

Of  Death  must  fall  at  last. 

"  0,  then  with  what  aspiring  gaze 
Didst  thou  thy  tranced  vision  raise 

To  yonder  orbs  on  high, 
And  think  how  wondrous,  how  sublime 
'T  were  upwards  to  their  spheres  to  climb, 
And  live,  beyond  the  reach  of  Time, 

Child  of  Eternity  !" 

And  last  the  Sylph  of  Winter  spake; 
The  while  her  piercing  voice  did  shake 

The  castle-vaults  below. 
"  O,  youth,  if  thou,  with  soul  refin'd, 
Hast  felt  the  triumph  pure  of  mind, 
And  learn'd  a  secret  joy  to  find 

In  deepest  scenes  of  wo  ; 

"  If  e'er  with  fearful  car  at  eve 
Hast  heard  the  wailing  tempests  grieve 
Through  chink  of  shatter'd  wall ; 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 


71 


The  while  it  conjured  o'er  thy  brain 
Of  wandering  ghosts  a  mournful  train, 
That  low  in  fitful  sobs  complain 
Of  Death's  untimely  call : 

«  Or  feeling,  as  the  storm  increased, 
The  love  of  terror  nerve  thy  breast, 

Didst  venture  to  the  coast ; 
To  see  the  mighty  war-ship  leap 
From  wave  to  wave  upon  the  deep, 
Like  chamois  goat  from  steep  to  steep, 

Till  low  in  valley  lost ; 

"  Then,  glancing  to  the  angry  sky, 
Behold  the  clouds  with  fury  fly 

The  lurid  moon  athwart; 
Like  armies  huge  in  battle,  throng, 
And  pour  in  volleying  ranks  along, 
While  piping  winds  in  martial  song 

To  rushing  war  exhort : 

"  0,  then  to  me  thy  heart  be  given, 
To  me,  ordain'd  by  Him  in  heaven 

Thy  nobler  powers  to  wake. 
And  O  !  if  thou,  with  poet's  soul, 
High  brooding  o'er  the  frozen  pole, 
Hast  felt  beneath  my  stern  control 

The  desert  region  quake  ; 

"Or  from  old  Hecla's  cloudy  height, 
When  o'er  the  dismal,  half-year's  night 

He  pours  his  sulphurous  breath, 
Hast  known  my  petrifying  wind 
Wild  ocean's  curling  billows  bind, 
Like  bending  sheaves  by  harvest  hind, 

Erect  in  icy  death ; 

"  Or  heard  adown  the  mountain's  steep 
The  northern  blast  with  furious  sweep 

Some  cliff  dissever'd  dash  ; 
And  seen  it  spring  with  dreadful  bound 
From  rock  to  rock,  to  gulf  profound, 
While  echoes  fierce  from  caves  resound 

The  never-ending  crash : 

"  If  thus,  with  terror's  mighty  spell 
Thy  soul  inspired,  was  wont  to  swell, 

Thy  heaving  frame  expand  ; 
O,  then  to  me  thy  heart  incline ; 
For  know,  the  wondrous  charm  was  mine, 
That  fear  and  joy  did  thus  combine 

In  magic  union  bland. 

"  Nor  think  confined  my  native  sphere 
To  horrors  gaunt,  or  ghastly  fear, 

Or  desolation  wild  : 
For  I  of  pleasures  fair  could  sing, 
That  steal  from  life  its  sharpest  sting, 
And  man  have  made  around  it  cling, 

Like  mother  to  her  child. 

"  When  thou,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky, 
So  calm,  no  cloud  was  seen  to  fly, 

Hast  gazed  on  snowy  plain, 
Where  Nature  slept  so  pure  and  sweet, 
She  seem'd  a  corse  in  winding-sheet, 
Whose  happy  soul  had  gone  to  meet 

The  blest,  angelic  train ; 


"  Or  mark'd  the  sun's  declining  ray 
In  thousand  varying  colours  play 

O'er  ice-incrusted  heath, 
In  gleams  of  orange  now,  and  green, 
And  now  in  red  and  azure  sheen, 
Like  hues  on  dying  dolphin  seen, 

Most  lovely  when  in  death ; 

"  Or  seen,  at  dawn  of  eastern  light 
The  frosty  toil  of  fays  by  night 

On  pane  of  casement  clear, 
Where  bright  the  mimic  glaciers  shine, 
And  Alps,  with  many  a  mountain  pine, 
And  armed  knights  from  Palestine 

In  winding  march  appear : 

"'Twas  I  on  each  enchanting  scene 
The  charm  bestow'd  that  banished  spleen. 

Thy  bosom  pure  and  light. 
But  still  a  nobler  power  I  claim ; 
That  power  allied  to  poets'  fame, 
Which  language  vain  has  dared  to  name — 

The  soul's  creative  might 

"Though  Autumn  grave,  and  Summer  fair, 
And  joyous  Spring  demand  a  share 

Of  Fancy's  hallow'd  power, 
Yet  these  I  hold  of  humbler  kind, 
To  grosser  means  of  earth  confined, 
Through  mortal  sense  to  reach  the  mind, 

By  mountain,  stream,  or  flower. 

"But  mine,  of  purer  nature  still, 
Is  that  which  to  thy  secret  will 

Did  minister  unseen, 
Unfelt,  unheard ;  when  every  sense 
Did  sleep  in  drowsy  indolence, 
And  silence  deep  and  night  intense 

Enshrouded  every  scene ; 

"  That  o'er  thy  teeming  brain  did  raise 
The  spirits  of  departed  days 

Through  all  the  varying  year  ; 
And  images  of  things  remote, 
And  sounds  that  long  had  ceased  to  float, 
With  every  hue,  and  every  note, 

As  living  now  they  were  : 

"  And  taught  thee  from  the  motley  mass 
Each  harmonizing  part  to  class, 

(Like  Nature's  self  employ'd ;) 
And  then,  as  work'd  thy  wayward  will, 
From  these,  with  rare  combining  skill, 
With  new-created  worlds  to  fill 

Of  space  the  mighty  void. 

"  0  then  to  me  thy  heart  incline ; 
To  me,  whose  plastic  powers  combine 

The  harvest  of  the  mind  ; 
To  me,  whose  magic  coffers  bear 
The  spoils  of  all  the  toiling  year, 
That  still  in  mental  vision  wear 

A  lustre  more  refined." 

She  ceased — And  now,  in  doubtful  mood, 
All  motionless  and  mute  I  stood, 
Like  one  by  charm  oppress'd : 


72 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 


By  turns  from  each  to  each  I  roved, 
And  each  by  turns  again  I  loved ; 
For  ages  ne'er  could  one  have  proved 
More  lovely  than  the  rest. 

"  0  blessed  band,  of  birth  divine, 
What  mortal  task  is  like  to  mine !" — 

And  further  had  I  spoke, 
When,  lo  !  there  pour'd  a  flood  of  light 
So  fiercely  on  my  aching  sight, 
I  fell  beneath  the  vision  bright, 

And  with  the  pain  awoke. 


AMERICA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN.* 


ALL  hail !  thou  noble  land, 

Our  fathers'  native  soil ! 

0  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 

Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore ; 
For  thou,  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime ; 

While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim-. 
Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 
Like  the  milky-way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame ! 

Though  ages  long  have  pass'd 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravell'd  seas  to  roam, — 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame, 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ] 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  MILTON  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung, 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host  j 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul. 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 

Between  let  ocean  roll, 

Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun : 
yet,  still,  from  either  beach, 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  one !" 

*This  poem  was  first  published  in  COLERIDGE'S  "6y- 
billine  Leaves,"  in  1810. 


THE  SPANISH  MAID. 

FIVE  weary  months  sweet  Inez  number'd 
From  that  unfading  bitter  day 
When  last  she  heard  the  trumpet  bray 
That  call'd  her  Isidor  away — 

That  never  to  her  heart  has  slumber'd ; 

She  hears  it  now,  and  sees,  far  bending 
Along  the  mountain's  misty  side, 
His  plumed  troop,  that,  waving  wide, 
Seems  like  a  rippling,  feathery  tide, 

Now  bright,  now  with  the  dim  shore  blending ; 

She  hears  the  cannon's  deadly  rattle — 
And  fancy  hurries  on  to  strife, 
And  hears  the  drum  and  screaming  fife 
Mix  with  the  last  sad  cry  of  life. 

O,  should  he — should  he  fall  in  battle ! 

Yet  still  his  name  would  live  in  story, 
And  every  gallant  bard  in  Spain 
Would  fight  his  battles  o'er  again. 
And  would  not  she  for  such  a  strain 

Resign  him  to  his  country's  glory  1 

Thus  Inez  thought,  and  pluck'd  the  flower 
That  grew  upon  the  very  bank 
Where  first  her  ear  bewilder'd  drank 
The  plighted  vow — where  last  she  sank 

In  that  too  bitter  parting  hour. 

But  now  the  sun  is  westward  sinking ; 
And  soon  amid  the  purple  haze, 
That  showers  from  his  slanting  rays, 
A  thousand  loves  there  meet  her  gaze, 

To  change  her  high  heroic  thinking. 

Then  hope,  with  all  its  crowd  of  fancies, 
Before  her  flits  and  fills  the  air ; 
And,  deck'd  in  victory's  glorious  gear, 
In  vision  Isidor  is  there. 

Then  how  her  heart  mid  sadness  dances ! 

Yet  little  thought  she,  thus  forestalling 
The  coming  joy,  that  in  that  hour 
The  future,  like  the  colour'd  shower 
That  seems  to  arch  the  ocean  o'er, 

Was  in  the  living  present  falling. 

The  foe  is  slain.     His  sable  charger 

All  fleck'd  with  foam  comes  bounding  on , 
The  wild  Morena  rings  anon, 
And  on  its  brow  the  gallant  Don, 

And  gallant  steed  grow  larger,  larger ; 

And  now  he  nears  the  mountain-hollow; 
The  flowery  bank  and  little  lake 
Now  on  his  startled  vision  break — 
And  Inez  there. — He's  not  awake — 

Ah,  what  a  day  this  dream  will  follow ! 

But  no — he  surely  is  not  dreaming. 
Another  minute  makes  it  clear. 
A  scream,  a  rush,  a  burning  tear 
From  Inez'  cheek,  dispel  the  fear 

That  bliss  like  his  is  only  seeming. 


72                                              WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

By  turns  from  each  to  each  I  roved, 
And  each  by  turns  again  I  loved  ; 

THE  SPANISH  MAID. 

WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


ON    GREENOUGH'S    GROUP    OF   THE 
ANGEL  AND  CHILD. 

I  STOOD  alone ;  nor  word,  nor  other  sound, 
Broke  the  mute  solitude  that  closed  me  round ; 
As  when  the  air  doth  take  her  midnight  sleep, 
Leaving  the  wintry  stars  her  watch  to  keep, 
So  slept  she  now  at  noon.     But  not  alone 
My  spirit  then :  a  light  within  me  shone 

That  was  not  mine;  and  feelings  'undefined, 
And  thoughts  flow'd  in  upon  me  not  my  own. 
'T  was  that  deep  mystery — for  a"ye  unknown — 

The  living  presence  of  another's  mind.    .  .'fr-'  j 

Another  mind  was  there — the  gift  of  few — 

That  by  its  own  strong  will  can  all  that's  true 

In  its  own  nature  unto  others  give, 

And  mingling  life  with  life,  seem  there  to  live. 

I  felt  it  now  in  mine ;  and  oh  !  how  fair, 

How  beautiful  the  thoughts  that  met  me  there — 

Visions  of  Love,  and  Purity,  and  Truth ! 
Though  form  distinct  had  each,they  seem'd,as'twere, 
Imbodied  all  of  one  celestial  air — 

To  beam  for  ever  in  coequal  youth. 

And  thus  I  learn'd — as  in  the  mind  they  moved — 
These  stranger  Thoughts  the  one  the  other  loved; 
That  Purity  loved  Truth,  because  't  was  true, 
And  Truth,  because  'twas  pure,  the  first  did  woo; 
While  Love,  as  pure  and  true,  did  love  the  twain ; 
Then  Love  was  loved  of  them,  for  that  sweet  chain 

That  bound  them  all.    Thus  sure,  as  passionless, 
Their  love  did  grow,  till  one  harmonious  strain 
Of  melting  sounds  they  seem'd;  then,  changed  again, 

One  angel  form  they  took — Self-Happiness. 

This  angel  form  the  gifted  Artist  saw, 
That  held  me  in  his  spell.     'T  was  his  to  draw 
The  veil  of  sense,  and  see  the  immortal  race, 
The  Forms  spiritual,  that  know  not  place. 
He  saw  it  in  the  quarry,  deep  in  earth, 
And  stay'd  it  by  his  will,  and  gave  it  birth 

E'en  to  the  world  of  sense;  bidding  its  cell, 
The  cold,  hard  marble,  thus  in  plastic  girth 
The  shape  ethereal  fix,  and  body  forth 

A  being  of  the  skies — with  man  to  dwell. 

And  then  another  form  beside  it  stood ; 
'T  was  one  of  this  our  earth — though  the  warm  blood 
Had  from  it  pass'd — exhaled  as  in  a  breath 
Drawn  from  its  lips  by  the  cold  kiss  of  Death. 
Its  little  "  dream  of  human  life"  had  fled ; 
And  yet  it  seem'd  not  number'd  with  the  dead, 

But  one  emerging  to  a  life  so  bright 
That,  as  the  wondrous  nature  o'er  it  spread, 
Its  very  consciousness  did  seem  to  shed 

Rays  from  within,  and  clothe  it  all  in  light. 

Now  touch'd  the  Angel  Form  its  little  hand, 

Turning  upon  it  with  a  look  so  bland, 

And  yet  so  full  of  majesty,  as  less 

Than  holy  natures  never  may  impress — 

And  more  than  proudest  guilt  unmoved  may  brook. 

The  Creature  of  the  Earth  now  felt  that  look, 

And  stood  in  blissful  awe — as  one  above 
Who  saw  his  name  in  the  Eternal  Book, 
And  Him  that  open'd  it ;  e'en  Him  that  took 

The  Little  Child,  and  bless'd  it  in  his  love. 
10 


SONNETS. 

ON  A  FALLING  GROUP  IN  THE  LAST  JTJDG 
ML  NT  OF  MICHAEL  ANGKLO. 

How  vast,  how  dread,  o'erwhclming  is  the  thought 

Of  space  interminable!  to  the  soul 

A  circling  weight  that  crushes  into  naught 

Her  mighty  faculties !  a  wond'rous  whole, 

Without  or  parts,  beginning,  or  an  end ! 

How  fearful  then  on  desp'rate  wings  to  send 

The  fancy  e'en  amid  the  waste  profound ! 

Yet,  born  as  if  all  daring  to  astound, 

Thy  giant  hand,  O  AXGELO,  hath  hurl'd 

E'en  human  forms,  with  all  their  mortal  weight, 

Down  the  dread  void — fall  endless  as  their  fate ! 

Already  now  they  seem  from  world  to  world 

For  ages  thrown  ;  yet  doom'd,  another  past, 

Another  still  to  reach,  nor  e'er  to  reach  the  last ! 


ON  REMBRANT :  OCCASIONED  BY  HIS  PICTURE 
OF  JACOB'S  DREAM. 

As  in  that  twilight,  superstitious  age, 

When  all  beyond  the  narrow  grasp  of  mind 

Seem'd  fraught  with  meanings  of  supernal  kind, 

Wrhen  e'en  the  learned  philosophic  sage, 

Wont  with  the  stars  thro'  boundless  space  to  range, 

Listen'd  with  reverence  to  the  changeling's  tale  ; 

E'en  so,  thou  strangest  of  all  beings  strange  ! 

E'en  so  thy  visionary  scenes  I  hail ; 

That  like  the  rambling  of  an  idiot's  speech, 

No  image  giving  of  a  thing  on  earth, 

Nor  thought  significant  in  reason's  reach, 

Yet  in  their  random  shadowings  give  birth 

To  thoughts  and  things  from  other  worlds  that  come, 

And  fill  the  soul,  and  strike  the  reason  dumb. 


ON  THE  PICTURES  BY  RUBENS,  IN  THE  LUX- 
EMBOURG GALLERY. 

THEH.F.  is  a  charm  no  vulgar  mind  can  reach, 
No  critic  thwart,  no  mighty  master  teach ; 
A  charm  how  mingled  of  the  good  and  ill ! 
Yet  still  so  mingled  that  the  mystic  whole 
Shall  captive  hold  the  struggling  gazer's  will, 
Till  vanquish'd  reason  own  its  full  control. 
And  such,  O  RCJIESS,  thy  mysterious  art, 
The  charm  that  vexes,  yet  enslaves  the  heart ! 
Thy  lawless  style,  from  timid  systems  free, 
Impetuous  rolling  like  a  troubled  sea, 
High  o'er  the  rocks  of  reason's  lofty  verge 
Impending  hangs ;  yet,  ere  the  foaming  surge 
Breaks  o'er  the  bound,  the  refluent  ebb  of  taste 
Back  from  the  shore  impels  the  wat'ry  waste. 


TO  MY  VENERABLE  FRIEND  THE  PRESIDENT 
OF  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

FHO-M  one  unused  in  pomp  of  words  to  raise 
A  courtly  monument  of  empty  praise, 
Where  self,  transpiring  through  the  flimsy  pile, 
Betrays  the  builder's  ostentatious  guile,, 
Accept,  O  WEST,  these  unaffected  lays, 
Which  genius  claims  and  grateful  justice  pays. 
Still  green  in  age,  thy  vig'rous  powers  impart 
The  youthful  freshness  of  a  blameless  heart: 
For  thine,  unaided  by  another's  pain, 
The  wiles  of  envy,  or  the  sordid  train 
G 


74 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


Of  selfishness,  has  been  the  manly  race 
Of  one  who  felt  the  purifying  grace 
Of  honest  fame ;  nor  found  the  cflbrt  vain 
E'en  for  itself  to  love  thy  soul-ennobling  ait 


ON  SEEING  THE  PICTURE  OF  AEOLUS,  BY 
PELIGRINO  TIBALDI. 

FrLL  well,  TIBALDI,  did  thy  kindred  mind 

The  mighty  spell  of  BOJJAHOTI  own. 

Like  one  who,  reading  magic  words,  receives 

The  gift  of  intercourse  with  worlds  unknown, 

'T  was  thine,  deciphering  Nature's  mystic  leaves, 

To  hold  strange  converse  with  the  viewless  wind ; 

To  see  the  spirits,  in  imbodied  forms, 

Of  gales  and  whirlwinds,  hurricanes  and  storms. 

For,  lo  !  obedient  to  thy  bidding,  teems 

Fierce  into  shape  their  stern,  relentless  lord : 

His  form  of  motion  ever-restless  seems ; 

Or,  if  to  rest  inclined  his  turbid  soul, 

On  Hecla's  top  to  stretch,  and  give  the  word 

To  subject  winds  that  sweep  the  desert  pole. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COLERIEGE. 

AjfDthouartgone,mostloved,mosthonour'dFriend! 
No — never  more  thy  gentle  voice  shall  blend 
With  air  of  earth  its  pure  ideal  tones — 
Binding  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones, 
The  heart  and  intellect.     And  I  no  more 
Shall  with  thee  gaze  on  that  unfathom'd  deep, 
The  human  soul ;  as  when,  push'd  off  the  shore, 
Thy  mystic  hark  would  through  the  darkness  sweep, 
Itself  the  while  so  bright !     For  oft  we  seem'd 
As  on  some  starless  sea — all  dark  above, 
All  dark  below — yet,  onward  as  we  drove, 
To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  stream'd. 
But  he  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 
Of  all  he  loved :  thy  living  truths  are  left. 


THE  TUSCAN  MAID. 

How  pleasant  and  how  sad  the  turning  tide 
Of  human  life,  when  side  by  side 
The  child  and  youth  begin  to  glide 

Along  the  vale  of  years; 
The  pure  twin-being  for  a  little  space, 
With  lightsome  heart,  and  yet  a  graver  face, 
Too  young  for  wo,  though  not  for  tears. 

This  turning  tide  is  URSULITSA'S  now; 
The  time  is  mark'd  upon  her  brow  ; 
Now  every  thought  and  feeling  throw 

Their  shadows  on  her  face ; 
And  so  are  every  thought  and  feeling  join'd, 
'T  were  hard  to  answer  whether  heart  or  mind 
Of  either  were  the  native  place. 

The  things  that  once  she  loved  are  still  the  same ; 
Yet  now  there  needs  another  name 
To  give  the  feeling  which  they  claim, 

While  she  the  feeling  gives  ; 
She  cannot  call  it  gladness  or  delight ; 
And  yet  there  seems  a  richer,  lovelier  light 
On  e'en  the  humblest  thing  that  lives. 


•She  sees  the  mottled  moth  come  twinkling  by, 

And  sees  it  sip  the  flowret  nigh; 

Yet  not,  as  onre,  with  eager  cry 
She  grasps  the  pretty  thing ; 
Her  thoughts  now  mingle  with  its  tranquil  mood — 
So  poised  in  air,  as  if  on  air  it  stood 

To  show  its  gold  and  purple  wing. 

She  hears  the  bird  without  a  wish  to  snare, 
But  rather  on  the  azure  air 
To  mount,  and  with  it  wander  there 

To  some  untrodden  land  ; 
As  if  it  told  her  in  its  happy  song 
Of  pleasures  strange,  that  never  can  belong 
To  aught  of  sight  or  touch  of  hand. 

Now  the  young  soul  her  mighty  power  shall  prove, 
And  outward  things  around  her  move, 
Pure  ministers  of  purer  love, 

And  make  the  heart  her  home ; 
Or  to  the  meaner  senses  sink  a  slave, 
To  do  their  bidding,  though  they  madly  crave 
Through  hateful  scenes  of  vice  to  roam. 

But,  UnscLisA,  thine  the  better  choice; 
Thine  eyes  so  speak,  as  with  a  voice : 
Thy  heart  may  still  in  earth  rejoice 

And  all  its  beauty  love ; 
But  no,  not  all  this  fair,  enchanting  earth, 
With  all  its  spells,  can  give  the  rapture  birth 
That  waits  thy  conscious  soul  above. 


ROSALIE. 

O,  pom  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 

That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 

Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 

As  if  some  melancholy  star 

Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies. 

No — never  came  from  aught  below 

This  melody  of  wo, 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow 
As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs 
Unknown  before  ;  that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light — if  light  it  be — 

That  veils  the  world  I  see. 

For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 
The  hue  of  other  spheres ; 
And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
O,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath, 
Can  mould  a  sadness  like  to  this — 
So  like  angelic  bliss. 

So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day, 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 

Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play — 

So  thought  the  gentle  ROSALIE 

As  on  her  maiden  revery 

First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
In  music  to  her  soul. 


JAMES  KIRKE    PAULDING. 


[Born  1779.] 


Mr.  PAULDING  is  known  by  his  numerous  novels 
and  other  prose  writings,  much  better  than  by  his 
poetry ;  yet  his  early  contributions  to  our  poetical 
literature,  if  they  do  not  bear  witness  that  he  pos- 
sesses, in  an  eminent  degree,  "  the  vision  and  the 
faculty  divine,"  are  creditable  for  their  patriotic 
spirit  and  moral  purity. 

He  was  born  in  the  town  of  Pawling, — the 
original  mode  of  spelling  his  name, — in  Duchess 
county,  New  York,  on  the  22d  of  August,  1779, 
and  is  descended  from  an  old  and  honourable 
family,  of  Dutch  extraction. 

His  earliest  literary  productions  were  the  papers 
entitled  "  Salmagundi,"  the  first  series  of  which, 
in  two  volumes,  were  written  in  conjunction  with 
WASHINGTON  IBVING,  in  1807.  These  were  suc- 
ceeded, in  the  next  thirty  years,  by  the  following 
works,  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  named: 
John  Bull  and  Brother  Jonathan,  in  one  volume ; 
The  Lay  of  a  Scotch  Fiddle,  a  satirical  poem,  in 
one  volume ;  The  United  States  and  England,  in 
one  volume ;  Second  Series  of  Salmagundi,  in  two 


,.  .,        ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN. 

Or.n  cradle  of  an  infant  world, 

In  which  a  nestling  empire  lay, 
Struggling  a  while,  ere  she  unfurl'd 

Her  gallant  wing  and  soar'd  away ; 
All  hail !  thou  birth-place  of  the  glowing  west, 
Thou  seem'st  the  towering  eagle's  ruin'd  nest ! 

What  solemn  recollections  throng, 

What  touching  visions  rise, 
As,  wandering  these  old  stones  among, 

I  backward  turn  mine  eyes, 
And  see  the  shadows  of  the  dead  flit  round, 
Like  spirits,  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall  sound ! 

The  wonders  of  an  age  combined, 

In  one  short  moment  memory  supplies ; 
They  throng  upon  my  waken'd  mind, 

As  time's  dark  curtains  rise. 
The  volume  of  a  hundred  buried  years, 
Condensed  in  one  bright  sheet,  appears. 

I  hear  the  angry  ocean  rave, 

I  see  the  lonely  little  barque 

Scudding  along  the  crested  wave, 

Freighted  like  old  Noah's  ark, 

As  o'er  the  drowned  earth  'twas  hurl'd, 

With  the  forefathers  of  another  world. 

I  see  a  train  of  exiles  stand, 
Amid  the  desert,  desolate, 
The  fathers  of  my  native  land, 
The  daring  pioneers  of  fate, 
Who  braved  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  earth, 
And  gave  a  boundless  empire  birth. 


volumes ;  Letters  from  the  South,  in  two  volumes ; 
The  Backwoodsman,  a  poem,  in  one  volume; 
Koningsmarke,  or  Old  Times  in  the  New  World, 
a  novel,  in  two  volumes ;  John  Bull  in  America, 
in  one  volume ;  Merry  Tales  of  the  Wise  Men  of 
Gotham,  in  one  volume ;  The  Traveller's  Guide, 
or  New  Pilgrim's  Progress,  in  one  volume ;  The 
Dutchman's  Fireside,  in  two  volumes ;  Westward 
Ho !  in  two  volumes ;  Slavery  in  the  United  States, 
in  one  volume ;  Life  of  Washington,  in  two  vo- 
lumes ;  The  Book  of  St.  Nicholas,  in  one  volume ; 
and  Tales,  Fables,  and  Allegories,  originally  pub- 
lished in  various  periodicals,  in  three  volumes. 
Beside  these,  and  some  less  pre tensive  works, 
he  has  written  much  in  the  gazettes  on  political 
and  other  questions  agitated  in  his  time. 

Mr.  PAULDING  has  held  various  honourable 
offices  in  his  native  state ;  and  in  the  summer  of 
1838,  he  was  appointed,  by  President  VAN  BUREN, 
Secretary  of  the  Navy.  He  continued  to  be  a 
member  of  the  cabinet  until  the  close  of  Mr.  VAN 
BUHEN'S  administration,  in  1841. 


I  see  the  sovereign  Indian  range 

His  woodland  empire,  free  as  air; 
I  see  the  gloomy  forest  change, 
The  shadowy  earth  laid  bare ; 
And,  where  the  red  man  chased  the  bounding  deer, 
The  smiling  labours  of  the  white  appear. 

I  see  the  haughty  warrior  gaze 

In  wonder  or  in  scorn, 
As  the  pale  faces  sweat  to  raise 

Their  scanty  fields  of  corn, 
While  he,  the  monarch  of  the  boundless  wood, 
By  sport,  or  hair-brain'd  rapine,  wins  his  food. 

A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  gone ; 

The  red  men  are  no  more ; 
The  pale-faced  strangers  stand  alone 

Upon  the  river's  shore ; 

And  the  proud  wood-king,  who  their  arts  disdain'd, 
Finds  but  a  bloody  grave  where  once  he  reign'd. 

The  forest  reels  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  sturdy  woodman's  axe ; 
The  earth  receives  the  white  man's  yoke, 

And  pays  her  willing  tax 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  golden  harvest  fields, 
And  all  that  nature  to  blithe  labour  yields. 

Then  growing  hamlets  rear  their  heads, 

And  gathering  crowds  expand, 
Far  as  my  fancy's  vision  spreads, 

O'er  many  a  boundless  land, 
Till  what  was  once  a  world  of  savage  strife, 
Teems  with  the  richest  gifts  of  social  life. 

75 


76 


JAMES   KIRKE   PAULDING. 


Empire  to  empire  swift  succeeds, 

Each  happy,  great,  and  free; 
One  empires  still  another  breeds, 

A  giant  progeny, 
Destined  their  daring  race  to  run, 
Each  to  the  regions  of  yon  setting  sun. 

Then,  as  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  trace 

The  fount  whence  these  rich  waters  sprung, 
J.  glance  towards  this  lonely  place, 

And  find  it,  these  rude  stones  among. 
Here  rest  the  sires  of  millions,  sleeping  round, 
The  Argonauts,  the  golden  fleece  that  found. 

Their  names  have  been  forgotten  long ; 
The  stone,  but  not  a  word,  remains; 
They  cannot  live  in  deathless  song, 

Nor  breathe  in  pious  strains. 
Yet  this  sublime  obscurity,  to  me 
More  touching  is,  than  poet's  rhapsody. 

They  live  in  millions  that  now  breathe ; 

They  live  in  millions  yet  unborn, 
And  pious  gratitude  shall  wreathe 

As  bright  a  crown  as  e'er  was  worn, 
And  hang  it  on  the  green-leaved  bough, 
That  whispers  to  the  nameless  dead  below. 

No  one  that  inspiration  drinks ; 

No  one  that  loves  his  native  land ; 
No  one  that  reasons,  feels,  or  thinks, 
Can  mid  these  lonely  ruins  stand, 
Without  a  moisten'd  eye,  a  grateful  tear 
Of  reverent  gratitude  to  those  that  moulder  here. 

The  mighty  shade  now  hovers  round — 

Of  HIM  whose  strange,  yet  bright  career, 
Is  written  on  this  sacred  ground 

In  letters  that  no  time  shall  sere ; 
Who  in  the  old  world  smote  the  turban'd  crew, 
And  founded  Christian  empires  in  the  new. 

And  she !  the  glorious  Indian  maid, 

The  tutelary  of  this  land, 
The  angel  of  the  woodland  shade, 
The  miracle  of  God's  own  hand, 
Who  join'd  man's  heart  to  woman's  softest  grace, 
And  thrice  redeem'd  the  scourges  of  her  race. 

Sister  of  charity  and  love, 

Whose  life-blood  was  soft  Pity's  tide, 
Dear  goddess  of  the  sylvan  grove, 

Flower  of  the  forest,  nature's  pride, 
He  is  no  man  who  does  not  bend  the  knee, 
And  she  no  woman  who  is  not  like  thce  ! 

Jamestown,  and  Plymouth's  hallow'd  rock 

To  me  shall  ever  sacred  be — 
I  care  not  who  my  themes  may  mock, 

Or  sneer  at  them  and  me. 
I  envy  not  the  brute  who  here  can  stand, 
Without  a  thrill  for  his  own  native  land. 

And  if  the  recreant  crawl  her  earth, 

Or  breathe  Virginia's  air, 
Or,  in  New  England  claim  his  birth, 

From  the  old  pilgrims  there, 
He  is  a  bastard,  if  he  dare  to  mock 
Old  Jamestown's  shrine,  or  Plymouth's  famous  rock. 


PASSAGE  DOWN  THE  OHIO.* 

As  down  Ohio's  ever  ebbing  tide, 
Oarless  and  sailless,  silently  they  glide, 
How  still  the  scene,  how  lifeless,  yet  how  fair 
Was  the  lone  land  that  met  the  stranger  there ! 
No  smiling  villages  or  curling  smoke 
The  busy  haunts  of  busy  men  bespoke ; 
No  solitary  hut,  the  banks  along, 
Sent  forth  blithe  labour's  homely,  rustic  song ; 
No  urchin  gamboll'd  on  the  smooth,  white  sand, 
Or  hurl'd  the  skipping-stone  with  playful  hand, 
While  playmate  dog  plunged  in  the  clear  blue  wave, 
And  swam,  in  vain,  the  sinking  prize  to  save. 
Where  now  are  seen,  along  the  river  side, 
Young,  busy  towns,  in  buxom,  painted  pride, 
And  fleets  of  gliding  boats  with  riches  crown'd, 
To  distant  Orleans  or  St.  Louis  bound. 
Nothing  appear'd  but  nature  unsubdued, 
One  endless,  noiseless  woodland  solitude, 
Or  boundless  prairie,  that  aye  seem'd  to  be 
As  level  and  as  lifeless  as  the  sea ; 
They  seem'd  to  breathe  in  this  wide  world  alone, 
Heirs  of  the  earth — the  land  was  all  their  own  ! 

'T  was  evening  now :  the  hour  of  toil  was  o'er, 
Yet  still  they  durst  not  seek  the  fearful  shore, 
Lest  watchful  Indian  crew  should  silent  creep, 
And  spring  upon  and  murder  them  in  sleep ; 
So  through  the  livelong  night  they  held  their  way, 
And  'twas  a  night  might  shame  the  fairest  day; 
So  still,  so  bright,  so  tranquil  was  its  reign, 
They  cared  not  though  the  day  ne'er  came  again. 
The  moon  high  wheel'd  the  distant  hills  above, 
Silver'd  the  fleecy  foliage  of  the  grove, 
That  as  the  wooing  zephyrs  on  it  fell, 
Whisper'd  it  loved  the  gentle  visit  well 
That  fair-faced  orb  alone  to  move  appear'd, 
That  zephyr  was  the  only  sound  they  heard. 
Nodeep-mouth'd  hound  the  hunter's  haunt  betray M, 
No  lights  upon  the  shore  or  waters  play'd, 
No  loud  laugh  broke  upon  the  silent  air, 
To  tell  the  wanderers,  man  was  nestling  there 
All,  all  was  still,  on  gliding  bark  and  shore, 
As  if  the  earth  now  slept  to  wake  no  more. 


EVENING. 

'T  WAS  sunset's  hallow'd  time — and  such  an  eve 
Might  almost  tempt  an  angel  heaven  to  leave. 
Never  did  brighter  glories  greet  the  eye, 
Low  in  the  warm  and  ruddy  western  sky : 
Nor  the  light  clouds  at  summer  eve  unfold 
More  varied  tints  of  purple,  red,  and  gold. 
Some  in  the  pure,  translucent,  liquid  breast 
Of  crystal  lake,  fast  anchor'd  seem'd  lo  rest, 
Like  golden  islets  scatter'd  far  and  wide, 
By  elfin  skill  in  fancy's  fabled  tide, 
Where,  as  wild  eastern  legends  idly  feign, 
Fairy,  or  genii,  hold  despotic  reign. 

*  This,  and  the  two  following  extracts,  are  from  the 
"  Backwoodsman." 


JAMES   KIRKE   PAULDING. 


77 


Others,  like  vessels  gilt  with  burnish'd  gold, 

Their  flitting,  airy  way  are  seen  to  hold, 

All  gallantly  equipp'd  with  streamers  gay, 

While  hands  unseen,  or  chance  directs  their  way ; 

Around,  athwart,  the  pure  ethereal  tide, 

With  swelling  purple  sail,  they  rapid  glide, 

Gay  as  the  bark  where  Egypt's  wanton  queen 

Reclining  on  the  shaded  deck  was  seen, 

At  which  as  gazed  the  uxorious  Roman  fool, 

The  subject  world  slipt  from  his  dotard  rule. 

Anon,  the  gorgeous  scene  begins  to  fade, 

And  deeper  hues  the  ruddy  skies  invade ; 

The  haze  of  gathering  twilight  nature  shrouds, 

And  pale,  and  paler  wax  the  changeful  clouds. 

Then  sunk  the  breeze  into  a  breathless  calm ; 

The  silent  dews  of  evening  dropp'd  like  balm  ; 

The  hungry  night-hawk  from  his  lone  haunt  hies, 

To  chase  the  viewless  insect  through  the  skies ; 

The  bat  began  his  lantern-loving  flight,. 

The  lonely  whip-poor-will,  our  bird  of  night, 

Ever  unseen,  yet  ever  seeming  near, 

His  shrill  note  quaver'd  in  the  startled  ear ; 

The  buzzing  beetle  forth  did  gayly  hie, 

With  idle  hum,  and  careless,  blundering  eye ; 

The  little  trusty  watchman  of  pale  night, 

The  firefly,  trimm'd  anew  his  lamp  so  bright, 

And  took  his  merry  airy  circuit  round 

The  sparkling  meadow's  green  and  fragrant  bound, 

Where  blossom'd  clover,  bathed  in  palmy  dew, 

In  fair  luxuriance,  sweetly  blushing  grew. 


CROSSING  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 

As  look'd  the  traveller  for  the  world  below, 
The  lively  morning  breeze  began  to  blow ; 
The  magic  curtain  roll'd  in  mists  away, 
And  a  gay  landscape  smiled  upon  the  day. 
As  light  the  fleeting  vapours  upward  glide, 
Like  sheeted  spectres  on  the  mountain  side, 
New  objects  open  to  his  wondering  view 
Of  various  form,  and  combinations  new. 
A  rocky  precipice,  a  waving  wood, 
Deep,  winding  dell,  and  foaming  mountain  flood, 
Each  after  each,  with  coy  and  sweet  delay, 
Broke  on  his  sight,  as  at  young  dawn  of  day, 
Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
Like  giant  capp'd  with  helm  of  burnish'd  gold. 
So  when  the  wandering  grandsire  of  our  race 
On  Ararat  had  found  a  resting-place, 
At  first  a  shoreless  ocean  met  his  eye, 
Mingling  on  every  side  with  one  blue  sky; 
But  as  the  waters,  every  passing  day, 
Sunk  in  the  earth  or  roll'd  in  mists  away, 
Gradual,  the  lofty  hills,  like  islands,  peep 
From  the. rough  bosom  of  the  boundless  deep, 
Then  the  round  hillocks,  and  the  meadows  green, 
Each  after  each,  in  freshen'd  bloom  are  seen, 
Till,  at  the  last,  a  fair  and  finish'd  whole 
Combined  to  win  the  gazing  patriarch's  soul. 
Yet,  oft  he  look'd,  I  ween,  with  anxious  eye, 
In  lingering  hope  somewhere,  perchance,  to  spy, 


Within  the  silent  world,  some  living  thing, 
Crawling  on  earth,  or  moving  on  the  wing, 
Or  man,  or  beast — alas !  was  neither  there 
Nothing  that  breathed  of  life  in  earth  or  air ; 
'T  was  a  vast,  silent,  mansion  rich  and  gay, 
Whose  occupant  was  drown'd  the  other  day  ; 
A  churchyard,  where  the  gayest  flowers  oft  bloom 
Amid  the  melancholy  of  the  tornb ; 
A  charnel-house,  where  all  the  human  race 
Had  piled  their  bones  in  one  wide  resting-place ; 
Sadly  he  turn'd  from  such  a  sight  of  wo, 
And  sadly  sought  the  lifeless  world  below. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  CAROUSAL. 

DHINK  !  drink !  to  whom  shall  we  drink  ? 
To  friend  or  a  mistress  1     Come,  let  me  think ! 
To  those  who  are  absent,  or  those  who  are  here  1 
To  the  dead  that  we  loved,  or  the  living  still  dear  1 
Alas !  when  I  look,  I  find  none  of  the  last ! 
The  present  is  barren — let 's  drink  to  the  past. 

Come !  here 's  to  the  girl  with  a  voice  sweet  and  low, 
The  eye  all  of  fire  and  the  bosom  of  snow, 
Who  erewhile  in  the  days  of  my  youth  that  are  fled, 
Once  slept  on  my  bosom,  and  pillow'd  my  head ! 
Would  you  know  where  to  find  such  a  delicate  prize? 
Go  seek  in  yon  churchyard,  for  there  she  lies. 

And  here 's  to  the  friend,  the  one  friend  of  my  youth, 
With  a  head  full  of  genius,  a  heart  full  of  truth, 
Who  travell'd  with  me  in  the  sunshine  of  life, 
And  stood  by  my  side  in  its  peace  and  its  strife ! 
Would  you  know  where  to  seek  a  blessing  so  rare  ] 
Go  drag  the  lone  sea,  you  may  find  him  there. 

And  here 's  to  a  brace  of  twin  cherubs  of  mine, 
With  hearts  like  their  mother's,  as  pure  as  this  wine, 
Who  came  but  to  see  the  first  act  of  the  play, 
Grew  tired  of  the  scene,  and  then  both  went  away. 
Would   you   know  where   this   brace  of  bright 

cherubs  have  hied  1 
Go  seek  them  in  heaven,  for  there  they  abide. 

A  bumper,  my  boys !  to  a  gray -headed  pair, 
Who  watched  o'er  my  childhood  with  tenderest  care, 
God  bless  them,  and  keep  them,  and  may  they  look 

down, 

On  the  head  of  their  son,  without  tear,  sigh,  or  frown! 
Would  you  know  whom  I  drink  to  ?  go  seek  mid 

the  dead, 
You  will  find  both  their  names  on  the  stone  at 

their  head. 

And  here 's — but,  alas !  the  good  wine  is  no  more, 
The  bottle  is  emptied  of  all  its  bright  store ; 
Like  those  we  have  toasted,  its  spirit  is  fled, 
And  nothing  is  left  of  the  light  that  it  shed. 
Then,  a  bumper  of  tears,  boys !  the  banquet  here 

ends, 
With  a  health  to  our  dead,  since  we  '\p  no  living 

friends. 


o2 


LEVI  FRISBIE. 


[Born  1784.    Died  1822.] 


PROFESSOR  FHISBIE  was  the  son  of  a  respect- 
able clergyman  at  Ipswich,  Massachusetts.  He 
entered  Harvard  University  in  1 798,  and  was  gradu- 
ated in  1802.  His  father,  like  most  of  the  cler- 
gymen of  New  England,  was  a  poor  man,  and 
unable  fully  to  defray  the  costs  of  his  son's  edu- 
cation ;  and  Mr.  FHISBIE,  while  an  under-graduate, 
provided  in  part  for  his  support  by  teaching  a 
school  during  vacations,  and  by  writing  as  a  clerk. 
His  friend  and  biographer,  Professor  ANDREWS 
NORTON,  alludes  to  this  fact  as  a  proof  of  the 
falsity  of  the  opinion  that  wealth  constitutes  the 
only  aristocracy  in  our  country.  Talents,  united 
with  correct  morals,  and  good  manners,  pass  un- 
questioned all  the  artificial  barriers  of  society,  and 


their  claim  to  distinction  is  recognised  more  wil- 
lingly than  any  other. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  university,  Mr.  FHISBIE 
commenced  the  study  of  the  law ;  but  an  affection 
of  the  eyes  depriving  him  of  their  use  for  the 
purposes  of  study,  he  abandoned  his  professional 
pursuits,  and  accepted  the  place  of  Latin  tutor  in 
Harvard  University.  In  1811,  he  was  made  Pro- 
fessor of  the  Latin  Language,  and  in  1817,  Profes- 
sor of  Moral  Philosophy.  The  last  office  he  held 
until  he  died,  on  the  19th  of  July,  1822.  He  was 
an  excellent  scholar,  an  original  thinker,  and  a 
pure-minded  man.  An  octavo  volume,  containing 
a  memoir,  some  of  his  philosophical  lectures,  and 
a  few  poems,  was  published  in  1823. 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

I  'LL  tell  you,  friend,  what  sort  of  wife, 
Whene'er  I  scan  this  scene  of  life, 

Inspires  my  waking  schemes, 
And  when  I  sleep,  with  form  so  light, 
Dances  before  my  ravish'd  sight, 

In  sweet  aerial  dreams. 

The  rose  its  blushes  need  not  lend, 
Nor  yet  the  lily  with  them  blend, 

To  captivate  my  eyes. 
Give  me  a  cheek  the  heart  obeys, 
And,  sweetly  mutable,  displays 

Its  feelings  as  they  rise ; 

Features,  where,  pensive,  more  than  gay, 
Save  when  a  rising  smile  doth  play, 

The  sober  thought  you  see ; 
Eyes  that  all  soft  and  tender  seem, 
And  kind  affections  round  them  beam, 

But  most  of  all  on  me; 

A  form,  though  not  of  finest  mould, 
Where  yet  a  something  you  behold 

Unconsciously  doth  please ; 
Manners  all  graceful  without  art, 
That  to  each  look  and  word  impart 

A  modesty  and  ease. 

But  still  her  air,  her  face,  each  charm 
Must  speak  a  heart  with  feeling  warm, 

And  mind  inform  the  whole ; 
With  mind  her  mantling  cheek  must  glow, 
Her  voice,  her  beaming  eye  must  show 

An  all-inspiring  soul. 

Ah !  could  I  such  a  being  find, 
And  were  her  fate  to  mine  but  join'd 
By  Hymen's  silken  tie, 


To  her  myself,  my  all  I  'd  give, 
For  her  alone  delighted  live, 
For  her  consent  to  die. 

Whene'er  by  anxious  care  oppress' d, 
On  the  soft  pillow  of  her  breast 

My  aching  head  I  'd  lay ; 
At  her  sweet  smile  each  care  should  cease, 
Her  kiss  infuse  a  balmy  peace, 

And  drive  my  griefs  away. 

In  turn,  I'd  soften  all  her  care, 
Each  thought,  each  wish,  each  feeling 
share ; 

Should  sickness  e'er  invade, 
My  voice  should  soothe  each  rising  sigh, 
My  hand  the  cordial  should  supply; 

I  'd  watch  beside  her  bed. 

Should  gathering  clouds  our  sky  deform, 
My  arms  should  shield  her  from  the  stonn ; 

And,  were  its  fury  hurl'd, 
My  bosom  to  its  bolts  I  'd  bare ; 
In  her  defence  undaunted  dare 

Defy  the  opposing  world. 

Together  should  our  prayers  ascend; 
Together  would  we  humbly  bend, 
To  praise  the  Almight,  name; 
And  when  I  saw  her  kindling  eye 
Beam  upwards  in  her  native  sky, 
"My  soul  should  catch  the  flame. 

Thus  nothing  should  our  hearts  divide, 
But  on  our  years  serenely  glide, 

And  all  to  love  be  given ; 
And,  when  life's  little  scene  was  o'er, 
We  'd  part  to  meet  and  part  no  more, 

But  live  and  love  in  heaven. 

78 


JOHN   PIETIPONT. 


[Born  1785.] 


THE  author  of  the  "Airs  of  Palestine,"  is  a 
native  of  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  and  was  bom  on 
the  sixth  of  April,  1785.  His  great-grandfather,  the 
Reverend  JAMES  PIERPONT,  was  the  second  minis- 
ter of  New  Haven,  and  one  of  the  founders  of  Yale 
College ;  his  grandfather  and  his  father  were  men 
of  intelligence  and  integrity;  and  his  mother, 
whose  maiden  name  was  ELIZABETH  COLLINS, 
had  a  mind  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  religious 
sentiment,  and  was  distinguished  for  her  devotion 
to  maternal  duties.  In  the  following  lines,  from 
one  of  his  recent  poems,  he  acknowledges  the  in- 
fluence of  her  example  and  teachings  on  his  own 
character : 

"  She  led  me  first  to  God ; 
Her  words  and  prayers  were  my  young  spirit's  dew. 

For,  when  she  used  to  leave 

The  fireside,  every  eve, 
I  knew  it  was  for  prayer  that  she  withdrew. 

"  That  dew,  that  bless'd  my  youth, — 

Her  holy  love,  her  truth, 
Her  spirit  of  devotion,  and  the  tears 

That  she  could  not  suppress, — 

Hath  never  ceased  to  bless 
My  soul,  nor  will  it,  through  eternal  years. 

'•How  often  has  the  thought 

Of  my  mourn'd  mother  brought 
Peace  to  my  troubled  spirit,  and  new  power 

The  tempter  to  repel ! 

Mother,  thou  knowest  well 
That  thou  hast  blessed  me  since  thy  mortal  hour!" 

Mr.  PIEHPOXT  entered  Yale  College  when  fifteen 
years  old,  and  was  graduated  in  the  summer  of 
1804.  During  a  part  of  1805,  he  assisted  the 
Reverend  Doctor  BACKUS,  in  an  academy  of  which 
he  was  principal  previous  to  his  election  to  the 
presidency  of  Hamilton  College ;  and  in  the  au- 
tumn of  the  same  year,  following  the  example  of 
many  young  men  of  New  England,  he  went  to 
the  southern  states,  and  was  for  nearly  four  years 
a  private  tutor  in  the  family  of  Colonel  WILLIAM: 
ALLSTOS,  of  South  Carolina,  spending  a  portion 
of  his  time  in  Charleston,  and  the  remainder  on 
the  estate  of  Colonel  ALLSTON,  on  the  Waccamaw, 
near  Georgetown.  Here  he  commenced  his  legal 
studies,  which  he  continued  after  his  return  to  his 
native  state  in  1809,  in  the  school  of  Justices 
REEVE  and  GOULD;  and  in  1812,  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  in  Essex  county,  Massachusetts. 
Soon  after  the  commencement  of  the  second  war 
with  Great  Britain,  being  appointed  to  address 
the  Washington  Benevolent  Society  of  Newbu- 
ryport,  his  place  of  residence,  he  delivered  and 
afterward  published  "The  Portrait,"  the  earliest 
of  the  poems  in  the  recent  edition  of  his  works. 

In  consequence  of  the  general  prostration  of 
business  in  New  England  during  the  war,  and  of 


his  health,  which  at  this  time  demanded  a  more 
active  life,  he  abandoned  the  profession  of  law, 
and  became  interested  in  mercantile  transactions, 
first  in  Boston,  and  afterward  in  Baltimore ;  but 
these  resulting  disastrously,  in  1816,  he  sought  a 
solace  in  literary  pursuits,  and  in  the  same  year 
published  "The  Airs  of  Palestine."  The  first 
edition  appeared  in  an  octavo  volume,  at  Balti- 
more ;  and  two  other  editions  were  published  in 
Boston,  in  the  following  year. 

The  "Airs  of  Palestine"  is  a  poem  of  about 
eight  hundred  lines,  in  the  heroic  measure,  in  which 
the  influence  of  music  is  shown  by  examples,  prin- 
cipally from  sacred  history.  The  religious  sub- 
limity of  the  sentiments,  the  beauty  of  the  language, 
and  the  finish  of  the  versification,  placed  it  at  once, 
in  the  judgment  of  all  competent  to  form  an  opinion 
on  the  subject,  before  any  poem  at  that  time  pro- 
duced in  America.  As  a  work  of  art,  it  would  be 
nearly  faultless,  but  for  the  occasional  introduction 
of  double  rhymes,  a  violation  of  the  simple  dignity 
of  the  ten-syllable  verse,  induced  by  the  intention 
of  the  author  to  recite  it  in  a  public  assembly. 
He  says  hi  the  preface  to  the  third  edition,  that  he 
was  "aware  how  difficult  even  a  good  speaker 
finds  it  to  rehearse  heroic  poetry,  for  any  length 
of  time,  without  perceiving  in  his  hearers  the 
somniferous  effects  of  a  regular  cadence,"  and 
"  the  double  rhyme  was,  therefore,  occasionally 
thrown  in,  like  a  ledge  of  rocks  in  a  smoothly 
gliding  river,  to  break  the  current,  which,  without 
it,  might  appear  sluggish,  and  to  vary  the  melody, 
which  might  otherwise  become  monotonous."  The 
following  passage,  descriptive  of  a  moonlight  scene 
in  Italy,  will  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  its  manner : 

"  On  Arno's  bosom,  as  he  calmly  flows, 
And  his  cool  arms  round  Vallombrosa  throws. 
Rolling  his  crystal  tide  through  classic  vales, 
Alone,— at  night,— the  Italian  boatman  sails. 
High  o'er  Mont'  Alto  walks,  in  maiden  pride, 
Night's  queen  ; — he  sees  her  image  on  that  tide, 
Now,  ride  the  wave  that  curls  its  infant  crest 
Around  his  prow,  then  rippling  sinks  to  rest ; 
Now,  glittering  dance  around  his  eddying  oar, 
Whose  every  sweep  is  echo'd  from  the  shore  ; 
Now,  far  before  him,  on  a  liquid  bed 
Of  waveless  water,  rest  her  radiant  head. 
How  mild  the  empire  of  that  virgin  queen ! 
How  dark  the  mountain's  shade !  how  still  the  scene ! 
Hush'd  by  her  silver  sceptre,  zephyrs  sleep 
On  dewy  leaves,  that  overhang  the  deep, 
Nor  dare  to  whisper  through  the  boughs,  nor  stir 
The  valley's  willow,  nor  the  mountain's  fir, 
Nor  make  the  pale  and  breathless  aspen  quiver, 
Nor  brush,  with  ruffling  wind,  that  glassy  river. 

"  Hark !— 't  is  a  convent's  bell :  its  midnight  chime  ; 
For  music  measures  even  the  inarch  of  time  : — 
O'er  bending  trees,  that  fringe  the  distant  shore, 
Gray  turrets  rise  : — the  eye  can  catch  no  more. 
The  boatman,  listening  to  the  tolling  bell, 
Suspends  his  oar : — a  low  and  solemn  swell, 

79 


80 


JOHN  PIERPONT. 


A  Mineral  dirge,  umi  paue  nuns,  niueu  in  wn 
Chant  round  a  sister's  dark  and  narrow  bed, 


Soon  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Airs  of  Pales- 
tine," Mr.  PIEHPOITT  entered  seriously  upon  the 
study  of  theology,  first  by  himself,  in  Baltimore, 
and  afterward  as  a  member  of  the  theological 
school  connected  with  Harvard  College.  He  left 
that  seminary  in  October,  1818,  and  in  April,  1819, 
was  ordained. as  minister  of  the  Hollis  Street  Uni- 
tarian Church,  in  Boston,  as  successor  to  the  Re- 
verend Doctor  HOLLET,  who  had  recently  been 
elected  to  the  presidency  of  the  Transylvania  Uni- 
versity, in  Kentucky. 

In  1835  and  1836,  in  consequence  of  impaired 
health,  he  spent  a  year  abroad,  passing  through 
the  principal  cities  in  England,  France,  and  Italy, 
and  extending  his  tour  into  the  East,  visiting 
Smyrna,  the  ruins  of  Ephesus,  in  Asia  Minor, 
Constantinople,  and  Athens,  Corinth,  and  some 
of  the  other  cities  of  Greece ;  of  his  travels  in 
which,  traces  will  occasionally  be  found  in  some 
of  the  short  poems  which  he  has  written  since  his 
return. 

Mr.  PIEBPOST  has  written  in  almost  every  metre, 


and  many  of  his  hymns,  odes,  and  other  brief  poems, 
are  remarkably  spirited  and  melodious.  Seve- 
ral of  them,  distinguished  alike  for  energy  of 
thought  and  language,  were  educed  by  events  con- 
nected^with  the  moral  and  religious  enterprises  of 
the  time,  nearly  all  of  which  are  indebted  to  his 
constant  and  earnest  advocacy  for  much  of  their 
prosperity. 

In  the  preface  to  the  collection  of  his  poems  pub- 
lished in  1840,  he  says,  « It  gives  a  true,  though  an 
all  too  feeble  expression  of  the  author's  feeling  and 
faith, — of  his  love  of  right,  of  freedom,  and  man, 
and  of  his  correspondent  and  most  hearty  hatred 
of  every  thing  that  is  at  war  with  them ;  and  of 
his  faith  in  the  providence  and  gracious  promises 
of  God.  Nay,  the  book  is  published  as  an  expres- 
sion of  his  faith  in  man;  his  faith  that  every  line, 
written  to  rebuke  high-handed  or  under-handed 
wrong,  or  to  keep  alive  the  fires  of  civil  and  reli- 
gious liberty, — written  for  solace  in  affliction,  for 
support  under  trial,  or  as  an  expression,  or  for  the 
excitement  of  Christian  patriotism  or  devotion ;  or 
even  with  no  higher  aim  than  to  throw  a  little 
sunshine  into  the  chamber  of  the  spirit,  while  it 
is  going  through  some  of  the  wearisome  passages 
of  life's  history, — will  be  received  as  a  proof  of 
the  writer's  interest  in  the  welfare  of  his  fellow- 
men,  of  his  desire  to  serve  them,  and  consequently 
of  his  claim  upon  them  for  a  charitable  judgment, 
at  least,  if  not  even  for  a  respectful  and  grateful 
remembrance." 


"PASSING  AWAY." 

» 

WAS  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, — 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear, 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  moon  and  the  fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he,  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  1 — 

Hark !  the  notes,  on  my  ear  that  play, 

Are  set  to  words : — as  they  float,  they  say, 
"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 

But  no ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear ; 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 
Striking  the  hour,  that  fill'd  my  ear, 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung, 
And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum,  swung ; 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  Canary  bird  swing ;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And,  as  she  enjoy'd  it,  she  seem'd  to  say, 
"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 


0,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved  round  slow ! 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 

Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed : — in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; — 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 

"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 
Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 

Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 

The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 

Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the 

wheels, 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 

Was  a  little  dimm'd, — as  when  evening  steals 
Upon  noon's  hot  face: — Yet  one  couldn't  but 
love  her, 

For  she  look'd  like  a  mother,  whose  first  babe  lay 
Rock'd  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; — 
And  she  seem'd,  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say, 
"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 


JOHN   PIERPONT. 


81 


While  yet  I  look'd,  what  a  change  there  came  ! 

Her  eye  was  quench'd,  and  her  cheek  was  wan : 
Stooping  and  staff'd  was  her  withcr'd  frame, 

Yet,  just  as  busily,  swung  she  on  ; 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnish'd,  but  on  they  kept, 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivell'd  lips  of  the  toothless  crone, — 

(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 

The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay,) — 

"  Passing  away !  passing  away ! 


FOR  THE  CHARLESTOWN  CENTEN- 
NIAL  CELEBRATION. 


Two  hundred  years  !  two  hundred  years ! 

How  much  of  human  power  and  pride, 
What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears 

Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide ! 

The  red  man  at  his  horrid  rite, 

Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon, 

His  bark  canoe,  its  track  of  light 
Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon ; 

His  dance,  his  yell,  his  council-fire, 
The  altar  where  his  victim  lay, 

His  death-song,  and  his  funeral  pyre, 
That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away. 

And  that  pale  pilgrim  band  is  gone, 

That  on  this  shore  with  trembling  trod, 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  God. 

And  war — that  since  o'er  ocean  came, 
And  thunder'd  loud  from  yonder  hill, 

And  wrapp'd  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame, 
To  blast  that  ark — its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 
That  live  in  story  and  in  song, 

Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years, 
Has  raised,  and  shown,  and  swept  along. 

'T  is  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes, 
This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old ; 

'Tis  like  the  moon  when  morning  breaks, 
'T  is  like  a  tale  round  watchfires  told. 

Then  what  are  we  1  then  what  are  we  ? 

Yes,  when  two  hundred  years  have  roll'd 
O'er  our  green  graves,  our  names  shall  be 

A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that's  told. 

God  of  our  fathers,  in  whose  sight 
The  thousand  years  that  sweep  away 

Man  and  the  traces  of  his  might 

Arc  but  the  break  and  close  of  day — 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime, 
That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee, 

That  makes  thy  children  in  all  time 
To  share  thine  own  eternity. 
11 


MY  CHILD. 

I  CANNOT  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair ; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there ! 

I  walk  my  parlour  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair ; 

I  'in  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call; 
And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  thread  the  crowded  street; 

A  satchell'd  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colour'd  hair : 

And,  as  he's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid ; 
Closed  arc  his  eyes ;  cold  is  his  forehead ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watch'd  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not  there ! 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  bov, 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer, 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though — he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there ! — Where,  then,  is  he  1 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  lock'd ; — he  is  not  there ! 

He  lives  ! — In  all  the  past 

He  lives;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  sec  it  written,  «  Thou  shall  see  me  there  !  " 

(Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 

FATHER,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit  land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is  there! 


82 


JOHN   PIERPONT. 


FOR  A  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  MASSA- 
CHUSETTS MECHANICS'  CHARITA- 
BLE ASSOCIATION. 

LOUD  o'er  thy  savage  child, 

O  God,  the  night-wind  roar'd, 
As,  houseless,  in  the  wild 
He  bow'd  him  and  adored. 
Thou  saw'st  him  there, 
As  to  the  sky 
He  raised  his  eye 
In  fear  and  prayer. 

Thine  inspiration  came ! 

And,  grateful  for  thine  aid, 
An  altar  to  thy  name 

He  built  beneath  the  shade : 
The  limbs  of  larch 
That  darken'd  round, 
He  bent  and  bound 
In  many  an  arch ; 

Till  in  a  sylvan  fane 

Went  up  the  voice  of  prayer, 
And  music's  simple  strain 
Arose  in  worship  there. 
The  arching  boughs, 
The  roof  of  leaves 
That  summer  weaves, 
O'erheard  his  vows. 

Then  beam'd  a  brighter  day ; 

And  Salem's  holy  height 
And  Greece  in  glory  lay 
Beneath  the  kindling  light. 
Thy  temple  rose 
On  Salem's  hill, 
While  Grecian  skill 
Adorn'd  thy  foes. 

Along  those  rocky  shores, 

Along  those  olive  plains, 
Where  pilgrim  Genius  pores 
O'er  Art's  sublime  remains, 
Long  colonnades 
Of  snowy  white 
Look'd  forth  in  light 
Through  classic  shades. 

Forth  from  the  quarry  stone 

The  marble  goddess  sprung ; 
And,  loosely  round  her  thrown, 
Her  marble  vesture  hung ; 
And  forth  from  cold 
And  sunless  mines 
Came  silver  shrines 
And  gods  of  gold. 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  burn'd  ! 

And  where  the  Stoic  trod, 
The  altar  was  o'erturn'd, 

Raucd  "  to  an  unknown  God." 
A. .d  now  there  are 
No  idol  fanes 
On  all  the  plains 
Beneath  that  star. 


To  honour  thee,  dread  Power  ! 

Our  strength  and  skill  combine; 
And  temple,  tomb,  and  tower 
Attest  these  gifts  divine. 
A  swelling  dome 
For  pride  they  gild, 
For  peace  they  build 
An  humbler  home. 

By  these  our  fathers'  host 
Was  led  to  victory  first, 
When  on  our  guardless  coast 
The  cloud  of  battle  burst ; 
Through  storm  and  spray, 
By  these  controll'd, 
Our  natives  hold 
Their  thundering  way. 

Great  Source  of  every  art ! 

Our  homes,  our  pictured  halls, 
Our  throng'd  and  busy  mart, 
That  lifts  its  granite  walls, 
And  shoots  to  heaven 
Its  glittering  spires, 
To  catch  the  fires 
Of  morn  and  even ; 

These,  and  the  breathing  forms 

The  brush  or  chisel  gives, 
With  this  when  marble  warms, 
With  that  when  canvass  lives ; 
These  all  combine 
In  countless  ways 
To  swell  thy  praise, 
For  all  are  thine. 


HER  CHOSEX  SPOT. 


WHILE  yet  she  lived,  she  walked  alone 
Among  these  shades.     A  voice  divine 

Whisper'd,  "  This  spot  shall  be  thine  own ; 
Here  shall  thy  wasting  form  recline, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  this  pine." 

"Thy  will  be  done!"  the  sufferer  said. 

This  spot,  was  hallow'd  from  that  hour ; 
And,  in  her  eyes,  the  evening's  shade 
And  morning's  dew  this  green  spot  made 

More  lovely  than  her  bridal  bower. 

By  the  pale  moon — herself  more  pale 
And  spirit-like — these  walks  ghe  trod ; 

And,  while  no  voice,  from  swell  or  vale, 
Was  heard,  she  knelt  upon  this  sod 
And  gave  her  spirit  back  to  God. 

That  spirit,  with  an  angel's  wings, 

Went  up  from  the  young  mother's  bed  : 
So,  heavenward,  soars  the  lark  and  sings. » 
She's  lost  to  earth  and  earthly  things ; 
But  "weep  not,  for  she  is  not  dead, 

She  slcepeth !"     Yea,  she  sleepeth  here, 
The  fir^t  that  in  these  grounds  hath  slept. 

This  grave,  first  watcr'd  with  the  tear 
That  child  or  widow'd  man  hath  wept, 
Shall  be  by  heavenly  watchmen  kept. 


JOHN   PIERPONT. 


83 


The  babe  that  lay  on  her  cold  breast — 
A  rosebud  dropp'd  on  drifted  snow — 
Its  young  hand  in  its  father's  press'd. 
Shall  learn  that  she,  who  first  caress'd 
Its  infant  check,  now  sleeps  below. 

And  often  shall  he  come  alone, 

When  not  a  sound  but  evening's  sigh 
Is  heard,  and,  bowing  by  the  stone 
That  bears  his  mother's  name,  with  none 
But  God  and  guardian  angels  nigh, 

Shrill  say,  "  This  was  my  mother's  choice 
For  her  own  grave  :  O,  be  it  mine  ! 

Even  now,  methinks,  I  hear  her  voice 
Calling  me  hence,  in  the  divine 
And  mournful  whisper  of  this  pine." 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

THE  Pilgrim  Fathers, — where  are  they? — 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore : 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  roll'd  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moor'd  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapp'd  the  Pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale 

When  the  heavens  look'd  dark,  is  gone ; — 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Piltrrim  exile, — sainted  name  ! 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ; — 

But  the  Pilgrim, — where  is  he? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest ; 

When  summer's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dress'd, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  whore  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  goldrn  day 

On  that  hallow'd  Fpol  is  cast ; 
And  tha  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  lart. 

The  Pilgrim  fpirit  has  not  fled  ; 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  lieht ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  their  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Ti'.l  the  waves  of  the  bay,  whore  the  Mayflower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


PLYMOUTH  DEDICATION  HYMN. 

THE  winds  and  waves  were  roaring ; 

The  Pilgrims  met  for  prayer ; 
And  here,  their  God  adoring, 

They  stood,  in  open  air. 
When  breaking  day  they  greeted, 

And  when  its  close  was  calm, 
The  leafless  woods  repeated 

The  music  of  their  psalm. 

Not  thus,  O  God,  to  praise  thee, 

Do  we,  their  children,  throng; 
The  temple's  arch  we  raise  thee 

Gives  back  our  choral  song. 
Yet,  on  the  winds  that  bore  thee 

Their  worship  and  their  prayers, 
May  ours  come  up  before  thee 

From  hearts  as  true  as  theirs ! 

What  have  we,  Lord,  to  bind  us 

To  this,  the  Pilgrims'  shore ! — 
Their  hill  of  graves  behind  us, 

Their  watery  way  before, 
The  wintry  surge,  that  dashes 

Against  the  rocks  they  trod, 
Their  memory,  and  their  ashes, — 

Be  thou  their  guard,  0  God ! 

We  would  not,  Holy  Father, 

Forsake  this  hallow'd  spot, 
Till  on  that  shore  we  gather 

Where  graves  and  griefs  are  not ; 
The  shore  where  true  devotion 

Shall  rear  no  pillar'd  shrine, 
And  see  no  other  ocean 

Than  that  of  love  divine. 


THE  EXILE  AT  REST. 

His  falchion  flash'd  along  the  Nile ; 

His  hosts  he  led  through  Alpine  snows  ; 
O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  shook  the  while, 

His  eagle  flag  unroll'd — and  froze. 
Here  sleeps  he  now  alone :  not  one 

Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 
Nor  sire,  nor  brother,  wife,  nor  son, 

Hath  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 
Here  sleeps  he  now  alone ;  the  star 

That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown 
Hath  sunk ;  the  nations  from  afar 

Gazed  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 
He  sleeps  alone :  the  mountain  cloud 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 
Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 

That  wraps  his  mortal  form  in  death. 
High  is  his  couch  ;  the  ocean  flood 

Far,  far  below  by  storms  is  cnrl'd, 
As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 

A  stormy  and  inconstant  world. 
Hark !     Comes  there  from  the  Pyramids, 

And  from  Siberia's  wastes  of  snow, 
And  Europe's  fields,  a  voice  that  bids 

The  world  he  awed  to  mourn  him  ?     No : 


84                                                        JOHN    PIERPONT. 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge 

To  this,  when  Egypt's  AHHAHAM* 

That's  heard  there,  is  the  seabird's  cry, 

The  sceptre  and  the  sword 

The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 
The  cloud's  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 

Shakes  o'er  her  head,  her  holy  men 
Have  bow'd  before  the  Lord. 

Jerusalem,  I  would  have  seen 

-« 

Thy  precipices  steep, 

JERUSALEM. 

The  trees  of  palm  that  overhang 

Thy  gorges  dark  and  deep, 

JERUSALEM,  Jerusalem, 
How  glad  should  I  have  been, 

The  goats  that  cling  along  thy  cluTs, 
And  browse  upon  thy  rocks, 
Beneath  whose  shade  lie  down,  alike, 

Could  I,  in  my  lone  wanderings, 

Thy  shepherds  and  their  flocks. 

Thine  aged  walls  have  seen  !  — 
Could  I  have  gazed  upon  the  dome 
Above  thy  towers  that  swells, 
And  heard,  as  evening's  sun  went  down, 
Thy  parting  camels'  bells  :  — 

I  would  have  mused,  while  night  hung  out 
Her  silver  lamp  so  pale, 
Beneath  those  ancient  olive  trees 
That  grow  in  Kedron's  vale, 

Whose  foliage  from  the  pilgrim  hides 

Could  I  have  stood  on  Olivet, 

The  city's  wall  sublime, 

Where  once  the  Saviour  trod, 

Whose  twisted  arms  and  gnarled  trunks 

And,  from  its  height,  look'd  down  upon 

Defy  the  scythe  of  time. 

The  city  of  our  God  ; 
For  is  it  not,  Almighty  God, 

The  garden  of  Gethsemane 
Those  aged  olive  trees 

Thy  holy  city  still,  — 
Though  there  thy  prophets  walk  no  more,  — 
That  crowns  Moriah's  hill  1 

' 

Are  shading  yet,  and  in  their  shade 
I  would  have  sought  the  breeze, 
That,  like  an  angel,  bathed  the  brow, 

Thy  prophets  walk  no  more,  indeed, 

And  bore  to  heaven  the  prayer 

The  streets  of  Salem  now, 

Of  Jesus,  when  in  agony, 

Nor  are  their  voices  lifted  up 

He  sought  the  Father  there. 

On  Zion's  sadden'd  brow  ; 
Nor  are  their  garnish'd  sepulchres 

I  would  have  gone  to  Calvary, 
And,  where  the  MAHYS  stood, 

With  pious  sorrow  kept, 
Where  once  the  same  Jerusalem, 

Bewailing  loud  the  Crucified, 
As  near  him  as  they  could, 

That  kill'd  them,  came  and  wept. 

I  would  have  stood,  till  night  o'er  earth 

But  still  the  seed  of  ABRAHAM 

Her  heavy  pall  had  thrown, 

With  joy  upon  it  look, 
And  lay  their  ashes  at  its  feet, 

And  thought  upon  my  Saviour's  cross, 
And  learn'd  to  bear  my  own. 

That  Kedron's  feeble  brook 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem, 

Still  washes,  as  its  waters  creep 

Thy  cross  thou  bearest  now  ! 

Along  their  rocky  bed, 

An  iron  yoke  is  on  thy  neck, 

And  Israel's  Gon  is  worshipp'd  yet 

And  blood  is  on  thy  brow  ; 

Where  Zion  lifts  her  head. 

Thy  golden  crown,  the  crown  of  truth, 

Yes  ;  every  morning,  as  the  day 
Breaks  over  Olivet, 
The  holy  name  of  ALLAH  comes 

Thou  didst  reject  as  dross, 
And  now  thy  cross  is  on  thee  laid  — 
The  crescent  is  thy  cross  ! 

From  every  minaret  ; 

It  was  not  mine,  nor  will  it  be, 

At  every  eve  the  mellow  call 

To  sec  the  bloody  rod 

Floats  on  the  quiet  air, 

That  scourgeth  thee,  and  long  hath  scourged, 

"  Lo,  GOD  is  GOD  !     Before  him  come, 

Thou  city  of  our  GOD  ! 

Before  him  come,  for  prayer  !" 

But  round  thy  hill  the  spirits  throng 

Of  all  thy  murder'd  seers, 

I  know,  when  at  that  solemn  call 

And  voices  that  went  up  from  it 

The  city  holds  her  breath, 
That  OH  AII'S  mosque  hears  not  the  name 

Are  ringing  in  my  ears,  — 

Of  Him  of  Nazareth  ; 

Went  up  that  day,  when  darkness  fell 

But  ABRAHAM'S  GOD  is  worshipp'd  there 

From  all  thy  firmament, 

Alike  by  age  and  youth, 

And  shrouded  thee  at  noon  ;  and  when 

And  worshipp'd,  —  hopeth  charity,  — 

Thy  temple's  vail  was  rent, 

"  In  spirit  and  in  truth." 

And  graves  of  holy  men,  that  touch'd 

Thy  feet,  gave  up  their  dead  :  — 

Yea,  from  that  day  when  SALEM  knelt 

Jerusalem,  thy  prayer  is  heard, 

And  bent  her  queenly  neck 

HlS    BLOOD   IS  OX  THY  IIEAI)! 

To  '.'  im  who  was,  at  once,  her  priest 

And  king,  —  MKLCHISEDEK, 

*  Tliis  name  is  now  generally  written  IBRAHIM. 

JOHN   PIERPONT. 


85 


THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC.* 

HEAR  yon  poetic  pilgrim-)-  of  the  west 
Chant  music's  praise,  and  to  her  power  attest ; 
Who  now,  in  Florida's  untrodden  woods, 
Bedecks,  with  vines  of  jessamine,  her  floods, 
And  flowery  bridges  o'er  them  loosely  throws; 
Who  hangs  the  canvass  where  ATALA  glows, 
On  the  live  oak,  in  floating  drapery  shrouded, 
That  like  a  mountain  rises,  lightly  clouded : 
Who,  for  the  son  of  OUTALISSI,  twines 
Beneath  the  shade  of  ever-whispering  pines 
A  funeral  wreath,  to  bloom  upon  the  moss 
That  Time  already  sprinkles  on  the  cross 
Raised  o'er  the  grave  where  his  young  virgin  sleeps, 
And  Superstition  o'er  her  victim  weeps; 
Whom  now  the  silence  of  the  dead  surrounds, 
Among  Scioto's  monumental  mounds; 
Save  that,  at  times,  the  musing  pilgrim  hears 
A  crumbling  oak  fall  with  the  weight  of  years, 
To  swell  the  mass  that  Time  and  Ruin  throw 
O'er  chalky  bones  that  mouldering  lie  below, 
By  virtues  unembalm'd,  unstain'd  by  crimes, 
Lost  in  those  towering  tombs  of  other  times ; 
For,  where  no  bard  has  cherished  virtue's  flame, 
No  ashes  sleep  in  the  warm  sun  of  fame. 
With  sacred  lore  this  traveller  beguiles 
His  weary  way,  while  o'er  him  fancy  smiles. 
Whether  he  kneels  in  venerable  groves, 
Or  through  the  wide  and  green  savanna  roves, 
His  heart  leaps  lightly  on  each  breeze,  that  bears 
The  faintest  breath  of  Idumea's  airs. 

Now  he  recalls  the  lamentable  wail 
That  pierced  the  shades  of  Rama's  palmy  vale, 
When  Murder  struck,  throned  on  an  infant's  bier, 
A  note  for  SATAN'S  and  for  HEROD'S  ear. 
Now  on  a  bank,  o'erhung  with  waving  wood, 
Whose  falling  leaves  flit  o'er  Ohio's  flood, 
The  pilgrim  stands ;  and  o'er  his  memory  rushes 
The  mingled  tide  of  tears  and  blood,  that  gushes 
Along  the  valleys  where  his  childhood  stray'd, 
And  round  the  temples  where  his  fathers  pray'd. 
How  fondly  then,  from  all  but  hope  exiled, 
To  Zion's  wo  recurs  religion's  child! 
He  sees  the  tear  of  JUDAH'S  captive  daughters 
Mingle,  in  silent  flow,  with  Babel's  waters; 
While  Salem's  harp,  by  patriot  pride  unstrung, 
Wrapp'd  in  the  mist  that  o'er  the  river  hung, 
Felt  but  the  breeze  that  wanton'd  o'ef  the  billow, 
And  the  long,  sweeping  fingers  of  the  willow. 

And  could  not  music  soothe  the  captive's  wo  ? 
But  should  that  harp  be  strung  for  JUDAH'S  foe] 

While   thus  the    enthusiast  roams   along    the 

stream, 

Balanced  between  a  revery  and  a  dream, 
Backward  he  springs;  and  through  his  bounding 

heart 

The  cold  and  curdling  poison  seems  to  dart. 
For,  in  the  leaves,  beneath  a  quivering  brake, 
Spinning  his  death-note,  lies  a  coiling  snake, 
Just  in  the  act,  with  greenly  vcnom'd  fangs, 
To  strike  the  foot  that  heedless  o'er  him  hangs. 


*  From  "Airs  of  Palestine.' 


t  Chateaubriand. 


Bloated  with  rage,  on  spiral  folds  he  rides ; 
His  rough  scales  shiver  on  his  spreading  sides ; 
Dusky  and  dim  his  glossy  neck  becomes, 
And  freezing  poisons  thickens  on  his  gums; 
Hisparch'd  and  hissing  throat  breathes  hot  and  dry ; 
A  spark  of  hell  lies  burning  on  his  eye : 
While,  like  a  vapour  o'er  his  writhing  rings. 
Whirls  his  light  tail,  that  threatens  while  it  sings. 

Soon  as  dumb  fear  removes  her  icy  fingers 
From  off  the  heart,  where  gazing  wonder  lingers, 
The  pilgrim,  shrinking  from  a  doubtful  fight, 
Aware  of  danger,  too,  in  sudden  flight, 
From  his  soft  flute  throws  music's  air  around, 
And  meets  his  foe  upon  enchanted  ground. 
See !  as  the  plaintive  melody  is  flung, 
The  lightning  flash  fades  on  the  serpent's  tongue ; 
The  uncoiling  reptile  o'er  each  shining  fold 
Throws  changeful  clouds  of  azure,  green,  and  gold ; 
A  softer  lustre  twinkles  in  his  eye; 
His  neck  is  burnish'd  with  a  glossier  dye ; 
His  slippery  scales  grow  smoother  to  the  sight, 
And  his  relaxing  circles  roll  in  light. 
Slowly  the  charm  retires :  with  waving  sides, 
Along  its  track  the  graceful  listener  glides ; 
While  music  throws  her  silver  cloud  around, 
And  bears  her  votary  off  in  magic  folds  of  sound. 


OBSEQUIES  OF  SPURZHEIM. 

STRAXGER,  there  is  bending  o'er  thee 

Many  an  eye  with  sorrow  wet ; 
All  our  stricken  hearts  deplore  thee ; 

Who,  that  knew  thee,  can  forget  ? 
Who  forgot  that  thou  hast  spoken  ? 

Who,  thine  eye, — that  noble  frame  ? 
But  that  golden  bowl  is  broken, 

In  the  greatness  of  thy  fame. 

Autumn's  leaves  shall  fall  and  wither 

On  the  spot  where  thou  shall  rest ; 
'T  is  in  love  we  bear  thee  thither, 

To  thy  mourning  mother's  breast. 
For  the  stores  of  science  brought  us, 

For  the  charm  thy  goodness  gave 
To  the  lessons  thou  hast  taught  us, 

Can  we  give  thee  but  a  grave  7 

Nature's  priest,  how  pure  and  fervent 

Was  thy  worship  at  her  shrine  ! 
Friend  of  man,  of  God  the  servant, 

Advocate  of  truths  divine, — 
Taught  and  charm'd  as  by  no  other 

We  have  been,  and  hoped  to  be; 
But,  while  waiting  round  thee,  brother, 

For  thy  light, — 'tis  dark  with  thee. 

Dark  with  thee? — No;  thy  Creator, 

All  whose  creatures  and  whose  laws 
Thou  didst  love,  shall  give  thee  greater 

Light  than  earth's,  as  earth  withdraws. 
To  thy  God,  thy  godlike  spirit 

Back  we  give,  in  filial  trust; 
Thy  cold  clay, — we  Grieve  to  bear  it 

To  its  chamber, — bnf  we  must. 
II 


86                                                        JOHN   PIERPONT. 

THE  SEAMAN'S  BETHEL.* 

Thou  liquid  fire  !  like  that  which  glow'd 

On  Melita's  surf-beaten  shore, 

Tnou,  who  on  the  whirlwind  ridest, 

Thou  'st  been  upon  my  guests  bcstow'd, 

At  whose  word  the  thunder  roars, 

But  thou  shalt  warm  my  house  no  more. 

Who,  in  majesty,  presidest 

For,  wheresoe'er  thy  radiance  falls, 

O'er  the  oceans  and  their  shores  ; 

Forth,  from  thy  heat,  a  viper  crawls  ! 

From  those  shores,  and  from  the  oceans, 
We,  the  children  of  the  sea, 
Come  to  pay  thee  our  devotions, 

What,  though  of  gold  the  goblet  be, 
Emboss'd  with  branches  of  the  vine, 
Beneath  whose  burnish'd  leaves  we  see 

And  to  give  this  house  to  thee. 

Such  clusters  as  pour'd  out  the  wine  ? 

When,  for  business  on  great  waters, 

Among  those  leaves  an  adder  hangs  ! 

We  go  down  to  sea  in  ships, 

I  fear  him  ;  —  for  I  've  felt  his  fangs. 

And  our  weeping  wives  and  daughters 
Hang,  at  parting,  on  our  lips, 
This,  our  Bethel,  shall  remind  us, 
That  there's  One  who  heareth  prayer, 
And  that  those  we  leave  behind  us 
Are  a  faithful  pastor  s  care. 

The  Hebrew,  who  the  desert  trod, 
And  felt  the  fiery  serpent's  bite, 
Look'd  up  to  that  ordain'd  of  GOD, 
And  found  that  life  was  in  the  sight. 
So,  the  itwm-bitten's  fiery  veins 
Cool,  when  he  drinks  what  GOD  ordains. 

Visions  of  our  native  highlands, 

In  our  wave-rock'd  dreams  embalm'd, 

Ye  gracious  clouds  !  ye  deep,  cold  wells  ! 

Winds  that  come  from  spicy  islands 
When  we  long  have  lain  becalm'd, 

Ye  gems,  from  mossy  rocks  that  drip  ! 
Springs,  that  from  earth's  mysterious  cells 

Are  not  to  our  souls  so  pleasant 
As  the  offerings  we  shall  bring 
Hither,  to  the  Omnipresent, 

Gush  o'er  your  granite  basin's  lip  ! 
To  you  I  look  ;  —  your  largess  give, 
And  I  will  drink  of  you,  and  live. 

For  the  shadow  of  his  wing. 

t 

When  in  port,  each  day  that  's  holy, 

To  this  house  we  '11  press  in  throngs  ; 

FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

When  at  sea,  with  spirit  lowly, 



We'll  repeat  its  sacred  songs. 

DAT  of  glory  !  welcome  day  ! 

Outward  bound,  shall  we,  in  sadness, 
Lose  its  flag  behind  the  seas  ; 
Homeward  bound,  we  '11  greet  with  gladness 
Its  first  floating  on  the  breeze. 

Freedom's  banners  greet  thy  ray  ; 
See  !  how  cheerfully  they  play 
With  thy  morning  breeze, 
On  the  rocks  where  pilgrims  kneel'd, 

Homeward  bound  !  —  with  deep  emotion, 
We  remember,  Lord,  that  life 
Is  a  voyage  upon  an  ocean, 

On  the  heights  where  squadrons  wheel'd, 
When  a  tyrant's  thunder  peal'd 
O'er  the  trembling  seas. 

Heaved  by  many  a  tempest's  strife. 

GOD  of  armies  !  did  thy  "  stars 

Be  thy  statutes  so  engraven 

In  their  courses"  smite  his  cars, 

On  our  hearts  and  minds,  that  we, 

Blast  his  arm,  and  wrest  his  bars 

Anchoring  in  Death's  quiet  haven, 

From  the  heaving  tide  1 

All  may  make  our  home  with  thee. 

On  our  standard,  lo  !  they  burn, 

And,  when  days  like  this  return, 

* 

Sparkle  o'er  the  soldiers'  urn 

THE  SPARKLING  BOWL. 

Who  for  freedom  died. 

THOU  sparkling  bowl  !  thou  sparkling  bowl  ! 

GOD  of  peace  !  —  whose  spirit  fills 
All  the  echoes  of  our  hills, 

Though  lips  of  bards  thy  brim  may  press, 

All  the  murmurs  of  our  rills, 

And  eyes  of  beauty  o'er  thee  roll, 

Now  the  storm  is  o'er  ;  — 

And  song  and  dance  thy  power  confess, 

O,  let  freemen  be  our  sons  ; 

I  will  not  touch  thee  ;  for  there  clings 

And  let  future  WASHINGTO^S 

A  scorpion  to  thy  side,  that  stings  ! 

Rise,  to  lead  their  valiant  ones, 

Thou  crystal  glass  !  like  Eden's  tree, 

Till  there's  war  no  more. 

Thy  melted  ruby  tempts  the  eye, 
And,  as  from  that,  there  comes  from  thee 

By  the  patriot's  hallow'd  rest, 
Bv  the  warrior's  gorv  breast,^— 

The  voice,  "  Thou  shalt  not  surely  die." 
I  dare  not  lift  thy  liquid  gem  ;  — 
A  snake  is  twisted  round  thy  stem  ! 

Never  let  our  graves  be  press'd 
By  a  despot's  throne  ; 
By  the  Pilgrims'  toils  and  cares, 

*  Written  for  the  dedication  of  the  £  eanmn's  Bethel, 
under  tl;e  direction  of  the  Boston  Port  Society,  Septem- 

By their  battles  and  their  prayers, 
By  their  ashes.  —  let  our  heirs 

ber  fourth,  1833. 

Bow  to  thee  alone. 

SAMUEL    WOODWORTH. 


[Born,  1785.    Died,  1842-1 


Mn.  WoonwonTH  was  a  native  of  Scituatc,  in 
Massachusetts.  After  learning  in  a  country  town 
the  art  of  printing,  he  went  to  New  York,  where 
he  was  editor  of  a  newspaper  during  our  second 
war  with  England.  He  subsequently  published 
a  weekly  miscellany  entitled  "The  Ladies'  Lite- 
rary Gazette,"  and  in  1823,  associated  with  Mr. 
GKOUGE  P.  Monnis,  he  established  "The  New 
York  Mirror,"  long  the  most  popular  journal  of 
literature  and  art  in  this  country.  For  several 
years  before  his  death  he  was  an  invalid,  and  in 
this  period  a  large  number  of  the  leading  gentle- 
men of  New  York  acted  as  a  committee  for  a 
complimentary  benefit  given  for  him  at  the  Park 
Theatre,  the  proceeds  of  which  made  more  plea- 
sant his  closing  days.  He  died  in  the  month  of 
December,  1843,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his 
age,  much  respected  by  all  who  knew  him,  for  his 


THE  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell, 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-cover'd  vessel  I  liail'd  as  a  treasure, 

For  often  at  noon,  when  return'd  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well ! 


modesty  and  integrity  as  well  as  for  his  literary 
abilities. 

Mr.  WoonwonTn  wrote  many  pieces  for  the 
stage,  which  had  a  temporary  popularity,  and  two 
or  three  volumes  of  songs,  odes,  and  other  poems, 
relating  chiefly  to  subjects  of  rural  and  domestic 
life.  He  dwelt  always  with  delight  upon  the 
scenes  of  his  childhood,  and  lamented  that  he  was 
compelled  to  make  his  home  amid  the  strife  and 
tumult  of  a  city.  He  was  the  poet  of  the  "  com- 
mon people,"  and  was  happy  in  the  belief  that 
"  The  Bucket"  was  read  by  multitudes  who  never 
heard  of  «  Thanatopsis."  Some  of  his  pieces  have 
certainly  much  merit,  in  their  way,  and  a  selection 
might  be  made  from  his  voluminous  writings  that 
would  be  very  honourable  to  his  talents  and  his 
feelings.  There  has  been  no  recent  edition  of  any 
of  his  works. 


THE  NEEDLE. 

THE  gay  belles  of  fashion  may  boast  of  excelling 

In  waltz  or  cotillion,  at  whist  or  quadrille ; 
And  seek  admiration  by  vauntingly  telling 

Of  drawing,  and  painting,  and  musical  skill; 
But  give  me  the  fair  one,  in  country  or  city, 

Whose  home  and  its  duties  are  dear  to  her  heart, 
Who  cheerfully  warbles  some  rustical  ditty, 

While  plying  the  needle  with  exquisite  art. 
The  bright  little  needle — the  swift-flying  needle, 

The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art 

If  Love  have  a  potent,  a  magical  token, 

A  talisman,  ever  resistless  and  true — 
A  charm  that  is  never  evaded  or  broken, 

A  witchery  certain  the  heart  to  subdue — 
'Tis  this — and  his  armoury  never  has  furnish'd 

So  keen  and  unerring,  or  polish'd  a  dart ; 
Let  Beauty  direct  it,  so  pointed  and  burnish'd, 

And  Oh !  it  is  certain  of  touching  the  heart. 
The  bright  little  needle — the  swift-flying  needle-, 

The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art. 

Be  wise,  then,  ye  maidens,  nor  seek  admiration 

By  dressing  for  conquest,  and  flirting  with  all; 
You  never,  whate'er  be  your  fortune  or  station, 

Appear  half  so  lovely  at  rout  or  at  ball. 
As  gaily  convened  at  a  work-cover'd  table, 

Each  cheerfully  active  and  playing  her  part, 
Beguiling  the  task  with  a  song  or  a  fable, 

And  plying  the  needle  with  exquisite  art. 
The  bright  little  needle — the  swift-flying  needle, 

The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art. 


ANDREWS    NORTON. 


[Born  1786.] 


MH.  NORTOJT  was  born  at  Hingham,  near  Bos- 
ton, in  1786.  He  entered  Harvard  College  in 
1800,  and  was  graduated  in  1804.  He  studied 
divinity,  but  never  became  a  settled  clergyman. 
He  was  for  a  time  tutor  at  Bowdoin  College,  and 
afterward  tutor  and  librarian  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity. In  1819,  he  became  Dexter  Professor  of 
Sacred  Literature  in  the  latter  institution.  He 


resigned  that  office  in  1830,  and  has  since  resided 
at  Cambridge  as  a  private  gentleman. 

Mr.  NORTON  is  author  of  "The  Evidences  of 
the  Genuineness  of  the  Gospels,"  published,  in  an 
octavo  volume,  in  1837;  and  of  several  other 
theological  works,  in  which  he  has  exhibited  rare 
scholarship  and  argumentative  'abilities.  His 
poetical  writings  are  not  numerous. 


TO 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG 
FRIEND. 


0,  STAY  thy  tears !  for  they  are  blest 

Whose  days  are  past ;  whose  toil  is  done. 

Here  midnight  care  disturbs  our  rest ; 
Here  sorrow  dims  the  noonday  sun. 

For  labouring  Virtue's  anxious  toil, 

For  patient  Sorrow's  stifled  sigh, 
For  Faith  that  marks  the  conqueror's  spoil, 

Heaven  grants  the  recompense,  to  die. 

How  blest  are  they  whose  transient  years 
Pass  like  an  evening  meteor's  flight ; 

Not  dark  with  guilt,  nor  dim  with  tears ; 
Whose  course  is  short,  unclouded,  bright. 

How  cheerless  were  our  lengthen'd  way, 
Did  heaven's  own  light  not  break  the  gloom ; 

Stream  downward  from  eternal  day, 
And  cast  a  glory  round  the  tomb  ! 

Then  stay  thy  tears ;  the  blest  above 
Have  hail'd  a  spirit's  heavenly  birth ; 

Sung  a  new  song  of  joy  and  love, 
And  why  should  anguish  reign  on  earth  1 


WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF 
CHARLES  ELIOT. 

FAREWELL  !  before  we  meet  again, 

Perhaps  through  scenes  as  yet  unknown, 

That  lie  in  distant  years  of  pain, 
I  have  to  journey  on  alone ; 

To  meet  with  griefs  thou  wilt  not  feel, 

Perchance  with  joys  thou  canst  not  share ; 

And  when  we  both  were  wont  to  kneel, 
To  breathe  alone  the  silent  prayer ; 

But  ne'er  a  deeper  pang  to  know, 

Than  when  I  watch'd  thy  slow  decay, 

Saw  on  thy  cheek  the  hectic  glow, 
And  felt  at  last  each  hope  give  way. 


But  who  the  destined  hour  may  tell, 
That  bids  the  loosen'd  spirit  fly  1 

E'en  now  this  pulse's  feverish  swell 
May  warn  me  of  mortality.  , 

But  chance  what  may,  thou  wilt  no  more 
With  sense  and  wit  my  hours  beguile, 

Infonn  with  learning's  various  lore, 

Or  charm  with  friendship's  kindest  smile 

Each  book  I  read,  each  walk  I  tread, 
Whate'er  I  feel,  whate'er  I  see, 

All  speak  of  hopes  forever  fled, 
All  have  some  tale  to  tell  of  thee. 

I  shall  not,  should  misfortune  lower, 
Should  friends  desert,  and  life  decline, 

I  shall  not  know  thy  soothing  power, 
Nor  hear  thee  say,  "  My  heart  is  thine." 

If  thou  hadst  lived,  thy  well-earn'd  fame 
Had  bade  my  fading  prospect  bloom, 

Had  cast  its  lustre  o'er  my  name, 
And  stood  the  guardian  of  my  tomb. 

Servant  of  GOD  !  thy  ardent  mind, 

With  lengthening  years  improving  still, 

Striving,  untired,  to  serve  mankind, 
Had  thus  perform'd  thy  Father's  will. 

Another  task  to  thee  was  given  ; 

'T  was  thine  to  drink  of  early  wo, 
To  feel  thy  hopes,  thy  friendships  riven, 

And  bend  submissive  to  the  blow ; 

With  patient  smile  and  steady  eye, 
To  meet  each  pang  that  sickness  gave, 

And  see  with  lingering  step  draw  nigh 
The  form  that  pointed  to  the  grave. 

Servant  of  GOD  !  thou  art  not  there ; 

Thy  race  of  virtue  is  not  run ; 
What  blooms  on  earth  of  good  anu  fair, 

Will  ripen  in  another  sun. 

Dost  thou,  amid  the  rapturous  glow 

With  which  the  soul  her  welcome  hears, 

Dost  thou  still  think  of  us  below, 
Of  earthly  scenes,  of  human  tears! 


ANDREWS    NORTON. 


89 


Perhaps  e'en  now  thy  thoughts  return 
To  when  in  summer's  moonlight  walk, 

Of  all  that  now  is  thine  to  learn, 

We  framed  no  light  nor  fruitless  talk. 

We  spake  of  knowledge,  such  as  soars 
From  world  to  world  with  ceaseless  flight ; 

And  love,  that  follows  and  adores, 
As  nature  spreads  before  her  sight. 

How  vivid  still  past  scenes  appear ! 

I  feel  as  though  all  were  not  o'er ; 
As  though  'twere  strange  I  cannot  hear 

Thy  voice  of  friendship  yet  once  more. 

But  I  shall  hear  it ;  in  that  day 

Whose  setting  sun  I  may  not  view, 

When  earthly  voices  die  away, 
Thine  will  at  last  be  heard  anew. 

We  meet  again  ;  a  little  while, 
And  where  thou  art  I  too  shall  be. 

And  then,  with  what  an  angel  smile 
Of  gladness,  thou  wilt  welcome  me ! 


A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

THE  rain  is  o'er — How  dense  and  bright 
Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 
Contrasting  with  the  deep-blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing ;  fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  softcn'd  sunbeams  pour  around 

A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale ; 
The  wind  flows  cool,  the  scented  ground 

Is  breathing  odours  on  the  gale. 

Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 

Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 
Might  rest  to  gaze  below  a  while, 

Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth — from  off  the  scene, 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung ; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  nature — yet  the  same — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fann'd, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  GOD'S  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 

Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 

And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence — low-born  care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire, 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


HYMN. 


Mr  GOD,  I  thank  thee !  may  no  thought 
E'er  deem  thy  chastisements  severe ; 

But  may  this  heart,  by  sorrow  taught, 
Calm  each  wild  wish,  each  idle  fear. 

Thy  mercy  bids  all  nature  bloom ; 

The  sun  shines  bright,  and  man  is  gay ; 
Thine  equal  mercy  spreads  the  gloom 

That  darkens  o'er  his  little  day. 

Full  many  a  throb  of  grief  and  pain 
Thy  frail  and  erring  child  must  know ; 

But  not  one  prayer  is  breathed  in  vain, 
Nor  does  one  tear  unheeded  flow. 

Thy  various  messengers  employ ; 

Thy  purposes  of  love  fulfil ; 
And,  mid  the  wreck  of  human  joy, 

May  kneeling  faith  adore  thy  will ! 


TO  MRS. 


ON  HER  DEPARTURE 


FOR  EUROPE. 


FAREWELL  !  farewell !  for  many  a  day 
Our  thoughts  far  o'er  the  sea  will  roam ! 

Blessings  and  payers  attend  thy  way ; 
Glad  welcomes  wait  for  thee  at  home. 

While  gazing  upon  Alpine  snows, 
Or  lingering  near  Italian  shores ; 

Where  Nature  all  her  grandeur  shows, 
Or  art  unveils  her  treasured  stores ; 

When  mingling  with  those  gifted  minds 
That  shed  their  influence  on  our  race, 

Thine  own  its  native  station  finds, 

And  takes  with  them  an  honour'd  place ; 

Forget  not,  then,  how  dear  thou  art 
To  many  friends  not  with  thee  there ; 

To  many  a  warm  and  anxious  heart, 
Object  of  love,  and  hope,  and  prayer. 

When  shall  we  meet  again? — some  day, 
In  a  bright  morning,  when  the  gale 

Sweeps  the  blue  waters  as  in  play ; 
Then  shall  we  watch  thy  coming  sail '.' 

When  shall  we  meet  again,  and  where? 

We  trust  not  hope's  uncertain  voice; 
To  faith  the  future  all  is  fair: 

She  speaks  assured ;  «  Thou  shalt  rejoice.' 

Perhaps  our  meeting  may  be  when, 
Mid  new-born  life's  awakening  glow, 

The  loved  and  lost  appear  again, 

Heaven's  music  sounding  sweet  and  low 


90 


ANDREWS   NORTON. 


HYMN  FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A 
CHURCH. 

WHERE  ancient  forests  round  us  spread, 
Where  bends  the  cataract's  ocean-fall, 

On  the  lone  mountain's  silent  head, 
There  are  thy  temples,  GOD  of  all ! 

Beneath  the  dark-blue,  midnight  arch, 

Whence  myriad  suns  pour  down  their  rays, 

Where  planets  trace  their  ceaseless  march, 
Father !  we  worship  as  we  gaze. 

The  tombs  thine  altars  are ;  for  there, 
When  earthly  loves  and  hopes  have  fled, 

To  thee  ascends  the  spirit's  prayer, 
Tnou  GOD  of  the  immortal  dead ! 

All  space  is  holy ;  for  all  space 

Is  fill'd  by  thee ;  but  human  thought 

Burns  clearer  in  some  chosen  place, 

Where  thy  own  words  of  love  are  taught. 

Here  be  they  taught ;  and  may  we  know 
That  faith  thy  servants  knew  of  old ; 

Which  onward  bears  through  weal  and  wo, 
Till  Death  the  gates  of  heaven  unfold ! 

Nor  we  alone ;  may  those  whose  brow 
Shows  yet  no  trace  of  human  cares, 

Hereafter  stand  where  we  do  now, 
And  raise  to  thee  still  holier  prayers ! 


FORTITUDE. 

FAINT  not,  poor  traveller,  though  thy  way 
Be  rough,  like  that  thy  SAVIOUR  trod ; 

Though  cold  and  stormy  lower  the  day, 
This  path  of  suffering  leads  to  GOD. 

Nay,  sink  not ;  though  from  every  limb 
Are  starting  drops  of  toil  and  pain ; 

Thou  dost  but  share  the  lot  of  Him 
With  whom  his  followers  are  to  reign. 

Thy  friends  are  gone,  and  thou,  alone, 
Must  bear  the  sorrows  that  assail ; 

Look  upward  to  the  eternal  throne, 
And  know  a  Friend  who  cannot  fail. 

Bear  firmly ;  yet  a  few  more  days, 
And  thy  hard  trial  will  be  past ; 

Then,  wrapt  in  glory's  opening  blaze, 
Thy  feet  will  rest  on  heaven  at  last. 

Christian !  thy  Friend,  thy  Master  pray'd, 
When  dread  and  anguish  shook  his  frame ; 

Then  met  his  sufferings  undismay'd ; 
Wilt  thou  not  strive  to  do  the  same  ? 

O !  think' st  thou  that  his  Father's  love 
Shone  round  him  then  with  fainter  rays 

Than  now,  when,  throned  all  height  above, 
Unceasing  voices  hymn  his  praise  1 


Go,  sufferer !  calmly  meet  the  woes 

Which  GOD'S  own  mercy  bids  thee  bear ; 

Then,  rising  as  thy  SAVIOUR  rose, 
Go !  his  eternal  victory  share. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 

ANOTHER  year !  another  year ! 

The  unceasing  rush  of  time  sweeps  on ; 
Whelm'd  in  its  surges,  disappear 

Man's  hopes  and  fears,  forever  gone ! 

0,  no  !  forbear  that  idle  tale  ! 

The  hour  demands  another  strain, 
Demands  high  thoughts  that  cannot  quail, 

And  strength  to  conquer  and  retain. 

'T  is  midnight — from  the  dark-blue  sky, 
The  stars,  which  now  look  down  on  earth, 

Have  seen  ten  thousand  centuries  fly, 
And  given  to  countless  changes  birth. 

And  when  the  pyramids  shall  fall, 
And,  mouldering,  mix  as  dust  in  air, 

The  dwellers  on  this  alter'd  ball 

May  still  behold  them  glorious  there. 

Shine  on !  shine  on !  with  you  I  tread 
The  march  of  ages,  orbs  of  light ! 

A  last  eclipse  o'er  you  may  spread, 
To  me,  to  me,  there  comes  no  night 

O  !  what  concerns  it  him,  whose  way 
Lies  upward  to  the  immortal  dead, 

That  a  few  hairs  are  turning  gray, 
Or  one  more  year  of  life  has  fled  1 

Swift  years  !  but  teach  me  how  to  bear, 
To  feel  and  act  with  strength  and  skill, 

To  reason  wisely,  nobly  dare, 

And  speed  your  courses  as  ye  will. 

When  life's  meridian  toils  are  done, 
How  calm,  how  rich  the  twilight  glow ! 

The  morning  twilight  of  a  sun 

Which  shines  not  here  on  things  below. 

But  sorrow,  sickness,  death,  the  pain 
To  leave,  or  lose  wife,  children,  friends ! 

What  then — shall  we  not  meet  again 
Where  parting  comes  not,  sorrow  ends  ? 

The  fondness  of  a  parent's  care, 

The  changeless  trust  which  woman  gives, 
The  smile  of  childhood, — it  is  there 

That  all  we  love  in  them  still  lives. 

Press  onward  through  each  varying  hour ; 

Let  no  weak  fears  thy  course  delay ; 
Immortal  being !  feel  thy  power, 

Pursue  thy  bright  and  endless  way. 


ANDREWS   NORTON. 


91 


TO  MRS. 


-,  JUST  AFTER  HER  MAR- 
RIAGE. 


NAT  !  ask  me  not  now  for  some  proof  that  my 

heart 
Has  learn'd  the  dear  lesson  of  friendship  for 

thee; 

Nay !  ask  not  for  words  that  might  feebly  impart 
The  feelings  and  thoughts  which  thy  glance 
cannot  see. 

Whate'er  I  could  wish  thee  already  is  thine ; 
The'fair  sunshine  within  sheds  its  beams  through 

thine  eye ; 
And  Pleasure  stands  near  thee,  and  waits  but  a 

sign 
To  all  whom  thou  lovest  at  thy  bidding  to  fly. 

Yet,  hereafter,  thy  bosom  some  sadness  may  feel, 
Some  cloud  o'er  thy  heart  its  chill  shadow  may 

throw ; 

Then,  ask  if  thou  wilt,  and  my  words  shall  reveal 
The  feelings  and   thoughts  which  thou  now 
canst  not  know 


FUNERAL  HYMN. 

HE  has  gone  to  his  Gon ;  he  has  gone  to  his  home; 
No  more  amid  peril  and  error  to  roam; 
His  eyes  are  no  longer  dim ; 

His  feet  will  no  more  falter ; 
No  grief  can  follow  him ; 
No  pang  his  cheek  can  alter. 

There  are  paleness,  and  weeping,  and  sighs  below ; 
For  our  faith  is  faint,  and  our  tears  will  flow ; 
But  the  harps  of  heaven  are  ringing; 

Glad  angels  come  to  greet  him, 
And  hymns  of  joy  are  singing, 

While  old  friends  press  to  meet  him. 

0  !  honour'd,  beloved,  to  earth  unconfined, 
Thou  hast  soared  on  high,  thou  hast  left  us  behind. 
But  our  parting  is  not  forever, 

We  will  follow  thee  by  heaven's  light, 
Where  the  grave  cannot  dissever 
The  souls  whom  GOD  will  unite. 


A  WINTER  MORNING. 

THE  keen,  clear  air — the  splendid  sight — 

We  waken  to  a  world  of  ice  ; 
Where  all  things  are  enshrined  in  light, 

As  by  some  genie's  quaint  device. 

'T  is  winter's  jubilee — this  day 

His  stores  their  countless  treasures  yield ; 
See  how  the  diamond  glances  play, 

In  ceaseless  blaze,  from  tree  and  field. 

The  cold,  bare  spot  where  late  we  ranged, 
The  naked  woods,  are  seen  no  more ; 

This  earth  to  fairy  land  is  changed, 
With  glittering  silver  sheeted  o'er. 

A  shower  of  gems  is  strew'd  around  ; 

The  flowers  of  winter,  rich  and  rare ; 
Rubies  and  sapphires  deck  the  ground, 

The  topaz,  emerald,  all  are  there. 

The  morning  sun,  with  cloudless  rays, 

His  powerless  splendour  round  us  streams ; 

From  crusted  boughs,  and  twinkling  sprays, 
Fly  back  unloosed  the  rainbow  beams. 

With  more  than  summer  beauty  fair, 
The  trees  in  winter's  garb  are  shown ; 

What  a  rich  halo  melts  in  air, 

Around  their  crystal  branches  thrown ! 

And  yesterday — how  changed  the  view 

From  what  then  charm'd  us ;  when  the  sky 

Hung,  with  its  dim  and  watery  hue, 
O'er  all  the  soft,  still  prospect  nigh. 

The  distant  groves,  array'd  in  white, 
Might  then  like  things  unreal  seem, 

Just  shown  a  while  in  silvery  light, 
The  fictions  of  a  poet's  dream ; 

Like  shadowy  groves  upon  that  shore 
O'er  which  Elysium's  twilight  lay, 

By  bards  and  sages  feign'd  of  yore, 

Ere  broke  on  earth  heaven's  brighter  day. 

0  GOD  of  Nature !  with  what  might 
Of  beauty,  shower'd  on  all  below, 

Thy  guiding  power  would  lead  aright 
Earth's  wanderer  all  thy  love  to  know ! 


RICHARD   H.   DANA. 


[Born  ITS7.] 


WILLIAM:  DAKA,  Esquire,  was  sheriff  of  Mid- 
dlesex during  the  reign  of  Queen  ELIZABETH. 
His  only  descendant  at  that  time  living,  RICHARD 
DANA,  came  to  America  about  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  settled  at  Cambridge, 
then  called  Newtown,  near  Boston.  A  grandson 
of  this  gentleman,  of  the  same  name,  was  the 
poet's  grandfather.  He  was  an  eminent  member 
of  the  bar  of  Massachusetts,  and  an  active  whig 
during  the  troubles  in  Boston  immediately  before 
the  Revolution.  He  married  a  sister  of  EDMUND 
TEOWBRIDGE,  who  was  one  of  the  king's  judges, 
and  the  first  lawyer  in  the  colony.  FRANCIS 
DANA,  the  father  of  RICHARD  H.  DANA,  after 
being  graduated  at  Harvard  College,  studied  law 
with  his  uncle,  Judge  TROWBRIDGE,  and  became 
equally  distinguished  for  his  professional  abilities. 
He  was  appointed  envoy  to  Russia  during  the 
Revolution,  was  a  member  of  Congress,  and  of 
the  Massachusetts  Convention  for  adopting  the 
national  constitution,  and  afterward  Chief  Jus- 
tice of  that  Commonwealth.  He  married  a  daugh- 
tei  of  the  Honourable  WILLIAM  ELLERY,  of 
Rhode  Island,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  and  through  her  the  subject 
of  this  sketch  is  lineally  descended  from  ANNE 
BHADSTHEET,  the  wife  of  Governor  BUADSTREET, 
and  daughter  of  Governor  DUDLEY,  who  was  the 
most  celebrated  poet  of  her  time  in  America. 
Thus,  it  will  be  seen,  our  author  has  good  blood 
in  his  veins:  an  honour  which  no  one  pretends  to 
despise  who  is  confident  that  his  grandfather  was 
not  a  felon  or  a  boor. 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA  was  born  at  Cam- 
bridge, on  the  fifteenth  of  November,  1787. 
When  about  ten  years  old  he  went  to  Newport, 
Rhode  Island,  where  he  remained  until  a  year  or 
two  before  he  entered  Harvard  College.  His 
health,  during  his  boyhood,  was  too  poor  to  admit 
of  very  constant  application  to  study ;  and  much 
of  his  time  was  passed  in  rambling  along  the  rock- 
bound  coast,  listening  to  the  roar  and  dashing  of 
the  waters,  and  searching  for  the  wild  and  pic- 
turesque ;  indicating  thus  early  that  love  of  na- 
ture which  is  evinced  in  nearly  all  his  subsequent 
writings,  and  acquiring  that  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  scenery  of  the  sea  which  is'  shown  in  the 
"  Buccaneer,"  and  some  of  his  minor  pieces.  On 
leaving  college,  in  1807,  he  returned  to  Newport, 
and  passed  nearly  two  years  in  studying  the  Latin 
language  and  literature,  after  which  he  went  to 
Baltimore,  and  entered  as  a  student  the  law  office 
of  General  ROBERT  GOOD  HUE  HABPER.  The  ap- 
proach of  the  second  war  with  Great  Britain,  and 
the  extreme  unpopularity  of  all  persons  known  to 
belong  to  the  federal  party,  induced  him  to  return 
to  Cambridge,  where  he  finished  his  course  of 
.study  and  opened  an  office.  He  soon  became  a 


member  of  the  legislature,  and  was  for  a  time  a 
warm  partisan. 

Feeble  health,  and  great  constitutional  sensi- 
tiveness, the  whole  current  of  his  mind  and  feel- 
ings, convinced  him  that  he  \va-;  unfitted  for  his 
profession,  and  he  closed  his  office  to  assist  his 
relative,  Professor  EDWARD  T.  CHANMNR,  in  the 
management  of  the  «  North  American  Review," 
which  had  then  been  established  about  two  years. 
While  connected  with  this  periodical  he  wrote 
several  articles  which  (particularly  one  upon 
HAZLITT'S  British  Poets)  excited  much  atten- 
tion among  the  literary  men  of  Boston  and  Cam- 
bridge. The  POPE  and  Queen  ANNE  school  was 
then  triumphant,  and  the  dicta  of  JEFFREY  were 
law.  DANA  praised  WOHDSWOIITH  and  COLE- 
RIDGE, arid  saw  much  to  admire  in  BYRON;  he 
thought  poetry  was  something  more  than  a  recrea- 
tion; that  it  was  something  superinduced  upon  the 
realities  of  life ;  he  believed  the  ideal  and  the 
spiritual  might  be  as  real  as  the  visible  and  the 
tangible ;  thought  there  were  truths  beyond  the 
understanding  and  the  senses,  and  not  to  be 
reached  by  ratiocination ;  and  indeed  broached 
many  paradoxes  not  to  be  tolerated  then,  but 
whicfc  now  the  same  community  has  taken  up 
and  carried  to  an  extent  at  that  time  unthought  of. 

A  strong  party  rose  against  these  opinions,  and 
DAXA  had  the  whole  influence  of  the  university, 
of  the  literary  and  fashionable  society  of  the  city, 
and  of  the  press,  to  contend  against.  Being  in  a 
minority  with  the  "North  American  Club,"  he  in 
1819  or  1820  gave  up  all  connection  with  the 
Review,  which  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  ETE- 
RETTS  and  others,  and  in  1821  began  "The  Idle 
Man,"  for  which  he  found  a  publisher  in  Mr. 
CHARLES  WILEY,  of  New  York.  This  was  read 
and  admired  by  a  class  of  literary  men,  but  it  was 
of  too  high  a  character  for  the  period,  and  on  the 
publication  of  the  first  number  of  the  second  vo- 
lume, DANA  received  from  Mr.  WIUEY  informa- 
tion that  he  was  "writing  himself  into  debt,"  and 
gave  up  the  work. 

In  1825,  he  published  his  first  poetical  produc- 
tion, "The  Dying  Raven,"  in  the  "New  York 
Review,"  then  edited  by  Mr.  BUY  ANT;*  and  two 

*  While  DANA  was  a  member  of  the  "  North  American 
Club,"  the  poem  entitled  "Thinatopsis"  was  offered  for 
publication  in  the  Review.  Our  critic,  with  one  or  two 
others,  read  it,  and  concurred  in  the  belief  that  it  could 
not  have  been  written  by  an  American.  There  was  a 
finish  and  completeness  about  it,  added  to  the  grandeur 
and  beauty  of  the  ideas,  to  which,  it  was  supposed,  none 
of  our  own  writers  h;ul  attained.  DANA  was  informed, 
however,  that  the  author  of  it  was  a  member  of  the  Mas- 
sachusetts Sonatp,  then  in  session,  and  he  walked  imme- 
diately from  Cambridge  to  the  State  House  in  Boston  to 
obtain  a  view  of  the  remarkable  man.  A  plain,  miildle- 
aged  gentleman,  with  a  business-like  aspect,  was  pointed 

M 


RICHARD   H.   DANA. 


93 


years  after  gave  to  the  public,  in  a  small  volume, 
"The  Buccaneer,  and  other  Poems."  This  was 
well  received,  the  popular  taste  having,  in  the  five 
years  which  had  elapsed  since  the  publication  of 
the  "Idle  Man,"  been  considerably  improved;  but 
as  his  publishers  failed  soon  after  it  was  printed, 
the  poet  was  not  made  richer  by  his  toil.  In  1833 
he  published  his  "  Poems  and  Prose  Writings," 
including  "The  Buccaneer,"  and  other  pieces  em- 
braced in  his  previous  volume,  with  some  new 
poems,  and  the  "Idle  Man,"  except  the  few  papers 
written  for  it  by  his  friends.  For  this  he  received 
from  his  bookseller  about  enough  to  make  up  for 
the  loss  he  had  sustained  by  the  "Idle  Man."  His 
case  illustrates  the  usual  extent  of  the  rewards  of 
exertion  in  the  higher  departments  of  literature  in 
this  country.  Had  his  first  work  been  successful, 
he  would  probably  have  been  a  voluminous  writer. 

In  1839,  he  delivered  in  Boston  and  New  York 
a  scries  of  lectures  on  English  poetry,  and  the 
great  masters  of  the  art,  which  were  warmly  ap- 
plauded by  the  educated  and  judicious.  These 
have  not  yet  been  printed. 

The  longest  and  most  remarkable  of  DANA'S 
poems  is  the  "Buccaneer,"  a  story  in  which  he 
has  depicted  with  singular  power  the  stronger  and 
darker  passions.  It  is  based  on  a  tradition  of  a 
murder  committed  on  an  island  on  the  coast  of 
New  England,  by  a  pirate,  whose  guilt  in  the  end 


THE  BUCCANEER. 


"  Boy  with  thy  blac  herd, 
I  rede  that  thou  Win, 
And  sone  set  the  to  shrive, 
With  sorrow  of  thi  syn  ; 
Ze  met  with  the  merchandes 
And  made  tham  ful  bare  : 
It  es  gude  reason  and  right 
That  ze  evill  misfare." 

LAURENCE  MINOT. 


THE  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore, 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 

Save,  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently  ; 
How  beautiful !  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 


out  to  him  ;  a  single  glance  was  sufficient ;  the  legislator 
could  not  be  the  author  of  Thanatopsis ;  and  he  returned 
without  seeking  an  introduction.  A  slight  and  natural 
mistake  of  names  had  misled  his  informant.  The  real 
author  being  at  length  discovered,  a  correspondence  en- 
sued ;  and  BRYANT  hein?  invited  to  deliver  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  poem  at  Cambridge,  they  became  personally  ac- 
quuinted,  and  a  friendship  sprung  up  which  has  lasted 
until  the  present  time. 


meets  with  strange  and  terrible  retribution.  In 
attempting  to  compress  his  language  he  is  some- 
times slightly  obscure,  and  his  verse  is  occasionally 
harsh,  but  never  feeble,  never  without  meaning. 
The  "Buccaneer"  is  followed  by  a  poem  of  very 
different  character,  entitled  "The  Changes  of 
Home,"  in  which  is  related  the  affection  of  two 
young  persons,  in  humble  life,  whose  marriage  is 
deferred  until  the  lover  shall  have  earned  the 
means  of  subsistence ;  his  departure  in  search 
of  gain ;  his  return  in  disappointment ;  his  second 
departure,  and  death  in  absence — a  sad  history, 
and  one  that  is  too  often  lived.  "  Factitious 
Life,"  "  Thoughts  on  the  Soul,"  and  "  The  Hus- 
band's and  Wife's  Grave,"  are  the  longest  of  his 
other  poems,  and,  as  well  as  his  shorter  pieces, 
they  are  distinguished  for  high  religious  purpose, 
profound  philosophy,  simple  sentiment,  and  pure 
and  vigorous  diction. 

All  the  writings  of  DANA  belong  to  the  perma- 
nent literature  of  the  country.  His  prose  and 
poetry  will  find  every  year  more  and  more  readers. 
Something  resembling  poetry  "  is  oftentimes  borne 
into  instant  and  turbulent  popularity,  while  a  work 
of  genuine  character  may  be  lying  neglected  by 
all  except  the  poets.  But  the  tide  of  time  flows 
on,  and  the  former  begins  to  settle  to  the  bottom, 
while  the  latter  rises  slowly  and  steadily  to  the 
surface,  and  goes  forward,  for  a  spirit  is  in  it." 


And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 

Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale  ; 
Flapp'd  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet ; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale ; 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murder'd  men  ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 

Subdued  and  holy  fear : 
Each  motion  gentle ;  all  is  kindly  done — 
Come,  listen,  how  from  crime  this  isle  was  won. 


Twelve  years  are  gone  since  MATTHEW  LEE 

Held  in  this  isle  unquestion'd  sway ; 
A  dark,  low,  brawny  man  was  he ; 

His  law — "  It  is  my  way." 
Beneath  his  thick-set  brows  a  sharp  light  broke 
From  small  gray  eyes ;  his  laugh  a  triumph  spoke. 

n. 
Cruel  of  heart,  and  strong  of  arm, 

Loud  in  his  sport,  and  keen  for  spoil, 
He  little  reck'd  of  good  or  harm, 
Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil ; 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there  were : 
Speak  mildly,  when  he  would,  or  look  in  fear. 


94 


RICHARD   H.   DANA 


Amid  the  uproar  of  the  storm, 

And  by  the  lightning's  sharp,  red  glare, 
Were  seen  LEE'S  face  and  sturdy  form; 

His  axe  glanced  quick  in  air; 
Whose  corpse  at  morn  is  floating  in  the  sedge  ? 
There's  blood  and  hair,  MAT,  on  thy  axe's  edge. 


"  Nay,  ask  him  yonder ;  let  him  tell ; 

I  make  the  brute,  not  man,  my  mark. 
Who  walks  these  cliffs,  needs  heed  him  well ! 

Last  night  was  fearful  dark. 
Think  ye  the  lashing  waves  will  spare  or  feel  ? 
An  ugly  gash ! — These  rocks — they  cut  like  steel. 


He  wiped  his  axe ;  and,  turning  round, 
Said,  with  a  cold  and  harden'd  smile, 
«  The  hemp  is  saved — the  man  is  drown'd. 

Wilt  let  him  float  a  while  1 
Or  give  him  Christian  burial  on  the  strand '! 
He  '11  find  his  fellows  peaceful  'neath  the  sand." 


LEE'S  waste  was  greater  than  his  gain. 

"  I  '11  try  the  merchant's  trade,"  he  thought, 
«  Though  less  the  toil  to  kill,  than  feign — 

Things  sweeter  robb'd  than  bought. — 
But,  then,  to  circumvent  them  at  their  arts  !" 
Ship  mann'd,  and  spoils  for  cargo,  LEE  departs. 


'T  is  fearful,  on  the  broad-back'd  waves, 

To  feel  them  shake,  and  hear  them  roar; 
Beneath,  unsounded,  dreadful  caves: 

Around,  no  cheerful  shore. 
Yet  mid  this  solemn  world  what  deeds  are  done  1 
The  curse  goes  up,  the  deadly  sea-fight's  won ; 


And  wanton  talk,  and  laughter  heard, 

Where  speaks  GOD'S  deep  and  awful  voice. 
There's  awe  from  that  lone  ocean-bird ; 

Pray  ye,  when  ye  rejoice ! 
"Leave  prayers  to  priests,"  cries  LEE;  "I'm ruler 

here ! 

These  fellows  know  full  well  whom  they  should 
fear !" 


The  ship  works  hard ;  the  seas  run  high ; 

Their  white  tops,  flashing  through  the  night, 
Give  to  the  eager,  straining  eye, 

A  wild  and  shifting  light 

"Hard  at  the  pumps! — The  leak  is  gaining  fast! 
Lighten  the  ship ! — The  devil  rode  that  blast !" 


Ocean  has  swallow'd  for  its  food 

Spoils  thou  didst  gain  in  murderous  glee ; 
MAT,  could  its  waters  wash  out  blood, 

It  had  been  well  for  thee. 
Crime  fits  for  crime.     And  no  repentant  tear 
Hast  thou  for  sin? — Then  wait  thine  hour  of  fear. 


The  sea  has  like  a  plaything  toss'd 

That  heavy  hull  the  livelong  night. 
The  man  of  sin — he  is  not  lost ; 
Soft  breaks  the  morning  light. 
Torn  spars  and  sails — her  cargo  in  the  deep — 
The  ship  makes  port  with  slow  and  labouring 
sweep. 

XII. 

Within  a  Spanish  port  she  rides. 

Angry  and  sour'd,  LEE  walks  her  deck. 
"  Then  peaceful  trade  a  curse  betides  1 — 

And  thou,  good  ship,  a  wreck ! 
Ill  luck  in  change  ! — Ho !  cheer  ye  up,  my  men ! 
Rigg'd,  and  at  sea,  we'll  to  old  work  again!" 

XIII. 

A  sound  is  in  the  Pyrenees ! 

Whirling  and  dark,  comes  roaring  down 
A  tide,  as  of  a  thousand  seas, 

Sweeping  both  cowl  and  crown. 
On  field  and  vineyard,  thick  and  red  it  stood. 
Spain's  streets  and  palaces  are  wet  with  blood, 


And  wrath  and  terror  shake  the  land  ; 

The  peaks  shine  clear  in  watchfire  lights ; 
Soon  comes  the  tread  of  that  stout  band — 

Bold  ARTHUR  and  his  knights. 
Awake  ye,  MEHLIX  !    Hear  the  shout  from  Spain ! 
The  spell  is  broke! — ARTHUR  is  come  again! 


Too  late  for  thee,  thou  young  fair  bride : 

The  lips  are  cold,  the  brow  is  pale, 
That  thou  didst  kiss  in  love  and  pride : 

He  cannot  hear  thy  wail, 
Whom   thou   didst  lull   with   fondly   murmur'd 

sound : 
His  couch  is  cold  and  lonely  in  the  ground. 


He  fell  for  Spain — her  Spain  no  more ; 
For  he  was  gone  who  made  it  dear ; 
And  she  would  seek  some  distant  shore. 

At  rest  from  strife  and  fear, 
And  wait,  amid  her  sorrows,  till  the  day 
His  voice  of  love  should  call  her  thence  away. 


LEE  feign'd  him  grieved,  and  bow'd  him  low. 

'T  would  Jby  his  heart  could  he  but  aid 
So  good  a  lady  in  her  wo, 

He  meekly,  smoothly  said. 
With  wealth  and  servants  she  is  soon  aboard, 
And  that  white  steed  she  rode  beside  her  lord. 


The  sun  goes  down  upon  tho  son  ; 

The  shadows  gather  round  her  home. 
"  How  like  a  pall  are  ye  to  me ! 

My  home,  how  liko  a  tomb  ! 
0  !  blow,  ye  flowers  of  Spain,  above  his  head. 
Ye  will  not  blow  o'er  me  when  I  am  dead." 


RICHARD  H.  DANA. 


95 


And  now  the  stars  arc  burning  bright; 

Yet  still  she's  looking  toward  the  shore 
Beyond  the  waters  black  in  night. 

"  I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more ! 
Ye  're  many,  waves,  yet  lonely  seems  your  flow ; 
And  I  'm  alone — scarce  know  I  where  to  go." 


Sleep,  sleep,  thou  sad  one,  on  the  sea ! 
The  wash  of  waters  lulls  thee  now ; 
His  arm  no  more  will  pillow  thee, 

Thy  fingers  on  his  brow. 
He  is  not  near,  to  hush  thee,  or  to  save. 
The  ground  is  his — the  sea  must  be  thy  grave. 


The  moon  comes  up ;  the  night  goes  on. 

Why,  in  the  shadow  of  the  mast, 
Stands  that  dark,  thoughtful  man  alone  1 

Thy  pledge,  man ;  keep  it  fast ! 
Bethink  thee  of  her  youth  and  sorrows,  LEE  ; 
Helpless,  alone — and,  then,  her  trust  in  thee. 

xxn. 

When  told  the  hardships  thou  hadst  borne, 

Her  words  to  thee  were  like  a  charm. 
With  uncheer'd  grief  her  heart  is  worn ; 

Thou  wilt  not  do  her  harm ! 
He  looks  out  on  the  sea  that  sleeps  in  light, 
And  growls  an  oath — "  It  is  too  still  to-night !" 

xxiii. 
He  sleeps ;  but  dreams  of  massy  gold, 

And  heaps  of  pearl.     He  stretch'd  his  hands. 
He  hears  a  voice — "  111  man,  withhold !" 

A  pale  one  near  him  stands. 
Her  breath  conies  deathly  cold  upon  his  cheek ; 
Her  touch  is  cold. — He  wakes  with  piercing  shriek. 

XXIV. 

He  wakes ;  but  no  relentings  wake 

Within  his  angry,  restless  soul. 
«  What,  shall  a  dream  MAT'S  purpose  shake  ? 

The  gold  will  make  all  whole. 
Thy  merchant  trade  had  nigh  unmann'd  thee,  lad ! 
What,  balk  my  chance  because  a  woman's  sad !" 

XXV. 

He  cannot  look  on  her  mild  eye ; 

Her  patient  words  his  spirit  quell. 
Within  that  evil  heart  there  lie 
The  hates  and  fears  of  hell. 
His  speech  is  short ;  he  wears  a  surly  brow. 
There 's  none  will  hear  her  shriek.     What  fear 
ye  now  1 

XXTI. 

The  workings  of  the  soul  ye  fear ; 

Ye  fear  the  power  that  goodness  hath ; 
Ye  fear  the  Unseen  One,  ever  near, 

Walking  his  ocean  path. 
From  out  the  silent  void  there  comes  a  cry — 
«  Vengeance  is  mine !    Thou,  murderer,  too,  shalt 
die!" 


XXVII. 

Nor  dread  of  ever-during  wo, 

Nor  the  sea's  awful  solitude, 
Can  make  thee,  wretch,  thy  crime  forego. 

Then,  bloody  hand, — to  blood  ! 
The  scud  is  driving  wildly  overhead ; 
The  stars  burn  dim ;  the  ocean  moans  its  dead. 

XXVIII. 

Moan  for  the  living ;  moan  our  sins, — 

The  wrath  of  man,  more  fierce  than  thine. 
Hark !  still  thy  waves  ! — The  work  begins — 

LEE  makes  the  deadly  sign. 
The  crew  glide  down  like  shadows.  Eye  and  hand 
Speak  fearful  meanings  through  that  silent  band. 


They  're  gone. — The  helmsman  stands  alone : 

And  one  leans  idly  o'er  the  bow. 
Still  as  a  tomb  the  ship  keeps  on ; 

Nor  sound  nor  stirring  now. 
Hush,  hark !  as  from  the  centre  of  the  deep — 
Shrieks — fiendish  yells !     They  stab  them  in  their 


The  scream  of  rage,  the  groan,  the  strife, 

The  blow,  the  gasp,  the  horrid  cry, 
The  panting,  throttled  prayer  for  life, 

The  dying's  heaving  sigh, 
The  murderer's  curse,  the  dead  man's  fix'd,  still 

glare, 

And  fear's  and  death's  cold  sweat — they  all  are 
there ! 

XXXI. 

On  pale,  dead  men,  on  burning  cheek, 

On  quick,  fierce  eyes,  brows  hot  and  damp, 
On  hands  that  with  the  warm  blood  reek, 

Shines  the  dim  cabin  lamp. 
LEE  look'd.  "  They  sleep  so  sound,"  he,  laughing, 

said, 
"  They  '11  scarcely  wake  for  mistress  or  for  maid." 

XXXII. 

A  crash !    They  've  forced  the  door, — and  then 

One  long,  long,  shrill,  and  piercing  scream 
Comes  thrilling  through  the  growl  of  men. 

'Tis  hers ! — O  GOD,  redeem 
From  worse  than  death,  thy  suffering,  helpless  child! 
That  dreadful  shriek  again — sharp,  sharp,  and  wild! 

XXXIII. 

It  ceased. — With  speed  o'  th'  lightning's  flash, 

A  loose-robed  form,  with  streaming  hair, 
Shoots  by. — A  leap — a  quick,  short  splash ! 

'T  is  gone ! — There 's  nothing  there ! 
The  waves  have  swept  away  the  bubbling  tide. 
Bright-crested  waves,  how  calmly  on  they  ride  *, 

xxxiv. 
She's  sleeping  in  her  silent  cave. 

Nor  hears  the  stern,  loud  roar  above, 
Nor  strife  of  man  on  land  or  wave. 
Young  thing !  her  home  of  love 
She  soon  has  reach'd  ! — Fair,  unpolluted  thing  ! 
They  harm'd  her  not ! — Was  dying  suffering  1 


RICHARD  H.  DANA. 


XXXT. 

O,  no ! — To  live  when  joy  was  dead ; 

To  go  with  one  lone,  pining  thought — 
To  mournful  love  her  being  wed — 

Feeling  what  death  had  wrought ; 
To  live  the  child  of  wo,  yet  shed  no  tear, 
Bear  kindness,  and  yet  share  no  joy  nor  fear ; 


To  look  on  man,  and  deem  it  strange 

That  he  on  things  of  earth  should  brood, 
When  all  its  throng'd  and  busy  range 

To  her  was  solitude — 
0,  this  was  bitterness  !     Death  came  and  press'd 
Her  wearied  lids,  and  brought  her  sick  heart  rest. 


Why  look  ye  on  each  other  so, 

And  speak  no  word  ? — Ay,  shake  the  head  ! 
She 's  gone  where  ye  can  never  go, 

What  fear  ye  from  the  dead  ? 
They  tell  no  tales ;  and  ye  are  all  true  men ; 
But  wash  away  that  blood ;  then,  home  again  ! — 


'Tis  on  your  souls  ;  it  will  not  out! 

LEE,  why  so  lost  ?     'Tis  not  like  thee! 
Come,  where  thy  revel,  oath,  and  shout  1 

"  That  pale  one  in  the  sea  !  — 
I  mind  not  blood.  —  But  she  —  I  cannot  tell! 
A  spirit  was't?  —  it  flash'd  like  fires  of  h«ll  ! 


"And  when  it  pass'd  there  was  no  tread  ! 

It  leap'd  the  deck.  —  Who  heard  the  sound? 
I  heard  none!  —  Say,  what  was  it  fled?  — 

Poor  girl!  —  And  is  she  drown'd?  — 
Went  down  these  depths?  How  dark  they  look, 

and  cold! 

She's  yonder!    stop  her!  —  Now!  —  there!  —  hold 
her,  hold  !" 

xt. 
They  gazed  upon  his  ghastly  face. 

"What  ails  thee,  LEE  ;  and  why  that  glare?" 
"Look!  ha,  'tis  gone,  and  not  a  trace! 

No,  no,  she  was  not  there  !  — 
Who  of  you  said  ye  heard  her  when  she  fell  ? 
'Twas  strange  —  I'll  not  be  fool'd  —  Will  no  one 
tell?" 

XLI. 

He  paused.     And  soon  the  wildness  pass'd. 

Then  came  the  tingling  flush  of  shame. 
Remorse  and  fear  are  gone  as  fast. 

"The  silly  thing's  to  blame 
To  quit  us  so.     'T  is  plain  she  loved  us  not  ; 
Or  she  'd  have  stay'd  a  while,  and  shared  my  cot" 


And  then  the  ribald  laugh'd.     The  jest, 

Though  old  and  foul,  loud  laughter  drew; 
And  fouler  yet  came  from  the  rest 

Of  that  infernal  crew. 

Note,  heaven,  their  blasphemy, their  broken  trust! 
Lust  panders  murder — murder  panders  lust! 


Now  slowly  up  they  bring  the  dead 

From  out  that  silent,  dim-lit  room. 
No  prayer  at  their  quick  burial  said ; 

No  friend  to  weep  their  doom. 
The  hungry  waves  have  seized  them  one  by  one ; 
And,  swallowing  down  their  prey,  go  roaring  on. 

XLIV. 

Cries  LEE,  "  We  must  not  be  betray'd. 

'T  is  but  to  add  another  corse ! 
Strange  words,  't  is  said,  an  ass  once  bray'd : 

I  '11  never  trust  a  horse  ! 

Out !  throw  him  on  the  waves  alive !     He  '11  swim ; 
For  once  a  horse  shall  ride ;  we  all  ride  him." 

xiv. 

Such  sound  to  mortal  ear  ne'er  came 

As  rang  far  o'er  the  waters  wide. 
It  shook  with  fear  the  stoutest  frame: 

The  horse  is  on  the  tide ! 
As  the  waves  leave,  or  lift  him  up,  his  cry 
Comes  lower  now,  and  now  'tis  near  and  high. 


And  through  the  swift  wave's  yesty  crown 

His  scared  eyes  shoot  a  fiendish  light, 
And  fear  seems  wrath.     He  now  sinks  down, 

Now  heaves  again  to  sight, 

Then  drifts  away ;  and  through  the  night  they  hear 
Far  off  that  dreadful  cry. — But  morn  is  near. 


O  hadst  thou  known  what  deeds  were  done, 

When  thou  wast  shining  far  away, 
Would' st  thou  let  fall,  calm-coming  sun, 

Thy  warm  and  silent  ray  ? 

The  good  are  in  their  graves ;  thou  canst  not  cheer 
Their  dark,  cold  mansions :  Sin  alone  is  here. 


"  The  deed 's  complete !     The  gold  is  ours ! 

There,  wash  away  that  bloody  stain ! 
Pray,  who  'd  refuse  what  fortune  showers  ? 

Now,  lads,  we  '11  lot  our  gain. 
Must  fairly  share,  you  know,  what's  fairly  got? 
A  truly  good  night's  work !    Who  says 't  was  not ?" 


There's  song,  and  oath,  and  gaining  deep, 

Hot  words,  and  laughter,  mad  carouse ; 

There 's  naught  of  prayer,  and  little  sleep ; 

The  devil  keeps  the  house ! 
«LEE  cheats!"  cried  JACK.     LEE  struck  him  to 

the  heart. 

"That's  foul!"  one  mutter'd. — "Fool!  you  take 
your  part ! — 

i.. 

"  The  fewer  heirs  the  richer,  man ! 

Hold  forth  thy  palm,  and  keep  thy  prate! 
Our  life,  we  read,  is  but  a  span. 
What  matters,  soon  or  late?" 
And  when  on  shore,  and  asked,  Did  many  die  ? 
"  Near  half  my  crew,  poor  lads !"  he  'd  say,  and  sigh. 


RICHARD   H.   DANA. 


97 


Within  our  bay,  one  stormy  night, 

The  isle-men  saw  boats  make  for  shore, 
With  here  and  there  a  dancing  light, 

That  flash'd  on  man  and  oar. 
When  hail'd,  the  rowing  stopp'd,  and  all  was  dark. 
"  Ha !  lantern-work ! — We  '11  home !  They  're  play- 
ing shark !" 

LIT. 

Next  day,  at  noontime,  toward  the  town, 

All  stared  and  wonder'd  much  to  see 
MAT  and  his  men  come  strolling  down. 
The  boys  shout,  "  Here  comes  LEE  !" 
"  Thy  ship,  good  LEE  1"    "  Not  many  leagues  from 

shore 
Our  ship  by  chance  took  fire." — They  learn'd  no 


He  and  his  crew  were  flush  of  gold. 

"  You  did  not  lose  your  cargo,  then  ?" 
"  Learn,  where  all 's  fairly  bought  and  sold, 

Heaven  prospers  those  true  men. 
Forsake  your  evil  ways,  as  we  forsook 
Our  ways  of  sin,  and  honest  courses  took ! 


"  Wouldst  see  my  log-book  1     Fairly  writ 

With  pen  of  steel,  and  ink  of  blood ! 
How  lightly  doth  the  conscience  sit ! 

Learn,  truth's  the  only  good." 
And  thus,  with  flout,  and  cold  and  impious  jeer, 
He  fled  repentance,  if  he  'scaped  not  fear. 


Remorse  and  fear  he  drowns  in  drink. 

"  Come,  pass  the  bowl,  my  jolly  crew! 
It  thicks  the  blood  to  mope  and  think. 

Here's  merry  days,  though  few!" 
And  then  he  quaffs. — So  riot  reigns  within ; 
So  brawl  and  laughter  shake  that  house  of  sin. 


MAT  lords  it  now  throughout  the  isle. 
His  hand  falls  heavier  than  before. 
All  dread  alike  his  frown  or  smile. 

None  come  within  his  door, 

Save  those  who  dipp'd  their  hands  in  blood  with  him ; 
Save  those  who  laugh'd  to  see  the  white  horse  swim. 


"To-night's  our  anniversary; 

And,  mind  me,  lads,  we  '11  have  it  kept 
With  royal  state  and  special  glee ! 

Better  with  those  who  slept 
Their  sleep  that  night,  had  he  be  now,  who  slinks ! 
And  health  and  wealth  to  him  who  bravely  drinks !" 

LTiir. 
The  words  they  speak,  we  may  not  speak. 

The  tales  they  tell,  we  may  not  tell. 
Mere  mortal  man,  forbear  to  seek 

The  secrets  of  that  hell ! 
Their  shouts  grow  loud : — 'Tis  near  mid-hour  of 

night : 

What  means  upon  the  waters  that  red  light  1 
13 


Not  bigger  than  a  star  it  seems : 

And,  now,  'tis  like  the  bloody  moon: 
And,  now,  it  shoots  in  hairy  streams 

Its  light ! — 'twill  reach  us  soon  ! 
A  ship !  and  all  on  fire ! — hull,  yards,  and  mast ! 
Her  sheets  are  sheets  of  flarne! — She's  nearing 
fast! 

LX. 

And  now  she  rides,  upright  and  still, 

Shedding  a  wild  and  lurid  light 
Around  the  cove,  on  inland  hill, 

Waking  the  gloom  of  night. 
All  breathes  of  terror !  men,  in  dumb  amaze, 
Gaze  on  each  other  'neath  the  horrid  blaze. 


It  scares  the  sea-birds  from  their  nests ; 

They  dart  and  wheel  with  deafening  screams ; 
Now  dark — and  now  their  wings  and  breasts 

Flash  back  disastrous  gleams. 
O,  sin,  what  hast  thou  done  on  this  fair  earth  1 
The  world,  0  man,  is  wailing  o'er  thy  birth. 


And  what  comes  up  above  the  wave, 

So  ghastly  white  1 — A  spectral  head ! — 
A  horse's  head  ! — (May  Heaven  save 

Those  looking  on  the  dead — 
The  waking  dead !)   There,  on  the  sea,  he  stands — 
The  Spectre-Horse ! — He  moves ;   he   gains  the 
sands ! 


Onward  he  speeds.     His  ghostly  sides 

Are  streaming  with  a  cold,  blue  light. 
Heaven  keep  the  wits  of  him  who  rides 

The  Spectre-Horse  to-night ! 
His  path  is  shining  like  a  swift  ship's  wake ; 
Before  LEE'S  door  he  gleams  like  day's  gray  break. 

LXIT. 

The  revel  now  is  high  within  ; 

It  breaks  upon  the  midnight  air. 
They  little  think,  mid  mirth  and  din, 

What  spirit  waits  them  there. 
As  if  the  sky  became  a  voice,  there  spread 
A  sound  to  appal  the  living,  stir  the  dead. 


The  spirit-steed  sent  up  the  neigh. 

It  seem'd  the  living  trump  of  hell, 
Sounding  to  call  the  damn'd  away, 

To  join  the  host  that  fell. 
It  rang  along  the  vaulted  sky :  the  shore 
Jarr'd  hard,  as  when  the  thronging  surges  roar. 


It  rang  in  ears  that  knew  the  sound ; 

And  hot,  fiush'd  cheeks  are  blanch'd  with  fear. 
And  why  does  LEE  look  wildly  round  1 

Thinks  he  the  drown'd  horse  near? 
He  drops  his  cup — his  lips  are  stiff  with  fright. 
Nay,  sit  thee  down !     It  is  thy  banquet  night. 
I 


98 


RICHARD   H.  DANA. 


"  I  cannot  sit.     I  needs  must  go : 
The  spell  is  on  my  spirit  now. 
I  go  to  dread — I  go  to  wo !" 
O,  who  so  weak  as  thou, 

Strong  man ! — His  hoof  upon  the  door-stone,  see, 
The  shadow  stands ! — His  eyes  are  on  thee,  LEE  ! — 


Thy  hair  pricks  up  ! — «  0, 1  must  bear 

His  damp,  cold  breath !     It  chills  my  frame ! 
His  eyes — their  near  and  dreadful  glare 

Speak  that  I  must  not  name !" 
Thou  'rt  mad  to  mount  that  horse ! — "  A  power 

within, 
I  must  obey — cries,  <  Mount  thee,  man  of  sin !' " 


He's  now  upon  the  spectre's  back, 

With  rein  of  silk,  and  curb  of  gold. 
'T  is  fearful  speed ! — the  rein  is  slack 

Within  his  senseless  hold ; 
Upborne  by  an  unseen  power,  he  onward  rides, 
Yet  touches  not  the  shadow-beast  he  strides. 


He  goes  with  speed  ;  he  goes  with  dread  ! 
And  now  they  're  on  the  hanging  steep ! 
And,  now !  the  living  and  the  dead, 

They  '11  make  the  horrid  leap  ! 
The  horse  stops  short : — his  feet  are  on  the  verge. 
He  stands,  like  marble,  high  above  the  surge. 


And,  nigh,  the  tall  ship  yet  burns  on, 

With  red,  hot  spars,  and  crackling-  flame. 
From  hull  to  gallant,  nothing's  gone. 

She  burns,  and  yet's  the  same  ! 
Her  hot,  red  flame  is  beating,  all  the  night, 
On  man  and  horse,  in  their  cold,  phosphor  light. 


Through  that  cold  light  the  fearful  man 

Sits  looking  on  the  burning  ship. 
He  ne'er  again  will  curse  and  ban. 

How  fast  he  moves  the  lip ! 
And  yet  he  does  not  speak,  or  make  a  sound ! 
What  see  you,  LEE  1  the  bodies  of  the  drown'd  1 


"  I  look,  where  mortal  man  may  not — 

Into  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 
I  see  the  dead,  long,  long  forgot ; 

I  see  them  in  their  sleep. 

A  dreadful  power  is  mine,  which  none  can  know, 
Save  he  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death  and  wo." 


Thou  mild,  sad  mother — waning  moon, 
Thy  last,  low,  melancholy  ray 

Shines  toward  him.     Quit  him  not  so  soon ! 
\       Mother,  in  mercy,  stay ! 
Despair  and  death  are  with  him ;  and  canst  thou, 
With  that  kind,  earthward  look,  go  leave  him  now  1 


1XXV. 

O,  thou  wast  born  for  things  of  love ; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 
Whate'er  thou  look'st  on.     Hosts  above, 

In  that  soft  light  of  thine, 

Burn  softer : — earth,  in  silvery  veil,  seems  heaven. 
Thou  'rt  going  down  ! — hast  left  him  unforgiven ! 

I.XXVI. 

The  far,  low  west  is  bright  no  more. 

How  still  it  is !     No  sound  is  heard 
At  sea,  or  all  along  the  shore, 

But  cry  of  passing  bird. 
Thou    living  thing — and   dar'st    thou   come   so 

near 
These  wild  and  ghastly  shapes  of  death  and  fear  ? 


Now  long  that  thick,  red  light  has  shone 

On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still  bay, 
On  man  and  horse,  that  seem  of  stone, 

So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  lurid  fire  less  fiercely  burns : 
The  night  is  going — faint,  gray  dawn  returns. 


That  spectre-steed  now  slowly  pales  ; 

Now  changes  like  the  moonlit  cloud  ; 
That  cold,  thin  light,  now  slowly  fails. 
Which  wrapp'd  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  ship  and  horse  are  fading  into  air.  — 
Lost,  mazed,  alone  —  see,  LEE  is  standing  there  ! 

1XXIX. 

The  morning  air  blows  fresh  on  him  : 

The  waves  dance  gladly  in  his  sight  ; 
The  sea-birds  call,  and  wheel,  and  skim  — 

O,  blessed  morning  light  ! 
He  doth  not  hear  their  joyous  call  ;  he  sees 
No  beauty  in  the  wave  ;  nor  feels  the  breeze. 

LXXX. 

For  he  's  accursed  from  all  that  's  good  ; 

He  ne'er  must  know  its  healing  power  ; 
The  sinner  on  his  sins  must  brood, 

And  wait,  alone,  his  hour. 
A  stranger  to  earth's  beauty  —  human  love  ; 
There  's  here  no  rest  for  him,  no  hope  above  ! 


The  hot  sun  beats  upon  his  head  ; 

He  stands  beneath  its  broad,  fierce  blaze, 
As  stiff  and  cold  as  one  that's  dead  : 

A  troubled,  dreamy  maze 
Of  some  unearthly  horror,  all  he  knows  — 
Of  some  wild  horror  past,  and  coming  woes. 

LXXXII. 

The  gull  has  fount!  her  place  on  shore  ; 

The  sun  gone  down  again  to  rest  ; 
And  all  is  stilt  but  ocean's  roar  : 

There  stands  the  man  unbless'd. 
But,  see,  he  moves  —  he  turns,  as  asking  where 
His  mates  !  —  Why  looks  he  with  that  piteous  stare  ? 


RICHARD   H.   DANA. 


99 


Go,  get  thee  home,  and  end  thy  mirth  ! 

Go,  call  the  revellers  again  ! 
They  're  fled  the  isle ;  and  o'er  the  earth 

Are  wanderers  like  Cain. 
As  he  his  door-stone  pass'd,  the  air  blew  chill. 
The  wine  is  on  the  board ;  LEE,  take  thy  fill ! 

LXXXIV. 

"There's  none  to  meet  me,  none  to  cheer; 
The  seats  are  empty — lights  burnt  out ; 
And  I,  alone,  must  sit  me  here : 

Would  I  could  hear  their  shout !" 
He  ne'er  shall  hear  it  more — more  taste  his  wine ! 
Silent  lie  sits  within  the  still  moonshine. 


Day  came  again ;  and  up  he  rose, 

A  weary  man  from  his  lone  board ; 
Nor  merry  feast,  nor  sweet  repose 

Did  that  long  night  afford. 
No  shadowy-coming  night,  to  bring  him  rest — 
No  dawn,  to  chase  the  darkness  of  his  breast ! 


He  walks  within  the  day's  full  glare 

A  darken'd  man.     Where'er  he  comes, 
All  shun  him.     Children  peep  and  stare ; 

Then,  frighten'd,  seek  their  homes. 
Through  all  the  crowd  a  thrilling  horror  ran. 
They  point,  and  say, — "There  goes  the  wicked 
man !" 

LXXXYII. 

He  turns  and  curses  in  his  wrath 

Both  man  and  child ;  then  hastes  away 
Shoreward,  or  takes  some  gloomy  path ; 

But  there  he  cannot  stay  : 
Terror  and  madness  drive  him  back  to  men; 
His  hate  of  man  to  solitude  again. 

LXXXVIII. 

Time  passes  on,  and  he  grows  bold — 

His  eye  is  fierce,  his  oaths  are  loud ; 
None  dare  from  LEE  the  hand  withhold ; 

He  rules  and  scoffs  the  crowd. 
But  still  at  heart  there  lies  a  secret  fear; 
For  now  the  year's  dread  round  is  drawing  near. 

LXXXIX. 

He  swears,  but  he  is  sick  at  heart ; 

He  laughs,  but  he  turns  deadly  pale ; 
His  restless  eye  and  sudden  start — 

These  tell  the  dreadful  tale 
That  will  be  told:  it  needs  no  words  from  thee, 
Thou  self-sold  slave  to  fear  and  misery. 


Bond-slave  of  sin,  see  there — that  light! 

«  Ha !  take  me — take  me  from  its  blaze !" 
Nay,  thou  must  ride  the  steed  to-night ! 

But  other  weary  days 

And  nights  must  shine  and  darken  o'er  thy  head, 
Ere  thou  shalt  go  with  him  te  meet  the  dead. 


Again  the  ship  lights  all  the  land ; 

Again  LEE  strides  the  spectre-beast; 
Again  upon  the  clitf  they  stand. 

This  once  he  '11  be  released  ! — 
Gone  horse  and  ship;  but  LEE'S  last  hope  is  o'er; 
Nor  laugh,  nor  scoff,  nor  rage  can  help  him  more. 


His  spirit  heard  that  spirit  say, 

"  Listen ! — I  twice  have  come  to  thee. 
Once  more — and  then  a  dreadful  way ! 

And  thou  must  go  with  me !" 
Ay,  cling  to  earth,  as  sailor  to  the  rock ! 
Sea-swept,  suck'd  down  in  the  tremendous  shock. 


He  goes ! — So  thou  must  loose  thy  hold, 

And  go  with  Death ;  nor  breathe  the  balm 
Of  early  air,  nor  light  behold, 

Nor  sit  thee  in  the  calm 
Of  gentle  thoughts,  where  good  men  wait  their 

close. 
In  life,  or  death,  where  Icok'st  thou  for  repose  1 

XCIT. 

Who's  sitting  on  that  long,  black  ledge, 

Which  makes  so  far  out  in  the  sea; 
Feeling  the  kelp-weed  on  its  edge  ? 

Poor,  idle  MATTHEW  LEE! 
So  weak  and  pale  1    A  year  and  little  more, 
And  bravely  did  he  lord  it  round  this  shore ! 

xcv. 
And  on  the  shingles  now  he  sits, 

And  rolls  the  pebbles  'neath  his  hands ; 
Now  walks  the  beach ;  then  stops  by  fits, 

And  scores  the  smooth,  wet  sands ; 
Then  tries  each  cliff,  and  cove,  and  jut,  that  bounds 
The  isle ;  then  home  from  many  weary  rounds. 


They  ask  him  why  he  wanders  so, 

From  day  to  day,  the  uneven  strand  1 
« I  wish,  I  wish  that  I  might  go ! 

But  I  would  go  by  land ; 
And  there's  no  way  that  t  can  find — I  've  tried 
All  day  and  night!" — He  seaward  look'd,  and 
sigh'd. 

xcvrr. 
It  brought  the  tear  to  many  an  eye 

That,  once,  his  eye  had  made  to  quail. 
"LEE,  go  with  us;  our  sloop  is  nigh; 

Come !  help  us  hoist  her  sail." 
He  shook.     "You  know  the  spirit-horse  I  ride! 
He  '11  let  me  on  the  sea  with  none  beside !" 


He  views  the  ships  that  come  and  go, 

Looking  so  like  to  living  things. 
0 !  't  is  a  proud  and  gallant  show 

Of  bright  and  broad-spread  wings, 
Making  it  light  around  them  as  they  keep 
Their  course  right  onward  through  the  unsounded 
deep. 


100 


RICHARD   H.   DANA. 


And  where  the  far-off  sand-bars  lift 

Their  hacks  in  long  and  narrow  line, 
The  breakers  shout,  and  leap,  and  shift, 

And  send  the  sparkling  brine 
Into  the  air;  then  rush  to  mimic  strife — 
Glad  creatures  of  the  sea,  and  full  of  life — 


But  not  to  LEE.     He  sits  alone; 
No'  fellowship  nor  joy  for  him. 
Borne  down  by  wo,  he  makes  no  moan, 

Though  tears  will  sometimes  dim 
That  asking  eye.     0,  how  his  worn  thoughts 

crave — 
Not  joy  again,  but  rest  within  the  grave. 


The  rocks  are  dripping  in  the  mist 
That  lies  so  heavy  off  the  shore ; 
Scarce  seen  the  running  breakers ; — list 

Their  dull  and  smother'd  roar ! 
LEE  hearkens  to  their  voice. — "  I  hear,  I  hear 
Your  call. — Not  yet ! — I  know  my  time  is  near !" 

en. 

And  now  the  mist  seems  taking  shape, 

Forming  a  dim,  gigantic  ghost, — 
Enormous  thing! — There's  no  escape; 

'T  is  close  upon  the  coast. 

LEE  kneels,  but  cannot  pray. — Why  mock  him  so  1 
The  ship  has  clear'd  the  fog,  LEE,  see  her  go ! 

cm. 

A  sweet,  low  voice,  in  starry  nights, 
Chants  to  his  ear  a  plaining  song ; 
Its  tones  come  winding  up  the  heights, 

Telling  of  wo  and  wrong; 
And  he  must  listen,  till  the  stars  grow  dim, 
The  song  that  gentle  voice  doth  sing  to  Mm. 

civ. 

O,  it  is  sad  that  aught  so  mild 

Should  bind  the  soul  %vith  bands  of  fear; 
That  strains  to  soothe  a  little  child, 

The  man  should  dread  to  hear! 
But  sin  hath  broke  the  world's  sweet  peace — un- 
strung 
The  harmonious  chords  to  which  the  angels  sung. 


In  thick,  dark  nights  he  'd  take  his  scat 

High  up  the  cliffs,  and  feel  them  shake, 
As  swung  the  sea  with  heavy  beat 

Below — and  hear  it  break 

With  savage  roar,  turn  pause  and  gather  strength, 
And  then,  come  tumbling  in  its  swollen  length. 


But  he  no  more  shall  haunt  the  beach, 

Nor  sit  upon  the  tall  cliff's  crown, 
Nor  go  the  round  of  all  that  reach, 

Nor  feebly  sit  him  down, 
Watching  the  swaying  weeds : — another  day, 
And  he  '11  have  gone  far  hence  that  dreadful  way. 


CVII. 

To-night  the  charmed  number 's  told. 

"Twice  have  I  come  for  thee,"  it  said. 
"  Once  more,  and  none  shall  thee  behold. 

Come !  live  one,  to  the  dead  !" — 
So  hears  his  soul,  and  fears  the  coming  night ; 
Yet  sick  and  weary  of  the  soft,  calm  light. 

CVIIT. 

Again  he  sits  within  that  room : 

All  day  he  leans  at  that  still  board ; 
None  to  bring  comfort  to  his  gloom, 

Or  speak  a  friendly  word. 

Weaken'd  with  fear,  lone,  haunted  by  remorse, 
Poor,  shatter'd  wretch,  there  waits  he  that  pale 
horse. 


Not  long  he  waits.    Where  now  are  gone 

Peak,  citadel,  and  tower,  that  stood 
Beautiful,  while  the  west  sun  shone 

And  bathed  them  in  his  flood 
Of  airy  glory  1 — Sudden  darkness  fell ; 
And  down  they  went,  peak,  tower,  citadel. 


The  darkness,  like  a  dome  of  stone, 

Ceils  up  the  heavens. — 'T  is  hush  as  death — 
All  but  the  ocean's  dull,  low  moan. 
How  hard  LEE  draws  his  breath ! 
He  shudders  as  he  feels  the  working  Power. 
Arouse  thee,  LEE  !  up !  man  thee  for  thine  hour! 


'T  is  close  at  hand  ;  for  there,  once  more, 

The  burning  ship.    Wide  sheets  of  flame 
And  shafts  of  fire  she  show'd  before  ;— 

Twice  thus  she  hither  came ; — 
But  now  she  rolls  a  naked  hulk,  and  throws 
A  wasting  light !  then,  settling,  down  she  goes. 

CXIT. 

And  where  she  sank,  up  slowly  came 

The  Spectre-Horse  from  out  the  sra. 
And  there  he  stands !     His  pale  sides  flame. 

He  '11  meet  thee  shortly,  LEE. 
He  treads  the  waters  as  a  solid  floor ; 
He 's  moving  on.     LEE  waits  him  at  the  door. 

cxni. 
They  're  met. — "  I  know  thou  comest  for  me, 

LEE'S  spirit  to  the  spectre  said ; 
"  I  know  that  I  must  go  with  thee — 

Take  me  not  to  the  dead. 
It  was  not  I  alone  that  did  the  deed !" 
Dreadful  the  eye  of  that  still,  spectral  steed. 

cxir. 
LET.  cannot  turn.     There  is  a  force 

In  that  fix'd  eye,  which  holds  him  fast. 
How  still  they  stand  ! — the  man  and  horse. 

"  Thine  hour  is  almost  past." 
"0,  spare  me,"  cries  the  wretch,  "thou  fearful 

one !" 
"  My  time  is  full — I  must  not  go  alone." 


RICHARD  H.   DANA. 


101 


"  I  'm  weak  and  faint.    0,  let  me  stay !" 

"  Nay,  murderer,  rest  nor  stay  for  thee !" 
The  horse  and  man  are  on  their  way ; 

He  bears  him  to  the  sea. 
Hark !  how  the  spectre  breathes  through  this  still 

night : 
Sec,  from  his  nostrils  streams  a  deathly  light ! 

CXVI. 

He 's  on  the  beach ;  but  stops  not  there ; 

He 's  on  the  sea  ! — that  dreadful  horse  ! 
LEE  flings  and  writhes  in  wild  despair ! — 

In  vain  !     The  spirit-corse 
Holds  him  by  fearful  spell ; — he  cannot  leap. 
Within  that  horrid  light  he  rides  the  deep. 

cxvir. 

It  lights  the  sea  around  their  track — 

The  curling  comb,  and  dark  steel  wave ; 
There,  yet,  sits  LEE  the  spectre's  back — 

Gone  !  gone  !  and  none  to  save  ! 
They  're  seen  no  more ;  the  night  has  shut  them  in. 
May  Heaven  have  pity  on  thee,  man  of  sin! 

CXTIII. 
The  earth  has  wash'd  away  its  stain ; 

The  sealed-up  sky  is  breaking  forth, 
Mustering  its  glorious  hosts  again, 

From  the  far  south  and  north  ; 
The  climbing  moon  plays  on  the  rippling  sea. 
— 0,  whither  on  its  waters  rideth  LEE  1 


THE  OCEAN.* 

Now  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 

Ho  !  how  the  giant  heaves  himself,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains ; 
Foams  in  his  wrath ;  and  at  his  prison  doors, 
Hark !  hear  him  !  how  he  beats  and  tugs  and  roars, 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep. 

Type  of  the  Infinite !    I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break ; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  it's  pain 
To  think ;  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell ;  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 
Far  back  beyond  all  date..     And,  O  !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me.     For  countless  years  thou  hast 

roll'd. 

Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  didst  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn  ; 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath. 


*  From  "  Factitious  Life.' 


At  last  thou  didst  it  well !    The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swept'st  to  death  the  breathing  land ; 
And  then  once  more,  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

And  though  the  land  is  throng'd  again,  O  Sea ! 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call, 
Share  thy  own  spirit :  it  is  sadness  all ! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  cliff — he  with  the  iron  crown. 
And  see  !  those  sable  pines  along  the  steep, 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  deep  ! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge. 


DAYBREAK. 

"  The  Pilfjrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose 
window  opened  towards  the  sun-rising:  the  name  of  the 
chamber  was  Peace ;  where  he  slept  till  break  of  day, 
and  then  he  awoke  and  sang." — The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

Now,  brighter  than  the  host  that  all  night  long, 

In  fiery  armour,  far  up  in  the  sky 

Stood  watch,  thou  comest  to  wait  the  morning's 

song, 

Thou  comest  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh, 
Star  of  the  dawning !    Cheerful  is  thine  eye ; 
And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 
Thou  seem'st  to  look  on  me,  as  asking  why 
My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim ; 
Thou  bid'st  me  turn  to  GOD,  and  seek  my  rest  in 

Him. 

Canst  thou  grow  sad,  thou  say'st,  as  earth  grows 

bright  1 

And  sigh,  when  little  birds  begin  discourse 
In  quick,  low  voices,  ere  the  streaming  light 
Pours  on  their  nests,  from  out  the  day's  fresh 

source  1 

With  creatures  innocent  thou  must  perforce 
A  sharer  be,  if  that  thine  heart  be  pure. 
And  holy  hour  like  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 
Of  ills  and  pains  of  life  must  be  the  cure, 
And  breathe  in  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to 

endure. 

I  feel  its  calm.     But  there's  a  sombrous  hue, 
Edging  that  eastern  cloud,  of  deep,  dull  red ; 
Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew ; 
And  all  the  woods  and  hill-tops  stand  outspread 
With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort 

shed. 

Still — save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song — 
The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead — 
The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 
And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate,  and 

wrong. 

But  wrong,  arid  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth 
Will  quicken  soon  ;  and  hard,  hot  toil  and  strife, 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  this  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scatter'd  beauties  nature 's  rife ; 


102 


RICHARD   H.  DANA. 


And  airs  and  woods  and  streams  breathe  harmonies; 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife  ; 
Nor  binds  his  heart  with  soft  and  kindly  ties : — 
He,  feverish,  blinded,  lives,  and,  feverish,  sated,  dies. 

It  is  because  man  useth  so  amiss 

Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad ; 

Else  why  should  she  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this 

Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad, 

From  her  fair  face  1 — It  is  that  man  is  mad ! 

Then  chide  me  not,  clear  star,  that  I  repine 

When  nature  grieves  ;  nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 

Thou  look'st  toward  earth ;  but  yet  the  heavens 

are  thine ; 
While  I  to  earth  am  hound: — When  will  the 

heavens  be  mine  ? 

If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  learn, 
And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 
Of  simpler  things;  could  nature's  features  stern 
Teach  him  be  thoughtful,  then,  with  soul  intense 
I  should  not  yearn  for  GOD  to  take  me  hence, 
But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bow'd, 
Remembering  humbly  why  it  is,  and  whence : 
But  when  I  see  cold  man  of  reason  proud, 
My  solitude  is  sad — I'm  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

But  not  for  this  alone,  the  silent  tear 
Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn, 
Nor  for  this  solemn  hour :  fresh  life  is  near ; — 
But  all  my  joys ! — they  died  when  newly  born. 
Thousands  will  wake  to  joy  ;  while  I,  forlorn, 
And  like  the  stricken  deer,  with  sickly  eye 
Shall  see  them  pass.    Breathe  calm — my  spirit's 

torn ; 

Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high  ! — 
Ye  hopes  of  things  unseen,  the  far-off  world  bring 

nigh. 

And  when  I  grieve,  O,  rather  let  it  be 
That  I — whom  nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  rolling  sea — 
Who,  when  the  winds  are  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  woods  and  waters — feel  the  quickening  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit; — who,  as  my  own  child, 
Do  love  the  flower,  and  in  the  ragged  bur 
A  beauty  see — that  I  this  mother  mild 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  care,  and  passions  fierce 
and  wild ! 

How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft 
Shot  'thwart  the  earth  !    In  crown  of  living  fire 
Up  comes  the  day !  As  if  they  conscious  quaff  'd — 
The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city  spire 
Laugh  in  the  wakening  light. — Go,  vain  desire ! 
The  dusky  lights  are  gone ;  go  thou  thy  way  ! 
And  pining  discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 
Be  call'd  my  chamber,  PEACE,  when  ends  the  day ; 
And  let  me  with  the  dawn,  like  PILGRIM,  sing  and 
pray. 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY.* 

0,  LISTED,  man ! 

A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 

*  From  the  "Husband's  and  Wife's  Grave." 


Hymn  it  around  our  souls :  according  harps, 

By  angel  fingers  touch'd  when  the  mild  sturs 

Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 

The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ! 

Thick,  clustering  orbs,  arid  this  our  fair  domain, 

The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 

Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

— O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits !  drink  it  in 

From  all  the  air!     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight; 

'Tis  floating  in  day's  setting  glories;  night, 

Wrapp'd  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 

Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears ; 

Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 

All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 

As  one  vast,  mystic  instrument,  are  touch'd 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 

Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee  : 

— The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 

Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 

To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


THE  LITTLE  BEACH-BIRD. 


THOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  1 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
0  !  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice ! 


Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea  ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us :  Thy  wail — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  7 


Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad :  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 
The  Mystery — the  Word. 


Of  thousands,  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  ocean,  art !    A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells — 
Tells  of  man's  wo  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 


Then  turn  thce,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


103 


THE  MOSS  SUPPLICATETH  FOR  THE 
POET. 

THOUGH  I  am  humble,  slight  me  not, 

But  love  me  for  the  Poet's  sake ; 
Forget  me  not  till  he's  forgot ; 

I,  care  or  slight,  with  him  would  take. 

For  oft  he  pass'd  the  blossoms  by, 
And  gazed  on  me  with  kindly  look ; 

Left  flaunting  flowers  and  open  sky, 
And  woo'd  me  by  the  shady  brook. 

And  like  the  brook  his  voice  was  low : 
So  soft,  so  sad  the  words  he  spoke, 

That  with  the  stream  they  seem'd  to  flow : 
They  told  me  that  his  heart  was  broke ; — 

They  said,  the  world  he  fain  would  shun, 
And  seek  the  still  and  twilight  wood — 

His  spirit,  weary  of  the  sun, 

In  humblest  things  found  chiefest  good ; — 

That  I  was  of  a  lowly  frame, 

And  far  more  constant  than  the  flower, 

Which,  vain  with  many  a  boastful  name, 
But  flutter'd  out  its  idle  hour; 

That  I  was  kind  to  old  decay, 

And  wrapt  it  softly  round  in  green, 

On  naked  root  and  trunk  of  gray 

Spread  out  a  garniture  and  screen  : — 

They  said,  that  he  was  withering  fast, 
Without  a  sheltering  friend  like  me ; 

That  on  his  manhood  fell  a  blast, 
And  left  him  bare,  like  yonder  tree  ; 

That  spring  would  clothe  Ms  boughs  no  more, 
Nor  ring  his  boughs  with  song  of  bird — 

Sounds  like  the  melancholy  shore 

Alone  were  through  his  branches  heard. 

Methought,  as  then,  he  stood  to  trace 
The  wither'd  steins,  there  stole  a  tear*- 

That  I  could  read  in  his  sad  face, 
Brother,  our  sorrows  make  us  near. 

And  then  he  stretch'd  him  all  along, 
And  laid  his  head  upon  my  breast, 

Listening  the  water's  peaceful  song, — 
How  glad  was  I  to  tend  his  rest ! 

Then  happier  grew  his  soothed  soul. 

He  turn'd  and  watch'd  the  sunlight  play 
Upon  my  face,  as  in  it  stole, 

Whispering,  Above  is  brighter  day  ! 

He  praised  my  varied  hues — the  green, 
The  silver  hoar,  the  golden,  brown ; 

Said,  Lovelier  hues  were  never  seen : 
Then  gently  press'd  my  tender  down. 

And  where  I  sent  up  little  shoots, 

He  call'd  them  trees,  in  fond  conceit : 

Like  silly  lovers  in  their  suits 

He  talk'd,  his  care  awhile  to  cheat. 

I  said,  I'd  deck  me  in  the  dews, 

Could  I  but  chase  away  his  care, 
And  clothe  me  in  a  thousand  hues, 

To  bring  him  joys  that  I  might  share. 


He  answer'd,  earth  no  blessing  had 
To  cure  his  lone  and  aching  heart— 

That  I  was  one,  when  he  was  sad, 
Oft  stole  him  from  his  pain,  in  part. 

But  e'en  from  thee,  he  said,  I  go, 

To  meet  the  world,  its  care  and  strife, 

No  more  to  watch  this  quiet  flow, 
Or  spend  with  thee  a  gentle  life. 

And  yet  the  brook  is  gliding  on, 
And  I,  without  a  care,  at  rest, 

While  back  to  toiling  life  he's  gone, 
Where  finds  his  head  no  faithful  breast. 

Deal  gently  with  him,  world,  I  pray ; 

Ye  cares,  like  soften'd  shadows  come ; 
His  spirit,  wellnigh  worn  away, 

Asks  with  ye  but  awhile  a  home. 

Oh,  may  I  live,  and  when  he  dies 
Be  at  his  feet  an  humble  sod ; 

Oh,  may  I  lay  me  where  he  lies, 
To  die  when  he  awakes  in  God ! 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

I  LOOK  through  tears  on  Beauty  now; 
And  Beauty's  self,  less  radiant,  looks  on  me, 
Serene,  yet  touch'd  with  sadness  is  the  brow 
(Once  bright  with  joy)  I  see. 

Joy-waking  Beauty,  why  so  sad  1 
Tell  where  the  radiance  of  the  smile  is  gone 
At  which  my  heart  and  earth  and  skies  were  glad — 
That  link'd  us  all  in  one. 

It  is  not  on  the  mountain's  breast; 
It  comes  not  to  me  with  the  dawning  day; 
Nor  looks  it  from  the  glories  of  the  west, 
As  slow  they  pass  away. 

Nor  on  those  gliding  roundlets  bright 
That  steal  their  play  among  the  woody  shades, 
Nor  on  thine  own  dear  children  doth  it  light — 
The  flowers  along  the  glades. 

And  alter'd  to  the  living  mind 
(The  great  high-priestess  with  her  thought-bom  race 
Who  round  thine  altar  aye  have  stood  and  shined) 
The  comforts  of  thy  face. 

Why  shadow'd  thus  thy  forehead  fair? 
Why  on  the  mind  low  hangs  a  mystic  gloom? 
And  spreads  away  upon  the  genial  air, 
Like  vapours  from  the  tomb  1 

Why  should  ye  shine,  you  lights  above  ? 
Why,  little  flowers,  open  to  the  heat  ] 
No  more  within  the  heart  ye  iilled  with  love 
The  living  pulses  beat 

Well,  Beauty,  may  you  mourning  stand ! 
The  fine  beholding  eye  whose  constant  look 
Was  turn'd  on  thee  is  dark. — and  cold  the  hand 
That  gave  all  vision  took. 

Nay,  heart,  be  still ! — Of  heavenly  birth 
Is  Beauty  sprung. — Look  up  !  behold  the  place ! 
There  he  who  reverent  traced  her  steps  on  earth 
Now  sees  her  face  to  face. 


RICHARD   HENRY  WILDE. 


[Born  about  17S9.] 


I  BKi.ir.vE  Mr.  WILDE  is  a  native  of  Baltimore, 
and  that  he  was  born  about  the  year  1789.*  His 
family  are  of  Saxon  origin,  and  their  ancient  name 
was  DE  WILDE  ;  but  his  parents  were  natives  of 
Dublin,  and  his  father  was  a  wholesale  hardware 
merchant  and  ironmonger  in  that  city  during  the 
American  war;  near  the  close  of  which  he  emi- 
grated to  Maryland,  leaving  a  prosperous  business 
and  a  large  capital  in  the  hands  of  a  partner,  by 
whose  bad  management  they  were  in  a  few  years 
both  lost 

The  childhood  of  RICHARD  HENHY  WILDE  was 
passed  in  Baltimore.  He  was  taught  to  read  by 
his  mother,  and  received  instruction  in  writing 
and  Latin  grammar  from  a  private  tutor  until  he 
was  about  seven  years  old.  He  afterward  attended 
an  academy ;  but  his  father's  affairs  becoming  em- 
barrassed, in  his  eleventh  year  he  was  taken  home 
and  placed  in  a  store.  His  constitution  was  at 
first  tender  and  delicate.  In  his  infancy  he  was 
not  expected  to  live  from  month  to  month,  and 
he  suffered  much  from  ill  health  until  he  was  fif- 
teen or  sixteen.  This  induced  quiet,  retiring,  soli- 
tary, and  studious  habits.  His  mother's  example 
gave  him  a  passion  for  reading,  and  all  his  leisure 
was  devoted  to  books.  The  study  of  poetry  was 
his  principal  source  of  pleasure,  when  he  was  not 
more  than  twelve  years  old. 

About  this  time  his  father  died ;  and  gathering  as 
much  as  she  could  from  the  wreck  of  his  property, 
his  mother  removed  to  Augusta,  Georgia,  and 
commenced  there  a  small  business  for  the  support 
of  her  family.  Here  young  WILDE,  amid  the 
drudgery  of  trade,  taught  himself  book-keeping, 
and  became  familiar  with  the  works  in  general 
literature  which  he  could  obtain  in  the  meagre 
libraries  of  the  town,  or  from  his  personal  friends. 

The  expenses  of  a  large  family,  and  various 
other  causes,  reduced  the  little  wealth  of  his 
mother;  her  business  became  unprofitable,  and  he 
resolved  to  study  law.  Unable,  however,  to  pay  the 
usual  fee  for  instruction,  he  kept  his  design  a  secret, 
as  far  as  possible ;  borrowed  some  elementary  books 
from  his  friends,  and  studied  incessantly,  tasking 
himself  to  read  fifty  pages,  and  write  five  pages 
of  notes,  in  the  form  of  questions  and  answers, 
each  day,  besides  attending  to  his  duties  in  the 
store.  And,  to  overcome  a  natural  diffidence,  in- 
creased by  a  slight  impediment  in  his  speech,  he 
appeared  frequently  as  an  actor  at  a  dramatic  so- 
ciety, which  he  had  called  into  existence  for  this 


*  Most  of  the  facts  in  this  notice  of  Mr.  WILDE  were 
communicated  to  me  by  an  eminent  citizen  of  Georgia, 
who  has  long  been  intimately  acquainted  with  him.  He 
was  uncertain  whether  Mr.  W.  was  born  before  the  ar- 
rival of  his  parents  in  America,  but  believed  he  was 
not. 


purpose,  and  to  raise  a  fund  to  establish  a  public 
library. 

All  this  time  his  older  and  graver  acquaintances, 
who  knew  nothing  of  his  designs,  naturally  con- 
founded him  with  his  thoughtless  companions, 
who  sought  only  amusement,  and  argued  badly 
of  his  future  life.  He  bore  the  injustice  in  silence, 
and  pursued  his  secret  studies  for  a  year  and  a  half; 
at  the  end  of  which,  pale,  emaciated,  feeble,  and 
with  a  consumptive  cough,  he  sought  a  distant 
court  to  be  examined,  that,  if  rejected,  the  news 
of  his  defeat  might  not  reach  his  mother.  When 
he  arrived,  he  found  he  had  been  wrongly  informed, 
and  that  the  judges  had  no  power  to  admit  him. 
He  met  a  friend  there,  however,  who  was  going 
to  the  Greene  Superior  Court;  and,  on  being  in- 
vited by  him  to  do  so,  he  determined  to  proceed  im- 
mediately to  that  place.  It  was  the  March  term, 
for  1809,  Mr.  Justice  EARLY  presiding;  and  the 
young  applicant,  totally  unknown  to  every  one, 
save  the  friend  who  accompanied  him,  was  at  in- 
tervals, during  three  days,  subjected  to  a  most 
rigorous  examination.  Justice  EAHLY  was  well 
known  for  his  strictness,  and  the  circumstance  of 
a  youth  leaving  his  own  circuit  excited  his  suspi- 
cion ;  but  every  question  was  answered  to  the 
satisfaction  and  even  admiration  of  the  examin- 
ing committee ;  and  he  declared  that  "  the  young 
man  could  not  have  left  his  circuit  because  he 
was  unprepared."  His  friend  certified  to  the 
correctness  of  his  moral  character;  he  was  ad- 
mitted without  a  dissenting  voice,  and  returned 
in  triumph  to  Augusta.  He  was  at  this  time 
under  twenty  years  of  age. 

His  health  gradually  improved ;  he  applied  him- 
self diligently  to  the  study  of  belles  lettres,  and  to 
his  duties  as  an  advocate,  and  rapidly  rose  to  emi- 
nence ;  being  in  a  few  years  made  attorney-gene- 
ral of  the  state.  He  was  remarkable  for  industry 
in  the  preparation  of  his  cases,  sound  logic,  and 
general  urbanity.  In  forensic  disputation,  he  never 
indulged  in  personalities, — then  too  common  at  the 
bar, — unless  in  self-defence ;  but,  having  studied 
the  characters  of  his  associates,  and  stored  his 
memory  with  appropriate  quotations,  his  ridicule 
was  a  formidable  weapon  against  all  who  attacked 
him. 

In  the  autumn  of  1 S 1 5,  when  only  a  fortnight  over 
the  age  required  by  law.  Mr.  WILDE  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  national  House  of  Representatives. 
At  the  next  election,  all  the  representatives  from 
Georgia,  but  one,  were  defeated,  and  Mr.  WILDE 
returned  to  the  bar,  where  he  continued,  with  the 
exception  of  a  short  service  in  Congress  in  1825, 
until  1828,  when  he  again  became  a  representa- 
tive, and  so  continued  until  1835.  I  have  not 
room  to  trace  his  character  as  a  politician  very 
closely.  On  the  occasion  of  the  Force  Bill,  as  it 


RICHARD   HENRY  WILDE.                                            105 

was  called,  he  seceded  from  a  majority  of  Con- 

felicity.    Having  completed  his  work  on  TASSO, 

gress,  considering  it  a  measure  calculated  to  pro- 

he turned  his  attention  to  the  life  of  DANTE  ;  and 

duce  civil  war,  and  justified  himself  in  a  speech 

having  learned  incidentally  one  day,  in  conversa- 

of much  eloquence.     His  speeches  on  the  tariff, 

tion  with  an  artist,  that  an  authentic  portrait  of 

the  relative   advantages   and  disadvantages  of  a 

this  great  poet,  from  the  pencil  of  GIOTTO,  proba- 

small-note currency,  and  on  the  removal   of  the 

bly  still  existed  in  the  Burgello,  (anciently  both 

deposites  by  General  JACKSON,   show  what  are 

the  prison  and  the  palace  of  the  republic,)  on  a 

his  pretensions  to  industry  and  sagacity  as  a  poli- 

wall, which  by  some  strange  neglect  or  inadver- 

tician.* 

tence  had  been  covered  with  whitewash,  he  set  on 

Mr.  WILDE'S  opposition  to  the  Force  Bill  and 

foot  a  project  for  its  discovery  and  restoration, 

the  removal  of  the  deposites  rendered  him  as  un- 

which, after  several  months,  was  crowned  with 

popular  with  the  JACKSON  party  in  Georgia,  as  his 

complete  success.     This  discovery  of  a  veritable 

letter  from  Virginia  had  made  him  with  the  nul- 

portrait  of  DANTE,  in  the  prime  of  his  days,  says 

lifiers,  and  at  the  election  of  1834  he  was  left  out 

Mr.  iHYisrOj-j-  produced   throughout  Italy  some 

of  Congress.     This  afforded  him  the  opportunity 

such  sensation  as,  in  England,  would  follow  the 

he  had  long  desired  of  going  abroad,  to  recruit  his 

sudden  discovery  of  a  perfectly  well-authenticated 

health,  much  impaired  by  long  and  arduous  public 

likeness  of  SHAKSPEAHE  ;  with  a  difference  in  in- 

service, and  by  repeated  attacks  of  the  diseases  in- 

tensity, proportioned  to  the  superior  sensitiveness 

cident  to  southern  climates.    He  sailed  for  Europe 

of  the  Italians.  Mr.  WILDE  returned  to  this  country 

in  June,  1835,  spent  two  years  in  travelling  through 

in  the  autumn  of  1840,  and  is  now,  I  believe,  en- 

England, France,  Belgium,  Switzerland,  and  Italy, 

gaged  in  his  biographical  work  concerning  DANTE. 

and  settled  during  three  years  more  in  Florence. 

Mr.  WILDE'S  original  poems  and  translations 

Here  he  occupied  himself  entirely  with  literature. 

are  always  graceful   and   correct.      Those   that 

The  romantic  love,  the  madness,  and  imprison- 

have been  published  were  mostly  written  while  he 

ment  of  TASSO  had  become  a  subject  of  curious 

was  a  member  of  Congress,  during  moments  of 

controversy,  and  he  entered  into  the  investigation 

relaxation,  and  they  have  never  been  printed  col- 

" with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  poet,  and  the  patience 

lectively.     Specimens  of  his  translations  are  ex- 

and accuracy  of  a  case-hunter,"  and  produced  a 

cluded,  by  the  plan  of  this  work.     His  versions 

work,  published  since  his  return  to  the  United 

from  the  Italian,  Spanish,  and  French  languages, 

States,  in  which  the  questions  concerning  TASSO 

are  among  the  most  elegant  and  scholarly  produc- 

are most  ably  discussed,  and  lights  are  thrown  upon 

tions  of  their  kind,  that  have  been  published. 

them  by  his  letters,  and  by  some  of  his  sonnets, 

Mr.  WILDE  was  married  in  1818,  and  was  left 

which  last  are  rendered  into  English  with  rare 

a  widower  in  1827.     He  has  two  sons. 

f)T)F  TO  FASF 

P>MM*«M*WW*4 

And  when  within  the  narrow  bed, 

\JULJ     i  \j    j-«.n.oj_j. 

To  Fame  and  Memory  ever  dead, 

I  NEVEH  bent  at  Glory's  shrine; 

My  senseless  corpse  is  thrown  : 

To  \Vealth  I  never  bow'd  the  knee  * 

Nor  stately  column,  sculptured  bust, 

Beauty  has  heard  no  vows  of  mine  ; 

Nor  urn  that  holds  within  its  trust 

I  love  thee,  EASE,  and  only  thee; 
Beloved  of  the  gods  and  men, 
SistePbf  Joy  and  Liberty, 
\Vhen  wilt  thou  visit  me  agen  ; 

The  poor  remains  of  mortal  dust, 
Nor  monumental  stone, 
Nor  willow,  waving  in  the  gale, 
Nor  feeble  fence,  with  whiten'd  pale, 

In  shady  wood,  or  silent  glen, 
By  falling  stream,  or  rocky  den, 
Like  those  where  once  I  found  thee,  when, 
Despite  the  ills  of  Poverty, 
And  Wisdom's  warning  prophecy, 
I  liscen'd  to  thy  siren  voice, 
And  made  thee  mistress  of  my  choice  ! 

Nor  rustic  cross,  memorial  frail, 
Shall  mark  the  grave  I  own. 
No  lofty  deeds  in  armour  wrought  ; 
No  hidden  truths  in  science  taught  ; 
No  undiscover'd  regions  sought  ; 
No  classic  page,  with  learning  fraught, 
Nor  eloquence,  nor  verse  divine, 
Nor  daring  speech,  nor  high  design, 

I  chose  thee,  EASE  !  and  Glory  fled  ; 

Nor  patriotic  act  of  mine 

For  me  no  more  her  laurels  spread  ; 

On  History's  page  shall  ever  shine  : 

Her  golden  crown  shall  never  shed 

But,  all  to  future  ages  lost, 

Its  beams  of  splendour  on  my  head. 

Nor  even  a  wreck,  tradition  toss'd, 

Of  what  I  was  when  valued  most 

*  To  sliow  his  standing  in  the  House  of  Representa- 

By the  few  friends  whose  love  I  boast, 

tives,  it  niiiy  be  proper  to  state,  that,  in  1834,  he  \vns 

In  after  years  shall  float  to  shore, 

voted  for  as  Speaker,  with  the  following  result,  on  the 

And  serve  to  tell  the  name  I  bore. 

first  ballot:—  R.  II.  WILDE,  C4  ;    J.  K.  POLK,  42;   J.  B. 

SUTHERLAND,  31;  JOHN  BELL,  30;  scattering,  32.     Ulti- 

mately Mr.  BELL  was  elected. 

t  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  October,  1841. 

14 

106 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 


I  chose  thee,  EASE  !  and  Wealth  withdrew, 

Indignant  at  the  choice  I  made, 
And,  to  her  first  resentment  true, 

My  scorn  with  tenfold  scorn  repaid. 
Now,  noble  palace,  lofty  dome, 
Or  cheerful,  hospitable  home, 

Are  comforts  I  must  never  know : 
My  enemies  shall  ne'er  repine 
At  pomp  or  pageantry  of  mine, 
Nor  prove,  by  bowing  at  my  shrine, 

Their  souls  are  abject,  base,  and  low. 
No  wondering  crowd  shall  ever  stand 
With  gazing  eye  and  waving  hand, 

To  mark  my  train,  and  pomp,  and  show : 
And,  worst  of  all,  I  shall  not  live 
To  taste  the  pleasures  Wealth  can  give, 

When  used  to  soothe  another's  wo. 
The  peasants  of  my  native  land 
Shall  never  bless  my  open  hand ; 
No  wandering  bard  shall  celebrate 
His  patron's  hospitable  gate  : 
No  war-worn  soldier,  shatter'd  tar, 
Nor  exile  driven  from  afar, 
Nor  hapless  friend  of  former  years, 
Nor  widow's  prayers,  nor  orphan's  tears, 
Nor  helpless  age  relieved  from  cares, 
Nor  innocence  preserved  from  snares, 
Nor  houseless  wanderer  clothed  and  fed, 
Nor  slave  from  bitter  bondage  led, 
Nor  youth  to  noble  actions  bred, 
Shall  call  down  blessings  on  my  head. 

I  chose  thee,  EASE  !  and  yet  the  while, 
So  sweet  was  Beauty's  scornful  smile, 
So  fraught  with  every  lovely  wile, 
Yet  seemingly  so  void  of  guile, 

It  did  but  heighten  all  her  charms; 
And,  goddess,  had  I  loved  thee  then 
But  with  the  common  love  of  men, 
My  fickle  heart  had  changed  agen, 
Even  at  the  very  moment  when 

I  woo'd  thee  to  my  longing  arms: 
For  never  may  I  hope  to  meet 
A  smile  so  sweet,  so  heavenly  sweet. 

I  chose  thee,  EASE  !  and  now  for  me 

No  heart  shall  ever  fondly  swell, 
No  voice  of  rapturous  harmony 

Awake  the  music-breathing  shell ; 
Nor  tongue,  or  witching  melody 

Its  love  in  faltering  accents  tell ; 
Nor  flushing  cheek,  nor  languid  eye, 
Nor  sportive  smile,  nor  artless  sigh, 

Confess  affection  all  as  well. 
No  snowy  bosom's  fall  and  rise 
Shall  e'er  again  enchant  my  eyes ; 
No  melting  lips,  profuse  of  bliss, 
Shall  ever  greet  me  with  a  kiss  ; 
Nor  balmy  breath  pour  in  my  ear 
The  trifles  Love  delights  to  hear : 
But,  living,  loveless,  hopeless,  I 
Unmounied  and  unloved  must  die. 

I  chose  thee,  EASE  !  and  yet  to  me 
Coy  and  ungrateful  thou  hast  proved ; 

Though  I  have  sacrificed  to  thee 
Much  that  was  worthy  to  be  loved. 


But  corne  again,  and  I  will  yet 

Thy  past  ingratitude  forget  : 

O  !  come  again !  thy  witching  powers 

Shall  claim  my  solitary  hours  : 

With  thee  to  cheer  me,  heavenly  queen, 

And  conscience  clear,  and  health  serene, 

And  friends,  and  books,  to  banish  spleen, 

My  life  should  be,  as  it  had  been, 

A  sweet  variety  of  joys; 
And  Glory's  crown,  and  Beauty's  smile, 
And  treasured  hoards  should  seem  the  while 

The  idlest  of  all  human  toys. 


SOLOMON  AND  THE  GENIUS.* 

SPIRIT  OF  THOUGHT  !  Lo !  art  thou  here  1 
Lord  of  the  false,  fond,  ceaseless  spell 

That  mocks  the  heart,  the  eye,  the  ear — 
Art  thou,  indeed,  of  heaven  or  hell  1 
In  mortal  bosoms  dost  thou  dwell, 

Self-exiled  from  thy  native  sphere  1 
Or  is  the  human  mind  thy  cell 

Of  torment  1     To  inflict  and  bear 

Thy  doom  ? — the  doom  of  all  who  fell  1 

Since  thou  hast  sought  to  prove  my  skill, 

Unquestion'd  thou  shall  not  depart, 
Be  thy  behests  or  good  or  ill, 

No  matter  what  or  whence  thou  art ! 

I  will  commune  with  thee  apart, 
Yea !  and  compel  thee  to  my  will — 

If  thou  hast  power  to  yield  my  heart 
What  earth  and  Heaven  deny  it  still. 

I  know  thee,  Spirit !  thou  hast  been 

Light  of  my  soul  by  night  and  day  ; 
All-seeing,  though  thyself  unseen  ; 

My  dreams — my  thoughts — andwhat  are  they, 

But  visions  of  a  calmer  ray  1 
All !  all  were  thine — and  thine  between 

Each  hope  that  melted  fast  away, 
The  throb  of  anguish,  deep  and  keen  ! 

With  thee  I  've  search'd  the  earth,  the  sea, 
The  air,  sun,  stars,  man,  nature,  time, 

Explored  the  universe  with  thee,^ 

Plunged  to  the  depths  of  wo  and  crime, 
Or  dared  the  fearful  height  to  climb, 

Where,  amid  glory  none  may  see 

And  live,  the  ETERNAL  reigns  sublime, 

Who  is,  and  was,  and  is  to  be  ! 

And  I  have  sought,  with  thee  have  sought, 
Wisdom's  celestial  path  to  tread, 

Hung  o'er  each  page  with  learning  fraught; 
Question'd  the  living  and  the  dead : 

*  The  Moslem  imagine  that  SOLOMON  arquired  do- 
minion over  all  the  orders  of  the  genii — good  and  evil. 
It  is  even  believed  he  sometimes  condescended  to  con- 
verse with  his  new  subjects.  On  this  supposition  he  has 
been  represented  interrogating  a  genius,  in  the  very 
wise,  but  very  disagreeable  mood  of  mind  which  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  "All  is  vanity  !"  Touching  the  said 
genius,  the  author  has  not  been  able  to  discover  whether 
he  or  she  (even  the  sex  is  equivocal)  was  of  Allah  or 
Eblis,  and,  therefore,  left  the  matter  where  he  found 
it — in  discreet  doubt. 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 


107 


The  patriarchs  of  ages  fled—- 
The prophets  of  the  time  to  come — • 

All  who  one  ray  of  light  could  shed 
Beyond  the  cradle  or  the  tomb. 

And  I  have  task'd  my  busy  brain 

To  learn  what  haply  none  may  know, 

Thy  birth,  seat,  power,  thine  ample  reign 
O'er  the  heart's  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 
Throb,  languish,  whirl,  rage,  freeze,  or  glow 

Like  billows  of  the  restless  main, 
Amid  the  wrecks  of  joy  and  wo 

By  ocean's  caves  preserved  in  vain. 

And  oft  to  shadow  forth  I  strove, 

To  my  mind's  eye,  some  form  like  thine, 

And  still  my  soul,  like  NOAH'S  dove, 
Return'd,  but  brought,  alas !  no  sign : 
Till,  wearying  in  the  mad  design, 

With  fever'd  brow  and  throbbing  vein, 
I  left  the  cause  to  thread  the  mine 

Of  wonderful  effects  again  ! 

But  now  I  see  thee  face  to  face, 
Thou  art  indeed,  a  thing  divine  ; 

An  eye  pervading  time  and  space, 
And  an  angelic  look  are  thine, 
Ready  to  seize,  compare,  combine 

Essence  and  form — 'and  yet  a  trace 
Of  grief  and  care — a  shadowy  line 

Dims  thy  bright  forehead's  heavenly  grace. 

Yet  thou  must  be  of  heavenly  birth, 

Where  naught  is  known  of  grief  and  pain ; 

Though  I  perceive,  alas !  where  earth 
And  earthly  things  have  left  their  stain  : 
From  thine  high  calling  didst  thou  deign 

To  prove — in  folly  or  in  mirth — 

With  daughters  of  the  first-born  CAIN, 

How  little  HUMAN  LOVE  is  worth  ] 

Ha !  dost  thou  change  before  mine  eyes ! 

Another  form !   and  yet  the  same, 
But  lovelier,  and  of  female  guise, 

A  vision  of  ethereal  flame, 

Such  as  our  heart's  despair  can  frame, 
Pine  for,  love,  worship,  idolize, 

Like  HERS,  who  from  the  sea-foam  came, 
And  lives  but  in  the  heart,  or  skies. 

SPIHIT  or  CHANGE  !  I  know  thee  too, 

I  know  thee  by  thine  Iris  bow, 
By  thy  cheek's  ever-shifting  hue, 

By  all  that  marks  thy  steps  below ; 

By  sighs  that  burn,  and  tears  that  glow — 
False  joys — vain  hopes — that  mock  the  heart ; 

From  FANCY'S  urn  these  evils  flow, 
SPIRIT  OF  LIES  !  for  such  thou  art ! 

Saidst  thou  not  once,  that  all  the  charms 

Of  life  lay  hid  in  woman's  love, 
And  to  be  lock'd  in  Beauty's  arms. 

Was  all  men  knew  of  heaven  above  ? 

And  did  I  not  thy  counsels  prove, 
And  all  their  pleasures,  all  their  pain  1 

No  more  !  no  more  my  heart  they  move, 
For  I,  alas  !  have  proved  them  vain  ! 


Didst  thou  not  then,  in  evil  hour, 
Light  in  my  soul  ambition's  flame  1 

Didst  thou  not  say  the  joys  of  power, 
Unbounded  sway,  undying  fame, 
A  monarch's  love  alone  should  claim? 

And  did  I  not  pursue  e'en  these  1 

And  are  they  not,  when  won,  the  samel 

All  VANITY  OF  VANITIES  ! 

Didst  not,  to  tempt  me  once  again, 

Bid  new,  deceitful  visions  rise, 
And  hint,  though  won  with  toil  and  pain, 

"  Wisdom's  the  pleasure  of  the  wise  !" 

And  now,  when  none  beneath  the  skies 
Are  wiser  held  by  men  than  me, 

What  is  the  value  of  the  prize  1 
It  too,  alas !  is  VANITY  ! 

Then  tell  me — since  I  've  found  on  earth 

Not  one  pure  stream  to  slake  this  thirst, 
Which  still  torments  us  from  our  birth, 

And  in  our  heart  and  soul  is  nursed  ; 

This  hopeless  wish  wherewith  we're  cursed, 
Whence  came  it,  and  why  was  it  given  1 

Thou  speak'st  not ! — Let  me  know  the  worst! 
Thou  pointest ! — and  it  is  to  HEAVEN  ! 


A  FAREWELL  TO  AMERICA.* 

FAREWELL  !  my  more  than  fatherland  ! 

Home  of  my  heart  and  friends,  adieu ! 
Lingering  beside  some  foreign  strand, 

How  oft  shall  I  remember  you ! 

How  often,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Send  back  a  sigh  to  those  I  leave, 

The  loving  and  beloved  few, 
WTho  grieve  for  me, — for  whom  I  grieve ! 

We  part ! — no  matter  how  we  part, 

There  are  some  thoughts  we  utter  not, 
Deep  treasured  in  our  inmost  heart, 

Never  reveal'd,  and  ne'er  forgot ! 

Why  murmur  at  the  common  lot  ? 
We  part ! — I  speak  not  of  the  pain, — 

But  when  shall  I  each  lovely  spot 
And  each  loved  face  behold  again  1 

It  must  be  months, — it  may  be  years, — 

It  may — but  no  ! — I  will  not  fill 
Fond  hearts  with  gloom, — fond  eyes  with  tears, 

«  Curious  to  shape  uncertain  ill."  f 

Though  humble, — few  and  far, — yet,  still 
Those  hearts  and  eyes  are  ever  dear ; 

Theirs  is  the  love  no  time  can  chill, 
The  truth  no  chance  or  change  can  sear ! 

All  I  have  seen,  and  all  I  see, 

Only  endears  them  more  and  more ; 
Friends  cool,  hopes  fade,  and  hours  flee, 

Affection  lives  when  all  is  o'er ! 

Farewell,  my  more  than  native  shore ! 
I  do  not  seek  or  hope  to  find, 

Roam  where  I  will,  what  I  deplore 
To  leave  with  them  and  thee  behind ! 


*  Written  on  board  ship  Westminster,  at  sea,  off  the 
Highlands  of  Neversink,  June  1,  1835 


108 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 


NAPOLEON'S  GRAVE. 

FAINT  and  sad  was  the  moonbeam's  smile, 
Sullen  the  moan  of  the  dying  wave ; 

Hoarse  the  wind  in  St.  Helen's  isle, 

As  I  stood  by  the  side  of  NAPOLEON'S  grave. 

And  is  it  here  that  the  hero  lies, 

Whose  name  has  shaken  the  earth  with  dread  1 
And  is  this  all  that  the  earth  supplies — 

A  stone  his  pillow — the  turf  his  bed  1 

Is  such  the  moral  of  human  life  1 

Are  these  the  limits  of  glory's  reign  1 

Have  oceans  of  blood,  and  an  age  of  strife, 
And  a  thousand  battles  been  all  in  vain  1 

Is  nothing  left  of  his  victories  now 

But  legions  broken — a  sword  in  rust — 

A  crown  that  cumbers  a  dotard's  brow — 
A  name  and  a  requiem — dust  to  dust  1 

Of  all  the  chieftains  whose  thrones  he  rear'd, 
Was  there  none  that  kindness  or  faith  could  bind? 

Of  all  the  monarchs  whose  crowns  he  spared, 
Had  none  one  spark  of  his  Roman  mind  ? 

Did  Prussia  cast  no  repentant  glance  1 
Did  Austria  shed  no  remorseful  tear, 

When  England's  truth,  and  thine  honour,  France, 
And  thy  friendship,  Russia,  were  blasted  here  1 

No  holy  leagues,  like  the  heathen  heaven, 
Ungodlike  shrunk  from  the  giant's  shock ; 

And  glorious  TITAN,  the  unforgiven, 

Was  doom'd  to  his  vulture,  and  chains,  and  rock. 

And  who  were  the  gods  that  decreed  thy  doom  1 
A  German  C^USAII — a  Prussian  sage — 

The  dandy  prince  of  a  counting-room — 

And  a  Russian  Greek  of  earth's  darkest  age. 

Men  call'd  thee  Despot,  and  call'd  thee  true ; 

But  the  laurel  was  earn'd  that  bound  thy  brow; 
And  of  all  who  wore  it,  alas !  how  few 

Were  freer  from  treason  and  guilt  than  thou ! 

Shame  to  thee,  Gaul,  and  thy  faithless  horde ! 

Where  was  the  oath  which  thy  soldiers  swore  1 
Fraud  still  lurks  in  the  gown,  but  the  sword 
•  Was  never  so  false  to  its  trust  before. 

Where  was  thy  veteran's  boast  that  day, 
"The  old  Guard  dies,  but  it  never  yields!" 

O  !  for  one  heart  like  the  brave  DESSAIX, 
One  phalanx  like  those  of  thine  early  fields ! 

But,  no,  no,  no ! — it  was  Freedom's  charm 
Gave  them  the  courage  of  more  than  men ; 

You  broke  the  spell  that  twice  nerved  each  arm, 
Though  you  were  invincible  only  then. 

Yet  St.  Jean  was  a  deep,  not  a  deadly  blow ; 

One  struggle,  and  France  all  her  faults  repairs — 
But  the  wild  FATETTE,  and  the  stern  CAU.NOT 

Are  dupes,  and  ruin  thy  fate  and  theirs ! 


STANZAS. 

Mr  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattcr'd  on  the  ground — to  die ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  arc  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf  ' 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief, 

Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree, 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints,  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea, 
But  none,  alas!  shall  mourn  for  me! 


TO  LORD  BYRON. 


'tis  thine  alone,  on  eagles'  pinions, 

In  solitary  strength  and  grandeur  soaring, 

To  dazzle  and  delight  all  eyes  ;  outpouring 
The  electric  blaze  on  tyrants  and  their  minions  ; 
Earth,  sea,  and  air,  and  powers  and  dominions, 

Nature,  man,  time,  the  universe  exploring  ; 
And  from  the  wreck  of  worlds,  thrones,  creeds, 
opinions, 

Thought,  beauty,  eloquence,  and  wisdom  storing  : 
0  !  how  I  love  and  envy  thee  thy  glory, 

To  every  ace  and  clime  alike  belonging  ; 
Link'd  by  all  tongues  with  every  nation's  glory. 

Thou  TACITUS  of  song  !  whose  echoes,  thronging 
O'er  the  Atlantic,  fill  the  mountains  hoary 

And  forests  with  the  name  my  verse  is  wronging. 


TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 


WING'D  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou  motley  fool ! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ] 
Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe: 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  YORICK.  of  thy  tribe, 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school ; 

To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule ! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day — but  all  night  long 
Thou  pour'st  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 

As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  JACQ.UES  complain, 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


JAMES  A.   HILLHOUSE. 


IBorn  1789.    Died  1841.] 


THE  author  of  "  Hadad"  was  descended  from 
an  ancient  and  honourable  Irish  family,  in  the 
county  of  Derry,  and  his  ancestors  emigrated  to 
this  country  and  settled  in  Connecticut  in  1720. 
A  high  order  of  intellect  seems  to  have  been  their 
right  of  inheritance,  for  in  every  generation  we 
find  their  name  prominent  in  the  political  history 
of  the  state.  The  grandfather  of  the  poet,  the 
Honourable  WILLIAM  HILLHOUSE,  was  for  more 
than  fifty  years  employed  in  the  public  service,  as 
a  representative,  as  a  member  of  the  council,  and 
in  othnr  offices  of  trust  and  honour.  His  father, 
the  Honourable  JAMES  HILLHOCSE,  who  died  in 
1833,  after  filling  various  offices  in  his  native 
state,  and  being  for  three  years  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Representatives,  was  in  1794  elected  to 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  where  for  sixteen 
years  he  acted  a  leading  part  in  the  politics  of  the 
country.  His  wife,  the  mother  of  the  subject  of 
this  sketch,  was  the  daughter  of  Colonel  MELANC- 
Tnox  WOOLSET,  of  Dosoris,  Long  Island.  She 
was  a  woman  distinguished  alike  for  mental  su- 
periority, and  for  feminine  softness,  purity,  and 
delicacy  of  character.  Although  educated  in  re- 
tirement, and  nearly  self-taught,  her  son  was  accus- 
tomed to  say,  when  time  had  given  value  to  his 
opinions,  that  she  possessed  the  most  elegant  mind 
he  had  ever  met  with;  and  much  of  the  nice  dis- 
crimination, and  the  finer  and  more  delicate  ele- 
ments of  his  own  character,  were  an  inheritance 
from  her.  -  Among  the  little  occasional  pieces 
which  he  wrote  entirely  for  the  family  circle, 
was  one  composed  on  visiting  her  birth-place,  after 
her  death,  which  I  have  been  permitted*  to  make 
public. 

"As  yonder  frith,  round  green  Dnsoris  roll'd, 
Reflects  the  parting  glories  of  the  skies, 

Or  quivering  glances,  like  the  paly  gold, 
When  on  its  breast  the  midnight  moonbeam  lies; 

"Thus,  though  hedimm'd  by  many  a  changeful  year, 
The  hues  of  feeling  varied  in  her  cheek, 

That,  brightly  fltish'd,  or  glittering  with  a  tear, 
Seem'd  the  rapt  poet's,  or  the  seraph's  meek. 

"I  have  fulfill'd  her  charge, — dear  scenes,  adieu!— 
The  tender  charge  to  see  her  natal  spot ; 

My  tears  have  flow'd,  while  busy  Fancy  drew 
The  picture  of  her  childhood's  happy  lot. 

"Would  I  could  paint  the  ever-varyins  grace, 
The  ethereal  glow  and  lustre  of  her  mind, 

Which  own'd  not  time,  nor  bore  of  age  a  trace, 
Pure  as  the  sunbeam,  gentle  and  refined!" 


*  I  am  indebted  for  the  materials  for  this  biognphy  to 
the  poet's  intimate  friend,  the  Reverend  \Vn.i. IAM  Ix- 
ORAIIAM  KII-P,  Rector  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  in  Albany, 
New  York,  who  kindly  consented  to  write  out  the  cha- 
racter of  the  poet,  as  he  appeared  at  home,  and  as  none 
but  his  associates  could  know  him,  for  this  work. 


Mr.  HILLHOCSE  was  born  in  New  Haven,  on 
the  twenty-sixth  of  September,  1789.  The  home 
of  such  parents,  and  the  society  of  the  intelligent 
circle  they  drew  about  them,  (of  which  President 
DWIGHT  was  the  most  distinguished  ornament,) 
was  well  calculated  to  cherish  and  cultivate  his 
peculiar  tastes.  In  boyhood  he  was  remarkable 
for  great  activity  and  excellence  in  all  manly  and 
athletic  sports,  and  for  a  peculiarly  gentlemanly 
deportment.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered  Yale 
College,  and  in  1808  he  was  graduated,  with  high 
reputation  as  a  scholar.  From  his  first  junior 
exhibition,  he  had  been  distinguished  for  the  ele- 
gance and  good  taste  of  his  compositions.  Upon 
taking  his  second  degree,  he  delivered  an  oration 
on  "  The  Education  of  a  Poet,"  so  full  of  beauty  ^ 
that  it  was  long  and  widely  remembered,  and  in- 
duced an  appointment  by  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society,  (not  much  in  the  habit  of  selecting  juve- 
nile writers,)  to  deliver  a  poem  before  them  at 
their  next  anniversary.  It  was  on  this  occasion 
that  he  wrote  "The  Judgment,"  which  was  pro- 
nounced before  that  society  at  the  commencement 
of  1812. 

A  more  difficult  theme,  or  one  requiring  loftier 
powers,  could  not  have  been  selected.  The  re- 
flecting mind  regards  this  subject  in  accordance 
with  some  preconceived  views.  That  Mr.  HILL- 
HOUSE  felt  this  difficulty,  is  evident  from  a  remark 
in  his  preface,  that  in  selecting  this  theme,  "  he 
exposes  his  work  to  criticism  on  account  of  its 
theology,  as  well  as  its  poetry;  and  they  who 
think  the  former  objectionable,  will  not  easily  be 
pleased  with  the  latter."  Other  poets,  too,  had 
essayed  their  powers  in  describing  the  events  of 
the  Last  Day.  The  public  voice,  however,  has 
decided,  that  among  all  the  poems  on  this  great 
subject,  that  of  Mr.  HILLHOUSE  stands  unequalled. 
His  object  was,  « to  present  such  a  view  of  the 
last  grand  spectacle  as  seemed  the  most  susceptible 
of  poetical  embellishment;"  and  rarely  have  we 
seen  grandeur  of  conception  and  simplicity  of  de- 
sign so  admirably  united.  His  representation  of 
the  scene  is  vivid  and  energetic ;  while  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  has  grouped  and  contrasted  the 
countless  array  of  characters  of  every  age,  displays 
the  highest  degree  of  artistic  skill.  Each  character 
he  summons  up  appears  before  us,  with  historic 
costume  and  features  faithfully  preserved,  and  we 
seem  to  gaze  upon  him  as  a  reality,  and  not  merely 
as  the  bold  imagery  of  the  poet. 

"  For  nil  appear'd 

As  in  their  days  of  earthly  pride  ;  the  clank 
Of  steel  announced  the  warrior,  and  the  robe 
Of  Tyrian  lustre  spoke  the  blood  of  kings." 

His  description  of  the  last  setting  of  the  sun  in 
the  west,  and  the  dreamer's  farewell  to  the  even- 
ing star,  as  it  was  fading  forever  from  his  sight, 
K  100 


110 


JAMES   A.   HILLHOUSE. 


are  passages  of  beauty  which  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  surpassed. 

About  this  period  Mr.  HILLHOUSE  passed  three 
years  in  Boston,  preparing  to  engage  in  a  mercan- 
tile life.  During  the  interruption  of  business  which 
took  place  in  consequence  of  the  last  war  with 
England,  he  employed  a  season  of  leisure  passed 
at  home,  in  the  composition  of  several  dramatic 
pieces,  of  which  "  Demetria"  and  "  Percy's  Masque" 
best  satisfied  his  own  judgment.  When  peace  was 
restored,  he  went  to  New  York,  and  embarked  in 
commerce,  to  which,  though  at  variance  with  his 
tastes,  he  devoted  himself  with  fidelity  and  perse- 
verance. In  1819,  he  visited  Europe,  and  though 
the  months  passed  there  were  a  season  of  great 
anxiety  and  business  occupations,  he  still  found 
time  to  see  much  to  enlarge  his  mind,  and  accu- 
mulated stores  of  thought  for  future  use.  Among 
other  distinguished  literary  men,  from  whom  while 
in  London  he  received  attentions,  was  ZACART 
MACAULAY,  (father  of  the  Hon.  T.  BABBINGTOJT 
MACAULAY,)  who  subsequently  stated  to  some 
American  gentlemen,  that  "he  considered  Mr. 
HILLHOUSE  the  most  accomplished  young  man 
with  whom  he  was  acquainted."  It  was  during 
his  stay  in  England  that  «  Percy's  Masque"  was 
revised  and  published.  The  subject  of  this  drama 
is  the  successful  attempt  of  one  of  the  Percies,  the 
son  of  Shakspeare's  Hotspur,  to  recover  his  an- 
cestral home.  The  era  chosen  is  a  happy  one  for 
a  poet.  He  is  dealing  with  the  events  of  an  age 
where  every  thing  to  us  is  clothed  with  a  roman- 
tic interest,  which  invests  even  the  most  common 
every-day  occurrences  of  life. 

"They  carved  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel, 
And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  helmet  barr'd." 

Of  this  opportunity  he  fully  availed  himself,  in 
the  picture  he  has  here  given  us  of  the  days  of 
chivalry.  As  a  mere  work  of  art,  "Percy's 
Masque"  is  one  of  the  most  faultless  in  the  lan- 
guage. If  subjected  to  scrutiny,  it  will  bear  the 
strictest  criticism  by  which  compositions  of  this 
kind  can  be  tried.  We  cannot  detect  the  violation 
of  a  single  rule  which  should  be  observed  in  the 
construction  of  a  tragedy.  When,  therefore,  it 
was  republished  in  this  country,  it  at  once  gave 
its  author  an  elevated  rank  as  a  dramatic  poet. 

In  1822,  Mr.  HILLHOCSE  was  united  in  mar- 
riage to  CORX  ELIA,  eldest  daughter  of  ISAAC  LAW- 
HENCE,  of  New  York.  He  shortly  afterward 
returned  to  his  native  town,  and  there,  at  his 
beautiful  place,  called  Sachem's  Wood,  devoted 
himself  to  the  pursuits  of  a  country  gentleman 
and  practical  agriculturist.  His  taste  extended 
also  to  the  arts  with  which  poetry  is  allied;  and 
in  the  embellishment  of  his  residence,  there  was 
exhibited  evidence  of  the  refinement  of  its  accom- 
plished occupant.  Here,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  months  of  the  winter,  generally  spent  in  New 
York,  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life.  "  And 
never,"  remarks  his  friend,  the  Reverend  Mr.  KIPP, 
"  has  a  domestic  circle  been  anywhere  gathered, 
uniting  \ftithin  itself  more  of  grace,  and  elegance, 
and  intellect.  He  who  formed  its  centre  and  its 


charm,  possessed  a  character  combining  most  beau- 
tifully the  high  endowments  of  literary  genius, 
with  all  that  is  winning  and  brilliant  in  social  life. 
They  who  knew  him  best  in  the  sacred  relations 
of  his  own  fireside,  will  never  cease  to  realize,  that 
in  him  their  circle  lost  its  greatest  ornament.  All 
who  were  accustomed  to  meet  his  cordial  greeting, 
to  listen  to  his  fervid  and  eloquent  conversation, 
to  be  delighted  with  the  wit  and  vivacity  of  his 
playful  moments ;  to  witness  the  grace  and  ele- 
gance of  his  manners,  the  chivalric  spirit,  the 
indomitable  energy  and  high  finish  of  the  whole 
character,  can  tell  how  nobly  he  united  the  com- 
bined attractions  of  the  poet,  the  scholar,  and  the 
perfect  gentleman.  Never,  indeed,  have  we  met 
with  one  who  could  pour  forth  more  eloquently 
his  treasures,  drawn  from  the  whole  range  of  Eng- 
lish literature,  or  bring  them  to  bear  more  ad- 
mirably upon  the  passing  occurrences  of  the  day. 
Every  syllable,  too,  which  he  uttered,  conveyed 
the  idea  of  a  high-souled  honour,  which  we  asso- 
ciate more  naturally  with  the  days  of  old  romance, 
than  with  these  selfish,  prosaic  times.  His  were 
indeed  <  high  thoughts,  seated  in  a  heart  of  cour- 
tesy.' " 

"Hadad"  was  written  in  1824,  and  printed  in 
the  following  year.  This  has  generally  been 
esteemed  HILLHO USE'S  masterpiece.  As  a  sacred 
drama,  it  is  probably  unsurpassed.  The  scene  is  in 
Judea,  in  the  days  of  David ;  and  as  the  agency 
of  evil  spirits  is  introduced,  an  opportunity  is  af- 
forded to  bring  forward  passages  of  strange  sub- 
limity and  wildness.  For  a  work  like  this,  HILL- 
HOUSE  was  peculiarly  qualified.  A  most  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  Scriptures  enabled  him  to 
introduce  each  minute  detail  in  perfect  keeping 
with  historical  truth,  while  from  the  same  study 
he  seems  also  to  have  imbibed  the  lofty  thoughts, 
and  the  majestic  style  of  the  ancient  Hebrew 
prophets. 

In  1840,  he  collected,  and  published  in  two 
volumes,  the  works  which  at  that  time  he  was 
willing  to  give  to  the  world.  In  addition  to  those 
I  have  already  mentioned,  was  "Demetria,"  a 
domestic  tragedy,  now  first  revised  and  printed, 
after  an  interval  of  twenty-six  years  since  its  first 
composition,  and  several  orations,  delivered  in  New 
Haven,  on  public  occasions,  or  before  literary 
societies  in  other  parts  of  the  country.  The 
manly  eloquence  of  the  latter,  is  well  calculated 
to  add  the  reputation  of  an  accomplished  ora- 
tor, to  that  which  he  already  enjoyed  as  a  poet. 
These  volumes  contain  nearly  all  that  he  left  us. 
It  is  a  mistake,  however,  to  suppose  that  he  passed 
his  life  merely  as  a  literary  man.  The  early  part 
of  it  was  spent  in  the  anxieties  of  business,  while, 
through  all  his  days,  literature,  instead  of  being 
his  occupation,  was  merely  the  solace  and  delight 
of  his  leisure  moments. 

About  this  time  his  friends  beheld,  with  anxiety, 
the  symptoms  of  failing  health.  For  fifteen 
months,  however,  he  lingered  on,  alternately  cheer- 
ing their  hearts  by  the  prospect  of  recovery,  and 
'.  then  causing  them  again  to  despond,  as  his  vveak- 
increased.  In  the  fall  of  1840,  he  left  home 


JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 


Ill 


for  the  last  time,  to  visit  his  friends  in  Boston.  He 
returned,  apparently  benefited  by  the  excursion, 
and  no  immediate  danger  was  apprehended  until 
the  beginning  of  the  following  January.  On  the 
second  of  that  month  his  disorder  assumed  an 
alarming  form,  and  the  next  day  was  passed  in 
intense  agony.  On  Monday,  his  pain  was  alle- 
viated ;  yet  his  skilful  medical  attendants  beheld 
in  this  but  the  precursor  of  death ;  and  it  became 
their  duty,  on  the  following  morning,  to  impart 
to  him  the  news  that  his  hours  were  few  and 
numbered. 

"  Of  the  events  of  this  solemn  day,  when  he 
beheld  the  sands  of  life  fast  running  out,  and 
girded  up  his  strength  to  meet  the  King  of  Ter- 
rors," says  the  writer  to  whom  I  have  before  al- 
luded, "I  cannot  speak.  The  loss  is  still  too 
recent  to  allow  us  to  withdraw  the  veil  and 
tell  of  his  dying  hours.  Yet  touching  was  the 
scene,  as  the  warm  affections  of  that  noble  heart 
gathered  in  close  folds  around  those  he  was  about 
to  leave,  or  wandered  back  in  remembrance  to  the 
opening  of  life,  and  the  friends  of  childhood  who 
had  already  gone.  It  was  also  the  Christian's 
death.  The  mind  which  had  conceived  so  vividly 
the  scenes  of  the  judgment,  must  often  have 
looked  forward  to  that  hour,  which  he  now  could 
meet  in  an  humble,  trusting  faith.  And  thus  the 
day  wore  on,  until,  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  eve- 
ning, without  a  struggle,  he  fell  asleep." 

As  a  poet,  he  possessed  qualities  seldom  found 
united :  a  masculine  strength  of  mind,  and  a 
most  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful.  With 
an  imagination  of  the  loftiest  order — with  « the 
vision  and  the  faculty  divine"  in  its  fullest  exer- 
cise, the  wanderings  of  his  fancy  were  chastened 
and  controlled  by  exquisite  taste.  The  grand 


THE  JUDGMENT. 


THE  rites  were  past  of  that  auspicious  day 
When  white-robed  altars  wreath'd  with  living  green 
Adorn  the  temples ; — when  unnumber'd  tongues 
Repeat  the  glorious  anthem  sung  to  harps 
Of  angels  while  the  star  o'er  Bethlehem  stood ; — 
When  grateful  hearts  bow  low,  and  deeper  joy 
Breathes  in  the  Christian  than  the  angel  song, 
On  the  great  birthday  of  our  Priest  and  King. 
That  night,  while  musing  on  his  wondrous  life, 
Precepts,  and  promises  to  be  fulfill'd, 
A  trance-like  sleep  fell  on  me,  and  a  dream 
Of  dreadful  character  appall'd  my  soul. 
Wild  was  the  pageant : — face  to  face  with  kings, 
Heroes,  and  sages  of  old  note,  I  stood ; 
Patriarchs,  and  prophets,  and  apostles  saw, 
And  venerable  forms,  ere  round  the  globe 
Shoreless  and  waste  a  weltering  flood  was  roll'd, 
With  angels,  compassing  the  radiant  throne 
Of  MART'S  Son,  anew  descended,  crown'd 
With  glory  terrible,  to  judge  the  world. 


characteristic  of  his  writings  is  their  classical 
beauty.  Every  passage  is  polished  to  the  utmost, 
yet  there  is  no  exuberance,  no  sacrifice  to  false 
and  meretricious  taste.  He  threw  aside  the  gaudy 
and  affected  brilliancy  with  which  too  many  set 
forth  their  poems,  arid  left  his  to  stand,  like  the 
doric  column,  charming  by  its  simplicity.  Writing 
not  for  present  popularity,  or  to  catch  the  sense- 
less applause  of  the  multitude,  he  was  willing  to 
commit  his  works — as  Lord  Bacon  did  his  memo- 
ry— "  to  the  next  ages."  And  the  result  is  proving 
how  wise  were  his  calculations.  The  "  fit  audi- 
ence," which  at  first  hailed  his  poems  with  plea- 
sure, from  realizing  their  worth,  has  been  steadily 
increasing.  The  scholar  studies  them  as  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  kindred  spirit,  which  had  drunk 
deeply  at  the  fountains  of  ancient  lore,  until  it 
had  itself  been  moulded  into  the  same  form  of 
stern  and  antique  beauty,  which  marked  the  old 
Athenian  dramatists.  The  intellectual  and  the 
gifted  claim  him  as  one  of  their  own  sacred  bro- 
therhood ;  and  all  who  have  a  sympathy  with 
genius,  and  are  anxious  to  hold  communion  with 
it  as  they  travel  on  the  worn  and  beaten  path  of 
life,  turn  with  ever  renewed  delight  to  his  pages. 
They  see  the  evidences  of  one,  who  wrote  not  be- 
cause he  must  write,  but  because  he  possessed  a 
mind  crowded  and  glowing  with  images  of  beauty, 
and  therefore,  in  the  language  of  poetry,  he  poured 
forth  its  hoarded  treasures.  Much  as  we  must 
lament  the  withdrawal  of  that  bright  mind,  at  an 
age  when  it  had  just  ripened  into  the  maturity  of 
its  power,  and  when  it  seemed  ready  for  greater 
efforts  than  it  yet  had  made,  we  rejoice  that 
the  event  did  not  happen  until  a  permanent 
rank  had  been  gained  among  the  noblest  of  our 
poets. 


Methought  I  journey'd  o'er  a  boundless  plain, 
Unbroke  by  vale  or  hill,  on  all  sides  stretch' d, 
Like  circling  ocean,  to  the  low-brow'd  sky ; 
Save  in  the  midst  a  verdant  mount,  whose  sides 
Flowers  of  all  hues  and  fragrant  breath  adorn'd. 
Lightly  I  trod,  as  on  some  joyous  quest, 
Beneath  the  azure  vault  and  early  sun ; 
But  while  my  pleased  eyes  ranged  the  circuit  green, 
New  light  shone  round ;  ajnurmur  came,  confused, 
Like  many  voices  and  the  rush  of  wings. 
Upward  I  gazed,  and,  'mid  the  glittering  skies, 
Begirt  by  flying  myriads,  saw  a  throne 
Whose  thousand  splendours  blazed  upon  the  earth 
Refulgent  as  another  sun.     Through  clouds 
They  came,  and  vapours  colour'd  by  AURORA, 
Mingling  in  swell  sublime,  voices,  and  harps, 
And  sounding  wings,  and  hallelujahs  sweet 
Sudden,  a  seraph  that  before  them  flew, 
Pausing  upon  his  wide-unfolded  plumes, 
Put  to  his  mouth  the  likeness  of  a  trump,     ^ 
And  toward  the  four  winds  four  times  fiercely 

breathed. 
Doubling  along  the  arch,  the  mighty  peal 


112 


JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 


To  heaven  resounded  ;  hell  return'd  a  groan, 
And  shuddering  earth  a  moment  reel'd,  confounded, 
From  her  fixed  pathway  as  the  staggering  ship, 
Stunn'd  by  some  mountain  billow,  reels.   The  isles, 
With  heaving  ocean,  rock'd :  the  mountains  shook 
Their  ancient  coronets :  the  avalanche 
Thunder'd :  silence  succeeded  through  the  nations. 
Earth  never  listen'd  to  a  sound  like  this. 
It  struck  the  general  pulse  of  nature  still, 
And  broke,  forever,  the  dull  sleep  of  death. 


Now,  o'er  the  mount  the  radiant  legions  hung, 
Like  plumy  travellers  from  climes  remote 
On  some  sequester'd  isle  about  to  stoop. 
Gently  its  flowery  head  received  the  throne ; 
Cherubs  and  seraphs,  by  ten  thousands,  round 
Skirting  it  far  and  wide,  like  a  bright  sea, 
Fair  forms  and  faces,  crowns,  and  coronets, 
And  glistering  wings  furl'd  white  and  numberless. 
About  their  LOKD  were  those  seven  glorious  spirits 
Who  in  the  ALMIGHTI'S  presence  stand.     Four 

lean'd 

On  golden  wands,  with  folded  wings,  and  eyes 
Fix'd  on  the  throne :  one  bore  the  dreadful  books, 
The  arbiters  of  life :  another  waved 
The  blazing  ensign  terrible,  of  yore, 
To  rebel  angels  in  the  wars  of  heaven : 
What  seem'd  a  trump  the  other  spirit  grasp'd, 
Of  wondrous  size,  wreathed  multiform  and  strange. 
Illustrious  stood  the  seven,  above  the  rest 
Towering,  like  a  constellation  glowing, 
What  time  the  sphere-instructed  huntsman,  taught 
By  ATLAS,  his  star-studded  belt  displays 
Aloft,  bright-glittering,  in  the  winter  sky. 


Then  on  the  mount,  amidst  these  glorious  shapes, 
Who  reverent  stood,  with  looks  of  sacred  awe, 
I  saw  EMMANUEL  seated  on  his  throne. 
His  robe,  methought,  was  whiter  than  the  light ; 
Upon  his  breast  the  heavenly  Urim  glow'd 
Bright  as  the  sun,  and  round  such  lightnings  flash'd, 
No  eye  could  meet  the  mystic  symbol's  blaze. 
Irradiant  the  eternal  sceptre  shone 
Which  wont  to  glitter  in  his  Father's  hand : 
Resplendent  in  his  face  the  Godhead  beam'd, 
Justice  and  mercy,  majesty  and  grace, 
Divinely  mingling.     Celestial  glories  play'd 
Around  with  beamy  lustre ;  from  his  eye 
Dominion  look'd ;  upon  his  brow  was  stamp'd 
Creative  power.     Yet  over  all  the  touch 
Of  gracious  pity  dwelt,  which,  erst,  amidst 
Dissolving  nature's  anguish,  breathed  a  prayer 
For  guilty  man.     Redundant  down  his  neck 
His  locks  roll'd  graceful,  as  they  waved,  of  old, 
Upon  the  mournful  breeze  of  Calvary. 


His  throne  of  heavenly  substance  seem'd  com- 
posed, 

Whose  pearly  essence,  like  the  eastern  shell, 
Or  changeful  opal,  shed  a  silvery  light 
Clear  as  the  moon  it  look'd  through  ambient  clouds 
Of  snowy  lustre,  waving  round  its  base, 


That,  like  a  zodiac,  thick  with  emblems  set, 
Flash'd  wondrous  beams,  of  unknown  character, 
From  many  a  burning  stone  of  lustre  rare, 
Stain'd  like  the  bow  whose  mingling  splendour 

stream'd 

Confusion  bright  upon  the  dazzled  eye. 
Above  him  hung  a  canopy  whose  skirts 
The  mount  o'ershadow'd  like  an  evening  cloud. 
Clouds  were  his  curtains  :  not  like  their  dim  types 
Of  blue  and  purple  round  the  tabernacle, 
That  waving  vision  of  the  lonely  wild, 
By  pious  Israel  wrought  with  cherubim ; 
Veiling  the  mysteries  of  old  renown, 
Table,  and  altar,  ark,  and  mercy-seat, 
Where,  'twixt  the  shadow  of  cherubic  wings, 
In  lustre  visible  JEHOVAH  shone. 


In  honour  chief,  upon  the  Lonn's  right  hand 
His  station  MICHAEL  held :  the  dreadful  sword 
That  from  a  starry  baldric  hung,  proclaim'd 
The  Hierarch.     Terrible,  on  his  brow 
Blazed  the  archangel  crown,  and  from  his  eye 
Thick  sparkles  flash'd.    Like  regal  banners,  waved 
Back  from  his  giant  shoulders  his  broad  vans, 
Bedropt  with  gold,  and,  turning  to  the  sun, 
Shone  gorgeous  as  the  multitudinous  stars, 
Or  some  illumined  city  seen  by  night, 
When  her  wide  streets  pour  noon,  and,  echoing 

through 
Her  thronging  thousands,  mirth  and  music  ring. 

Opposed  to  him,  I  saw  an  angel  stand 
In  sable  vesture,  with  the  Books  of  Life. 
Black  was  his  mantle,  and  his  changeful  wings 
Gloss'd  like  the  raven's ;  thoughtful  seem'd  his 

mien, 

Sedate  and  calm,  and  deep  upon  his  brow 
Had  Meditation  set  her  seal ;  his  eyes 
Look'd  things  unearthly,  thoughts  unutterable, 
Or  utter'd  only  with  an  angel's  tongue. 
Renown'd  was  he  among  the  seraphim 
For  depth  of  prescience,  and  sublirnest  lore ; 
Skill'd  in  the  mysteries  of  the  ETERNAL, 
Profoundly  versed  in  those  old  records  where, 
From  everlasting  ages,  live  GOD'S  deeds ; 
He  knew  the  hour  when  yonder  shining  worlds, 
That  roll  around  us,  into  being  sprang ; 
Their  system,  laws,  connexion ;  all  he  knew 
But  the  dread  moment  when  they  cease  to  be. 
None  judged  like  him  the  ways  of  GOD  to  man, 
Or  so  had  pondcr'd ;  his  excursive  thoughts 
Had  visited  the  depths  of  night  and  chaos, 
Gathering  the  treasures  of  the  hoary  deep. 


Like  ocean  billows  seem'd,  ere  this,  the  plain, 
Confusedly  heaving  with  a  sumless  host 
From  earth's  and  time's  remotest  bounds :  a  roar 
Went  up  before  the  multitude,  whose  course 
The  unfurl'd  banner  guided,  and  the  bow, 
Zone  of  the  universe,  athwart  the  zenith 
Sweeping  its  arch.     In  one  vast  conflux  roll'd, 
Wave  following  wave,  were  men  of  every  age, 
Nation,  and  tongue^  all  heard  the  warning  blast, 
And,  led  by  wondrous  impulse,  hither  came. 


JAMES   A.   HILLHOUSE. 


113 


Mingled  in  wild  confusion,  now,  those  met 
In  distant  ages  born.     Gray  forms,  that  lived 
When  Time  himself  was  young,  whose  temples 

shook 

The  h.>ary  honours  of  a  thousand  years, 
Stood  side  by  side  with  Roman  consuls: — here, 
Mid  prophets  old,  and  heaven-inspired  bards, 
Were  Grecian  heroes  seen  : — there,  from  a  crowd 
Of   reverend    patriarchs,    tower'd    the    nodding 

plumes, 

Tiars,  and  helms,  and  sparkling1  diadems 
Of  Persia's,  Egypt's,  or  Assyria's  kings ; 
Clad  as  when  forth  the  hundred  gates  of  Thebes 
On  sounding  cars  her  hundred  princes  rush'd  ; 
Or,  when,  at  night,  from  off  the  terrace  top 
Of  his  aerial  garden,  touched  to  soothe 
The  troubled  monarch,  came  the  solemn  chime 
Of  sackbut,  psaltery,  and  harp,  adown 
The  Euphrates,  floating  in  the  moonlight  wide 
O'er  sleeping  Babylon.     For  all  appear'd 
As  in  their  days  of 'earthly  pride;  the  clank 
Of  steel  announced  the  warrior,  and  the  robe 
Of  Tyrian  lustre  spoke  the  blood  of  kings. 
Though  on  the  angels  while  I  gazed,  their  names 
Appeared  not,  yet  amongst  the  mortal  throng 
(Capricious  power  of  dreams !)  familiar  seem'd 
Each  countenance,  and  every  name  well  known. 


Nearest  the  mount,  of  that  mix'd  phalanx  first, 
Our  general  parent  stood :  not  as  he  look'd 
Wandering,  at  eve,  amid  the  shady  bowers 
And  odorous  groves  of  that  delicious  garden, 
Or  flowery  banks  of  some  soft-rolling  stream, 
Pausing  to  list  its  lulling  murmur,  hand 
In  hand  with  peerless  EVE,  the  rose  too  sweet, 
Fatal  to  Paradise.     Fled  from  his  cheek 
Tin-  bloom  of  Eden  ;  his  hyacinthine  locks 
Were  changed  to  gray ;  with  years  and  sorrows 

bow'd 

lie  seem'd,  but  through  his  ruined  form  still  shone 
The  majesty  of  his  Creator :  round 
Upon  his  sons  a  grieved  and  pitying  look 
He  cast,  and  in  his  vesture  hid  his  face. 


Close  at  his  side  appear'd  a  martial  form, 
Of  port  majestic,  clad  in  massive  arms, 
<  Vv.Tring  above  whose  helm  with  outspread  wings 
The  Roman  eagle  flew;  around  its  brim 
Was  character'd  the  name  at  which  earth's  queen 
Bow'd  from  her  seven-fold  throne  and  owned  her 

lord. 

In  his  dilated  eye  amazement  stood  ; 
Terror,  surprise,  and  blank  astonishment 
Blanch  d  his  firm  cheek,  as  when,  of  old,  close 

hemm'd 

Within  the  capital,  amidst  the  crowd 
Of  traitors,  fearless  else,  he  caught  the  gleam 
Of  Bitr-rrs'  steel.     Daunted,  yet  on  the  pomp 
Of  towering  seraphim,  their  wings,  their  crowns, 
Their  dazzling  faces,  and  upon  the  LOUD 
lie  fix'd  a  steadfast  look  of  anxious  note, 
Like  that  PHARSALTA'S  hurtling  squadrons  drew 
When  all  his  fortunes  hung  upon  the  hour. 
15 


Near  him,  for  wisdom  famous  through  the  east, 
Ami  A  HAM  rested  on  his  staff;  in  guise 
A  Chaldce  shepherd,  simple  in  his  raiment 
As  when  at  Mamre  in  his  tent  he  sat, 
The  host  of  angels.     Snow-white  were  his  locks 
And  silvery  beard,  that  to  his  girdle  roll'd. 
Fondly  his  meek  eye  dwelt  upon  his  Loni>, 
Like  one,  that,  after  long  and  troubled  dreams, 
A  night  of  sorrows,  dreary,  wild,  and  sad, 
Beholds,  at  last,  the  dawn  of  promised  joys. 

With  kindred  looks  his  great  descendant  gazed. 
Not  in  the  poor  array  of  shepherds  he, 
Nor  in  the  many-coloured  coat,  fond  gift 
Of  doating  age,  and  cause  of  direful  hate ; 
But,  stately,  as  his  native  palm,  his  form 
Was,  like  Egyptian  princes',  proudly  deck'd 
In  tissued  purple  sweeping  to  the  ground. 
Plumes  from  the  desert  waved  above  his  head, 
And  down  his  breast  the  golden  collar  hung, 
Bo^tow'd  by  PHARAOH,  when  through  Egypt  word 
Went  forth  to  bow  the  knee  as  to  her  king. 
Graced  thus,  his  chariot  with  impetuous  wheels 
Bore  him  toward  Goshen,  where  the  fainting  heart 
Of  ISRAEL  waited  for  his  long-lost  son, 
The  son  of  RACHEL     Ah  !  had  she  survived 
To  see  him  in  his  glory ! — As  he  rode, 
His  boyhood,  and  his  mother's  tent,  arose, 
Link'd  with  a  thousand  recollections  dear, 
And  JOSEPH'S  heart  was  in  the  tomb  by  Ephrath. 


At  hand,  a  group  of  sages  mark'd  the  scene. 
PLATO  and  SOCRATES  together  stood, 
With  him  who  measured  by  their  shades  those  piles 
Gigantic,  'mid  the  desert  seen,  at  eve, 
By  toiling  caravans  for  Memphis  bound, 
Peering  like  specks  above  the  horizon's  verge, 
Whose  huge  foundations  vanish  in  the  mist 
Of  earliest    time.     Transfix'd    they  seem'd  with 

wonder, 

Awe-struck, — amazement  rapt  their  inmost  souls. 
Such  glance  of  deep  inquiry  and  suspense 
They  threw  around,  as,  in  untutor'd  ages, 
Astronomers  upon  some  dark  eclipse, 
Close  counselling  amidst  the  dubious  light 
If  it  portended  Nature's  death,  or  spoke 
A  change  in  heaven.     What  thought  they,  then, 

of  all 

Their  idle  dreams,  their  proud  philosophy, 
When  on  their  wilder'd  souls  redemption,  CHRIST, 
And  the  A LMIGHTY  broke  1    But,  though  they  err'd 
When  all  was  dark,  they  reason'd  for  the  truth. 
They  sought  in  earth,  in  ocean,  and  the  stars, 
Their  maker,  arguing  from  his  works  toward  GOD  ; 
And  from  his  word  had  not  less  nobly  argued, 
Had  they  beheld  the  gospel  sending  forth 
Its  pure  effulgence  o'er  the  farthest  sea, 
Lighting  the  idol  mountain-tops,  and  gilding 
The  banners  of  salvation  there.     These  men 
Ne'er  slighted  a  REDEEMER  ;  of  his  name 
They  never  heard.     Perchance  their  late-found 

harps, 

Mixinc:  wilh  angel  symphonies,  may  sound 
In  strains  more  rapturous  things  to  them  so  new. 


114 


JAMES   A.   HILLHOUSE. 


Nearer  the  mount  stood  MOSES  ;  in  his  hand 
The  rod  which  blasted  with  strange  plagues  the 

realm 

Of  Misraim,  and  from  its  time-worn  channels 
Upturn'd  the  Arabian  sea.     Fair  was  his  broad, 
High  front,  and  forth  from  his  soul-piercing  eye 
Did  legislation  took ;  which  full  he  fix'd 
Upon  the  blazing  panoply,  undazzled. 
No  terrors  had  the  scene  for  him  who,  oft, 
Upon  the  thunder-shaken  hill-top,  veil'd 
With  smoke  and  lightnings,  with  JEHOYAH  talk'd, 
And  from  his  fiery  hand  received  the  law. 
Beyond  the  Jewish  ruler,  banded  close, 
A  company  full  glorious,  I  saw 
The  twelve  apostles  stand.    O,  with  what  looks 
Of  ravishment  and  joy,  what  rapturous  tears, 
What  hearts  of  ecstasy,  they  gazed  again 
On  their  beloved  Master !  what  a  tide 
Of  overwhelming  thoughts  press'd  to  their  souls, 
When  now,  as  he  so  frequent  promised,  throned, 
And  circled  by  the  hosts  of  heaven,  they  traced 
The  well-known  lineaments  of  him  who  shared 
Their  wants  and  sufferings  here !    Full  many  a  day 
Of  fasting  spent  with  him,  and  night  of  prayer, 
Rush'd  on  their  swelling  hearts.     Before  the  rest, 
Close  to  the  angelic  spears,  had  PETER  urged, 
Tears  in  his  eye,  love  throbbing  at  his  breast, 
As  if  to  touch  his  vesture,  or  to  catch 
The  murmur  of  his  voice.     On  him  and  them 
JESUS  beam'd  down  benignant  looks  of  love. 


How  diverse  from  the  front  sublime  of  PAUL, 
Or  pale  and  placid  dignity  of  him 
Who  in  the  lonely  Isle  saw  heaven  unveil'd, 
Was  his  who  in  twelve  summers  won  a  world ! 
Not  such  his  countenance  nor  garb,  as  when 
He  foremost  breasted  the  broad  Granicus, 
Dark-rushing  through  its  steeps  from  lonely  Ida, 
His  double-tufted  plume  conspicuous  mark 
Of  every  arrow ;  cheering  his  bold  steed 
Through  pikes,  and  spears,  and  threatening  axes,  up 
The  slippery  bank  through  all  their  chivalry, 
Princes  and  satraps  link'd  for  Crnus'  throne, 
With  cuirass  pierced,  cleft  helm,  and  plumeless 

head, 

To  youthful  conquest :  or,  when,  panic-struck, 
DARIUS  from  his  plunging  chariot  sprang, 
Away  the  bow  and  mantle  cast,  and  fled. 
His  robe,  all  splendid  from  the  silk-worm's  loom, 
Floated  effeminate,  and  from  his  neck 
Hung  chains  of  gold,  and  gems  from  eastern  mines. 
Bedight  with  many-colour'd  plumage,  flamed 
His  proud  tiara,  plumage  which  had  spread 
Its  glittering  dyes  of  scarlet,  green,  and  gold, 
To  evening  suns  by  Indus'  stream :  around 
Twined  careless,  glow'd  the  white  and  purple  band, 
The  imperial,  sacred  badge  of  Persia's  kings. 
Thus  his  triumphal  car  in  Babylon 
Display'd  him,  drawn  by  snow-white  elephants, 
Whose  feet  crush'd  odours  from  the  flowery  wreaths 
Boy-Cupids  scatter'd,  while  soft  music  breathed 
And  incense  fumed  around.     But  dire  his  hue, 
Bloated  and  bacchanal  as  on  the  night 


When  old  Persepolis  was  wrapp'd  in  flume ! 
Fear  over  all  had  flung  a  livid  tinge. 
A  deeper  awe  subdued  him  than  amazed 
PAWMENIO  and  the  rest,  when  they  beheld 
The  white-stoled  Levites  from  Jerusalem, 
Thrown  open  as  on  some  high  festival, 
With  hymns  and  solemn  pomp,  come  down  the  hill 
To  meet  the  incensed  king,  and  wondering  saw, 
As  on  the  pontiff's  awful  form  he  gazed, 
Glistering  in  purple  with  his  mystic  gems, 
JOVE'S  vaunted  son,  at  JAUDUA'S  foot,  adore. 


Turn,  now,  where  stood  the  spotless  Virgin : 

sweet 

Her  azure  eye,  and  fair  her  golden  ringlets ; 
But  changeful  as  the  hues  of  infancy 
Her  face.     As  on  her  son,  her  GOD,  she  gazed, 
Fix'd  was  her  look,— earnest,  and  breathless; — 

now, 
Suffused  her  glowing  cheek;   now,  changed  to 

pale ; — 

First,  round  her  lip  a  smile  celestial  play'd, 
Then,  fast,  fast  rain'd  the  tears. — Who  can  in- 
terpret 1 — 

Perhaps  some  thought  maternal  cross'd  her  heart, 
That  mused  on  days  long  past,  when  on  her  breast 
He  helpless  lay,  and  of  his  infant  smile ; 
Or,  on  those  nights  of  terror,  when,  from  worse 
Than  wolves,  she  hasted  with  her  babe  to  Egypt. 


Girt  by  a  crowd  of  monarchs,  of  whose  fame 
Scarce  a  memorial  lives,  who  fought  and  reign'd 
While  the  historic  lamp  shed  glimmering  light, 
Above  the  rest  one  regal  port  aspired, 
Crown'd  like  Assyria's  princes ;  not  a  crest 
O'ertopp'd  him,  save  the  giant  seraphim. 
His  countenance,  more  piercing  than  the  beam 
Of  the  sun-gazing  eagle,  earthward  bent 
Its  haught,  fierce  majesty,  temper'd  with  awe. 
Seven  years  with  brutish  herds  had  quell'd  his 

pride, 

And  taught  him  there's  a  mightier  king  in  heaven. 
His  powerful  arm  founded  old  Babylon, 
Whose  bulwarks  like  the  eternal  mountains  heaved 
Their  adamantine  heads;  whose  brazen  gates 
Beleaguering  nations  foil'd,  and  bolts  of  war, 
Unshaken,  unanswer'd  as  the  pelting  hail. 
House  of  the  kingdom !  glorious  Babylon  ! 
Earth's  marvel,  and  of  unborn  time  the  theme ! 
Say  where  thou  stood'st : — or,  can  the  fisherman 
Plying  his  task  on  the  Euphrates,  now, 
A  silent,  silver,  unpolluted  tide, 
Point  to  thy  grave,  and  answer  1     From  a  sash 
O'er  his  broad  shoulder  hung  the  ponderous  sword, 
Fatal  as  sulphurous  fires  to  Nineveh, 
That  levell'd  with  her  waves  the  walls  of  Tyrus, 
Queen  of  the  sea;  to  its  foundations  shook 
Jerusalem,  and  rcap'd  the  fields  of  Egypt. 


Endless  the  task  to  name  the  multitudes 
From  every  land,  from  isles  remote,  in  seas 
Which  no  adventurous  mariner  has  sail'd : — 


JAMES   A.   HILLHOUSE. 


115 


From  desert-girdled  cities,  of  whose  pomp 
Some  solitary  wanderer,  by  the  stars 
Conducted  o'er  the  burning  wilderness, 
Has  told  a  doubted  tale  :  as  Europe's  sons 
Describing  Mexic',  and,  in  fair  Peru, 
The  gorgeous  Temple  of  the  Sun,  its  priests, 
Its  virgin,  and  its  fire,  forever  bright, 
Were  fablers  deem'd,  and,  for  belief,  met  scorn. 
Around  while  gazing  thus,  far  in  the  sky 
Appear'd  what  look'd,  at  first,  a  moving  star ; 
But,  onward,  wheeling  through  the  clouds  it  came, 
With  brightening  splendour  and  increasing  size, 
Till  within  ken  a  fiery  chariot  rush'd, 
By  flaming  horses  drawn,  whose  heads  shot  forth 
A  twisted,  horn-like  beam.     O'er  its  fierce  wheels 
Two  shining  forms  alighted  on  the  mount, 
Of  mortal  birth,  but  deathless  rapt  to  heaven. 
Adown  their  breasts  their  loose  beards  floated,  white 
As  mist  by  moonbeams  silver'd  ;  fair  they  seem'd, 
And  bright  as  angels;  fellowship  with  heaven 
Their  mortal  grossness  so  had  purified. 
Lucent  their  mantles ;  other  than  the  seer 
By  Jordan  caught ;  and  in  the  prophet's  face 
A  mystic  lustre,  like  the  Urim's,  gleamed. 


Now  for  the  dread  tribunal  all  prepared : 
Before  the  throne  the  angel  with  the  books 
Ascending  kneel'd,  and,  crossing  on  his  breast 
His  sable  pinions,  there  the  volumes  spread. 
A  second  summons  echoed  from  the  trump, 
Thrice  sounded,  when  the  mighty  work  began. 
Waved  onward  by  a  seraph's  wand,  the  sea 
Of  palpitating  bosoms  toward  the  mount 
In  silence  roll'd.     No  sooner  had  the  first 
Pale  tremblers  its  mysterious  circle  touched 
Than,  instantaneous,  swift  as  fancy's  flash, 
As  lightning  darting  from  the  summer  cloud, 
Its  past  existence  rose  before  the  soul, 
With  all  its  deeds,  with  all  its  secret  store 
Of  embryo  works,  and  dark  imaginings. 
Amidst  the  chaos,  thoughts  as  numberless 
As  whirling  leaves  when  autumn  strips  the  woods,' 
Light  and  disjointed  as  the  sibyl's,  thoughts 
Seattcr'd  upon  the  waste  of  long,  dim  years, 
Puss'd  in  a  moment  through  the  quicken'd  soul. 
Not  with  the  glozing  eye  of  earth  beheld ; 
They  saw  as  with  the  glance  of  Deity. 
Conscience,  stern  arbiter  in  every  breast, 
Decided.     Sclf-acqnitted  or  condemned, 
Through  two  broad,  glittering  avenues  of  spears 
They  cross'd  the  angelic  squadrons,  right,  or  left 
The  judgment-seat ;  by  power  supernal  led 
To  their  allotted  stations  on  the  plain. 
As  onward,  onward,  numberless,  they  came, 
And  touch'd,  appall'd,  the  verge  of  destiny, 
The  heavenly  spirits  inly  sympathized  : — 
When  youthful  saints,  or  martyrs  scarr'd  and  white, 
With  streaming  faces,  hands  ecstatic  clasp'd, 
Sprang  to  the  right,  celestial  beaming  smiles 
A  ravishing  beauty  to  their  radiance  gave ; 
But  downcast  looks  of  pity  chill'd  the  left. 
What  clench'd  hands,  and  frenzied  steps  were  there ! 
Yet,  on  my  shuddering  soul,  the  stifled  groan, 
Wrung  from  some  proud  blasphemer,  as  he  rush'd, 


Constraint  by  conscience,  down  the  path  of  death, 
Knells  horrible. — On  all  theHiurrying  throng 
The  unerring  pen  stamp'd,  as  they  pass'd,  their  fate. 
Thus,  in  a  day,  amazing  thought !  were  judged 
The  millions,  since  from  the  ALMIGHTY'S  hand, 
Launch'd   on  her  course,  earth  roll'd  rejoicing. 

Whose 

The  doom  to  penal  fires,  and  whose  to  joy, 
From  man's  presumption  mists  and  darkness  veil. 
So  pass'd  the  day ;  divided  stood  the  world, 
An  awful  line  of  separation  drawn, 
And  from  his  labours  the  MESSIAH  ceased. 


By  this,  the  sun  his  westering  car  drove  low ; 
Round  his  broad  wheel  full  many  a  lucid  cloud 
Floated,  like  happy  isles,  in  seas  of  gold  : 
Along  the  horizon  castled  shapes  were  piled, 
Turrets  and  towers,  whose  fronts  embattled  gleam'd 
With  yellow  light :  smit  by  the  slanting  ray, 
A  ruddy  beam  the  canopy  reflected  ; 
With  deeper  light  the  ruby  blush'd ;  and  thick 
Upon  the  seraphs'  wings  the  glowing  spots 
Seem'd  drops  of  fire.     Uncoiling  from  its  staff 
With  fainter  wave,  the  gorgeous  ensign  hung, 
Or,  swelling  with  the  swelling  breeze,  by  fits, 
Cast  off  upon  the  dewy  air  huge  flakes 
Of  golden  lustre.     Over  all  the  hill, 
The  heavenly  legions,  the  assembled  world, 
Evening  her  crimson  tint  forever  drew. 


But  while  at  gaze,  in  solemn  silence,  men 
And  angels  stood,  and  many  a  quaking  heart 
With  expectation  throbb'd ;  about  the  throne 
And  glittering  hill-top  slowly  wreathed  the  clouds, 
Erewhile  like  curtains  for  adornment  hung, 
Involving  Shiloh  and  the  seraphim 
Beneath  a  snowy  tent.     The  bands  around, 
Eyeing  the  gonfalon  that  through  the  smoke 
Tower'd  into  air,  resembled  hosts  who  watch 
The  king's  pavilion  where,  ere  battle  hour, 
A  council  sits.     What  their  consult  might  be, 
Those  seven  dread  spirits  and  their  LORD,  I  mused, 
I  marvell'd.     Was  it  grace  and  peace  ?— or  death  1 
Was  it  of  man  1 — Did  pity  for  the  lost 
His  gentle  nature  wring,  who  knew,  who  felt 
How  frail  is  this  poor  tenement  of  clay?* — 
Arose  there  from  the  misty  tabernacle 
A  cry  like  that  upon  Gethsemane  1 — 
What  pass'd  in  JKSUS'  bosom  none  may  know, 
But  close  the  cloudy  dome  invested  him ; 
And,  weary  with  conjecture,  round  I  gazed 
Where,  in  the  purple  west,  no  more  to  dawn, 
Faded  the  glories  of  the  dying  day. 
Mild  twinkling  through  a  crimson-skirted  cloud, 
The  solitary  star  of  evening  shone. 
While  gazing  wistful  on  that  peerless  light, 
Thereafter  to  be  seen  no  more,  (as,  oft, 
In  dreams  strange  images  will  mix.)  sad  thoughts 
Pass'd  o'er  my  soul.    Sorrowing,  I  cried,  "  Farewell, 
Pale,  beauteous  planet,  that  displayest  so  soft 

*  For  we  have  not  an  high  priest  which   cannot  be 
touched  with  the  feeling  of  our  infirmities.— IlEB.iv.  15. 


116 


JAMES   A.  HILLHOUSE. 


Amid  yon  glowing  streak  thy  transient  beam, 
A  long,  a  last  farewell !      Seasons  have  changed, 
Ages  and  empires  roll'd,  like  smoke,  away, 
But  thou,  unalter'd,  bcami-st  as  silver  fair 
As  on  thy  birthnight !     Bright  and  watchful  eyes, 
From  palaces  and  bowers,  have  haiFd  thy  gem 
With  secret  transport !     Natal  star  of  love, 
And  souls  that  love  the  shadowy  hour  of  fancy, 
How  much  I  owe  thee,  how  I  bless  thy  ray ! 
How  oft  thy  rising  o'er  the  hamlet  green, 
Signal  of  rest,  and  social  converse  sweet, 
Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree,  has  cheer'd 
The  peasant's  heart,  and  drawn  his  benison ! 
Pride  of  the  west !  beneath  thy  placid  light 
The  tender  tale  shall  never  more  be  told, 
Man's  soul  shall  never  wake  to  joy  again : 
Thou  sett'st  forever, — lovely  orb,  farewell !" 


Low  warblings,  now,  and  solitary  harps 
Were  heard  among  the  angels,  touch'd  and  tuned 
As  to  an  evening  hymn,  preluding  soft 
To  cherub  voices ;  louder  as  they  swell'd, 
Deep  strings  struck  in,  and  hoarser  instruments, 
Mix'd  with  clear,  silver  sounds,  till  concord  rose 
Full  as  the  harmony  of  winds  to  heaven ; 
Yet  sweet  as  nature's  springtide  melodies 
To  some  worn  pilgrim,  first  with  glistening  eyes 
Greeting  his  native  valley,  whence  the  sounds 
Of  rural  gladness,  herds,  and  bleating  flocks, 
The  chirp  of  birds,  blithe  voices,  lowing  kine, 
The  dash  of  waters,  reed,  or  rustic  pipe, 
Blent  with  the  dulcet,  distance-mellow'd  bell, 
Come,  like  the  echo  of  his  early  joys. 
In  every  pause,  from  spirits  in  mid  air, 
Responsive  still  were  golden  viols  heard, 
And  heavenly  symphonies  stole  faintly  down. 


Calm,  deep,  and  silent  was  the  tide  of  joy 
That  roll'd  o'er  all  the  blessed ;  visions  of  bliss, 
Rapture  too  mighty,  swell'd  their  hearts  to  bursting ; 
Prelude  to  heaven  it  secm'd,  and  in  their  sight 
Celestial  glories  swam.     How  fared,  alas  ! 
That  other  band  ?     Sweet  to  their  troubled  minds 
The  solemn  scene ;  ah !  doubly  sweet  the  breeze 
Refreshing,  and  the  purple  light  to  eyes 
But  newly  oped  from  that  benumbing  sleep 
Whose  dark  and  drear  abode  no  cheering  dream, 
No  bright-hued  vision  ever  enters,  souls 
For  ages  pent,  perhaps,  in  some  dim  world 
Where  guilty  spectres  stalk  the  twilight  gloom. 
For,  like  the  spirit's  last  seraphic  smile, 
The  earth,  anticipating  now  her  tomb, 
To  rise,  perhaps,  as  heaven  magnificent, 
Appear'd  Hesperian :  gales  of  gentlest  wing 
Came  fragrance-laden,  and  such  odours  shed 
As  Yemen  never  knew,  nor  those  blest  isles 
In  Indian  seas,  where  the  voluptuous  breeze 
The  peaceful  native  breathes,  at  eventide, 
From  nutmeg  groves  and  bowers  of  cinnamon. 
How  solemn  on  their  ears  the  choral  note 
Swell'd  of  the  angel  hymn  !  so  late  escaped 
The  cold  embraces  of  the  grave,  whose  damp 
Silence  no  voice  or  string'd  instrument 


Has  ever  broke  !     Yet  with  the  murmuring  breeze 
Full  sadly  chimed  the  music  and  the  song, 
For  with  them  came  the  memory  of  joys 
Forever  past,  the  stinging  thought  of  what 
They  once  had  been,  and  of  their  future  lot. 
To  their  grieved  view  the  passages  of  earth 
Delightful  rise,  their  tender  ligaments 
So  dear,  they  heeded  not  an  after  state, 
Though  by  a  fearful  judgment  ushcr'd  in. 
A  bridegroom  fond,  who  lavish'd  all  his  heart 
On  his  beloved,  forgetful  of  the  Man 
Of  many  Sorrows,  who,  for  him,  resign'd 
His  meek  and  spotless  spirit  on  the  cross, 
Has  marked  among  the  blessed  bands,  array'd 
Celestial  in  a  spring  of  beauty,  doom'd 
No  more  to  fade,  the  charmer  of  his  soul, 
Her  cheek  soft  blooming  like  the  dawn  in  heaven. 
He  recollects  the  days  when  on  his  smile 
She  lived ;  when,  gently  leaning  on  his  breast, 
Tears  of  intense  affection  dimm'd  her  eyes, 
Of  dove-like  lustre. — Thoughtless,  now,  of  him 
And  earthly  joys,  eternity  and  heaven 
Engross  her  soul. — What  more  accursed  pang 
Can  hell  inflict  ?     With  her,  in  realms  of  light, 
In  never-dying  bliss,  he  might  have  roll'd 
Eternity  away ;  but  now,  forever 
Torn  from  his  bride  new-found,  with  cruel  fiends, 
Or  men  like  fiends,  must  waste  and  weep.  Now,  now 
He  mourns  with  burning,  bitter  drops  his  days 
Misspent,  probation  lost,  and  heaven  despised. 
Such  thoughts  from  many  a  bursting  heart  drew 

forth 

Groans,  lamentations,  and  despairing  shrieks, 
That  on  the  silent  air  came  from  afar. 


As,  when  from  some  proud  capital  that  crowns 
Imperial  Ganges,  the  reviving  breeze 
Sweeps  the  dank  mist,  or  hoary  river  fog 
Impervious  mantled  o'er  her  highest  towers, 
Bright  on  the  eye  rush  BRAHMA'S  temples,  capp'd 
With  spiry  tops,  gay-trellised  minarets, 
Pagods  of  gold,  and  mosques  with  burnish'd  domes, 
Gilded,  and  glistening  in  the  morning  sun, 
So  from  the  hill  the  cloudy  curtains  roll'd, 
And,  in  the  lingering  lustre  of  the  eve, 
Again  the  SAVIOUR  and  his  seraphs  shone. 
Emitted  sudden  in  his  rising,  flash'd 
Intenser  light,  as  toward  the  right  hand  host 
Mild  turning,  with  a  look  ineffable, 
The  invitation  he  proclaim'd  in  accents 
Which  on  their  ravish'd  cars  pour'd  thrilling,  like 
The  silver  sound  of  many  trumpets  heard 
Afar  in  sweetest  jubilee  ;  then,  swift 
Stretching  his  dreadful  sceptre  to  the  left, 
That  shot  forth  horrid  lightnings,  in  a  voice 
Clothed  but  in  half  its  terrors,  yet  to  them 
Seem'd  like  the  crush  of  heaven,  pronounced  the 

doom. 

The  sentence  utter'd,  as  with  life  instinct, 
The  throne  uprose  majestically  slow ; 
Each  angel  sprrrul  his  wings;  in  one  dread  swell 
Of  triumph  mingling  as  they  mounted,  trumpets, 
And  harps,  and  golden  lyres,  and  timbrels  sweet, 
And  many  a  strange  and  deep-toned  instrument 


JAMES   A.   HILLHOUSE. 


nr 


Of  heavenly  minstrelsy  unknown  on  earth, 
And  angels'  voices,  and  the  loud  acclaim 
Of  all  the  ransom'd,  like  a  thunder-shout. 
Far  through  the  skies  melodious  echoes  roll'd, 
And  faint  hosannas  distant  climes  return'd. 

XXIII. 

Down  from  the  lessening  multitude  came  faint 
And  fainter  still  the  trumpet's  dying  peal, 
All  else  in  distance  lost ;  when,  to  receive 
Their  new  inhabitants,  the  heavens  unfolded. 
Up  gazing,  then,  with  streaming  eyes,  a  glimpse 
The  wicked  caught  of  Paradise,  whence  streaks 
Of  splendour,  golden  quivering  radiance  shone, 
As  when  the  showery  evening  sun  takes  leave, 
Breaking  a  moment  o'er  the  illumined  world. 
Seen  far  within,  fair  forms  moved  graceful  by, 
Slow-turning  to  the  light  their  snowy  wings. 
A  deep-drawn,  agonizing  groan  escaped 
The  hapless  outcasts,  when  upon  the  LORD 
The  glowing  portals  closed.     Undone,  they  stood 
Wistfully  gazing  on  the  cold,  gray  heaven, 
As  if  to  catch,  alas !  a  hope  not  there. 
But  shades  began  to  gather;  night  approach'd 
Murky  and  lowering:  round  with  horror  roll'd 
On  one  another,  their  despairing  eyes 
That  glared  with  anguish :  starless,  hopeless  gloom 
Fell  on  their  souls,  never  to  know  an  end. 
Though  in  the  far  horizon  linger'd  yet 
A  lurid  gleam,  black  clouds  were  mustering  there; 
Red  flashes,  follow'd  by  low  muttering  sounds, 
Announced  the  fiery  tempest  doom'd  to  hurl 
The  fragments  of  the  earth  again  to  chaos. 
Wild  gusts  swept  by,  upon  whose  hollow  wing 
Unearthly  voices,  yells,  and  ghastly  peals 
Of  demon  laughter  came.     Infernal  shapes 
Flitted  along  the  sulphurous  wreaths,  or  plunged 
Their  dark,  impure  abyss,  as  sea-fowl  dive 

Their  watery  element. O'erwhelmed  with  sights 

And  sounds  appalling,  I  awoke ;  and  found 
For  gathering  storms,  and  signs  of  coming  wo, 
The  midnight  moon  gleaming  upon  my  bed 
Serene  and  peaceful.     Gladly  I  survey'd  her 
Walking  in  brightness  through  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  blessed  the  respite  ere  the  day  of  doom. 


HADAD'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  CITY 
OF  JERUSALEM. 

'T  rs  so ; — the  hoary  harper  sings  aright ; 
How  beautiful  is  Zion  ! — Like  a  queen, 
Arm'd  with  a  helm,  in  virgin  loveliness, 
Her  heaving  bosom  in  a  bossy  cuirass, 
She  sits  aloft,  begirt  with  battlements 
And  bulwarks  swelling  from  the  rock,  to  guard 
The  sacred  courts,  pavilions,  palaces, 
Soft  gleaming  through  the  umbrage  of  the  woods 
Which  tuft  her  summit,  and,  like  raven  tresses, 
Waved  their  dark  beauty  round   the   tower   of 

David. 

Resplendent  with  a  thousand  golden  bucklers, 
The  embrasures  of  alabaster  shine ; 


Hail'd  by  the  pilgrims  of  the  desert,  bound 
To  Judah's  mart  with  orient  merchandise. 
But  not,  for  thou  art  fair  and  turret-crown'd, 
Wet  with  the  choicest  dew  of  heaven,  and  bless'd 
With  golden  fruits,  and  gales  of  frankincense, 
Dwell  I  beneath  thine  ample  curtains.     Here, 
Where  saints  and  prophets  teach,  where  the  stern 

law 

Still  speaks  in  thunder,  where  chief  angels  watch, 
And  where  the  glory  hovers,  here  I  war. 


UNTOLD  LOVE.* 


THE  soul,  my  lord,  is  fashion'd — like  the  lyre. 
Strike  one  chord  suddenly,  and  others  vibrate. 
Your  name  abruptly  mention'd,  casual  words 
Of  comment   on  your  deeds,  praise  from  your 

uncle, 

News  from  the  armies,  talk  of  your  return, 
A  word  let  fall  touching  your  youthful  passion, 
Suffused  her  cheek,  call'd  to  her  drooping  eye 
A  momentary  lustre ;  made  her  pulse 
Leap  headlong,  and  her  bosom  palpitate. 
I  could  not  long  be  blind,  for  love  defies 
Concealment,  making  every  glance  and  motion, 

Silence,  and  speech  a  tell-tale 

These  things,  though  trivial  of  themselves,  begat 
Suspicion.     But  long  months  elapsed, 
Ere  I  knew  all.     She  had,  you  know,  a  fever. 
One  night,  when  all  were  weary  and  at  rest, 
I,  sitting  by  her  couch,  tired  and  o'erwatch'd, 
Thinking  she  slept,  suffer'd  my  lids  to  close. 

Waked  by  a  voice,  I  found  her never,  Signor, 

While  life  endures,  will  that  scene  fade  from  me, — 
A  dying  lamp  wink'd  in  the  hearth,  that  cast, 
And  snatched  the  shadows.     Something  stood  be- 
fore me 

In  white.     My  flesh  began  to  creep.     I  thought 
I  saw  a  spirit.     It  was  my  lady  risen, 
And  standing  in  her  night-robe  with  clasp'd  hands, 
Like  one  in  prayer.     Her  pallid  face  display'd 
Something,  methought,  surpassing  mortal  beauty. 
She  presently  turn'd  round,  and  fix'd  her  large, 

wild  eyes, 

Brimming  with  tears,  upon  me,  fetched  a  sigh, 
As  from  a  riven  heart,  and  cried:  "He's  dead! 
But,  hush! — weep  not, — I've  bargain'd  for  his 

soul, — 

That 's  safe  in  bliss !" — Demanding  who  was  dead, 
Scarce  yet  aware  she  raved,  she  answer'd  quick, 
Her  COSMO,  her  beloved  ;  for  that  his  ghost, 
All  pale  and  gory,  thrice  had  pass'd  her  bed. 
With  that,  her  passion  breaking  loose,  my  lord, 
She  pour'd  her  lamentation  forth  in  strains 
Pathetical  beyond  the  reach  of  reason. 
"Gone,  gone,  gone  to  the  grave,  and  never  knew 
I  loved  him  !" — I'd  no  power  to  speak,  or  move. — 
I  sat  stone  still, — a  horror  fell  upon  me. 
At  last,  her  little  strength  ebb'd  out,  she  sank, 
And  lay,  as  in  death's  arms,  till  morning. 


*From  "Demetria." 


118 


JAMES   A.   HILLHOUSE. 


SCENE  FROM  HAD  AD. 

The  terraced  roof  of  ABSALOM'S  house  by  night ; 
adorned  with  vases  of  flowers  and  fragrant 
shrubs ;  an  awning  over  part  of  it.  TAMAII 
and  HAD  AD. 


Turn.  No,  no,  I  well  remember — proofs,  y  ou  said, 
Unknown  to  MOSES. 

Had.  Well,  my  love,  thou  know'st 
I  've  been  a  traveller  in  various  climes ; 
Trod  Ethiopia's  scorching  sands,  and  scaled 
The  snow-clad  mountains ;  trusted  to  the  deep; 
Traversed  the  fragrant  islands  of  the  sea, 
And  with  the  wise  conversed  of  many  nations. 

Tarn.  I  know  thou  hast. 

Had.  Of  all  mine  eyes  have  seen, 
The  greatest,  wisest,  and  most  wonderful 
Is  that  dread  sage,  the  Ancient  of  the  Mountain. 

Turn.  Who? 

Had.  None  knows  his  lineage,  age,  or  name : 

his  locks 

Are  like  the  snows  of  Caucasus ;  his  eyes 
Beam  with  the  wisdom  of  collected  ages. 
In  green,  unbroken  years  he  sees,  'tis  said, 
The  generations  pass,  like  autumn  fruits, 
Garner'd,  consumed,  and  springing  fresh  to  life, 
Again  to  perish,  while  he  views  the  sun, 
The  seasons  roll,  in  rapt  serenity, 
And  high  communion  with  celestial  powers. 
Some  say  'tis  S«EM,  our  father,  some  say  ENOCH, 
And  some  MELCIIISEDEK. 

Tarn.  I  've  heard  a  tale 
Like  this,  but  ne'er  believed  it. 

Hud.  I  have  proved  it. 
Through  perils  dire,  dangers  most  imminent, 
Seven  days  and  nights,  mid  rocks  and  wildernesses, 
And  boreal  snows,  and  never-thawing  ice, 
Where  not  a  bird,  a  beast,  a  living  thing, 
Save  the  far-soaring  vulture  comes,  I  dared 
My  desperate  way,  resolved  to  know  or  perish. 

Tarn.  Rash,  rash  adventurer ! 

Had.  On  the  highest  peak 
Of  stormy  Caucasus  there  blooms  a  spot 
On  which  perpetual  sunbeams  play,  where  flowers 
And  verdure  never  die ;  and  there  he  dwells. 

Tarn.  But  didst  thou  see  him  ] 

Had.  Never  did  I  view 
Such  awful  majesty :  his  reverend  locks 
Hung  like  a  silver  mantle  to  his  feet; 
His  raiment  glistered  saintly  white,  his  brow 
Rose  like  the  gate  of  Paradise ;  his  mouth 
Was  musical  as  its  bright  guardians'  songs. 

Tarn.  What  did  he  tell  thee  1    O !  what  wisdom 

fell 
From  lips  so  hallow'd  ? 

Had.  Whether  he  possesses 
The  Tetragrammaton — the  powerful  name 
Inscribed  on  MOSES'  rod,  by  which  he  wrought 
Unheard-of  wonders,  which  constrains  the  heavens 
To  shower  down  blessings,  shakes  the  earth,  and 

rules 

The  strongest  spirits  ;  or  if  GOD  hath  given 
A  delegated  power,  I  cannot  tell. 


But  'twas  from  him  I  learn'd  their  fate,  their  fall, 
Who  erewhile  wore  resplendent  crowns  in  heaven ; 
Now  scatter1  d  through  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea. 
Them  he  compels  to  answer,  and  from  them 
Has  drawn  what  MOSES,  nor  no  mortal  ear 
Has  ever  heard. 

Tarn.  But  did  he  tell  it  thee  ? 

Had.  He  told  me  much — more  than  I  dare  reveal; 
For  with  a  dreadful  oath  he  seal'd  my  lips. 

Tarn.  But  canst  thou  tell  me  nothing]     Why 

unfold 
So  much,  if  I  must  hear  no  more  ? 

Had.  You  bade 

Explain  my  words,  almost  reproach  me,  sweet, 
For  what  by  accident  escaped  me. 

Tarn.  Ah! 

A  little — something  tell  me — sure  not  all 
Were  words  inhibited. 

Had.  Then  promise  never, 
Never  to  utter  of  this  conference 
A  breath  to  mortal. 

Tarn.  Solemnly  I  vow. 

Had.  Even  then,  'tis  little  I  can  say,  compared 
With  all  the  marvels  he  related. 

Tarn.  Come, 
I  'm  breathless.    Tell  me  how  they  sinn'd,  how  fell. 

Had.  Their  head,  their  prince  involved  them  in 
his  ruin. 

Tarn.  What  black  offence  on  his  devoted  head 
Drew  endless  punishment  ] 

Had.  The  wish  to  be 
Like  the  All-Perfect. 

Tarn.  Arrogating  that 
Due  only  to  his  Maker !  awful  crime ! 
But  what  their  doom  1  their  place  of  punishment  T 

Had.  Above,  about,  beneath ;  earth,  sea,  and  air; 
Their  habitations  various  as  their  minds, 
Employments,  and  desires. 

Tarn.   But  are  they  round  us,  HADAD  ?    not 

confined 
In  penal  chains  and  darkness  1 

Had.  So  he  said, 

And  so  your  holy  books  infer.     What  saith 
Your  prophet  ?  what  the  prince  of  Uz  ? 

Tarn.  I  shudder, 
Lest  some  dark  minister  be  near  us  now. 

Had.  You  wrong  them.     They  are  bright  in- 
telligences, 

Robb'd  of  some  native  splendour,  and  cast  down, 
'T  is  true,  from  heaven ;  but  not  deform'd  and  foul, 
Revengeful,  malice-working  fiends,  as  fools 
Suppose.    They  dwell,  like  princes,  in  the  clouds; 
Sun  their  bright  pinions  in  the  middle  sky; 
Or  arch  their  palaces  beneath  the  hills, 
With  stones  inestimable  studded  so, 
That  sun  or  stars  were  useless  there. 

Tarn.  Good  heavens ! 

Had.  He  bade  me  look  on  rugged  Caucasus, 
Crag  piled  on  crag  beyond  the  utmost  ken, 
Naked  and  wild,  as  if  creation's  ruins 
Were  heaped  in  one  immeasurable  chain 
Of  barren  mountains,  beaten  by  the  storms 
Of  everlasting  winter.     But  within 
Are  glorious  palaces  and  domes  of  light, 
Irradiate  halls  and  crystal  colonnades, 


JAMES   A.  HILLHOUSE. 


119 


Vaults  set  with  gems  the  purchase  of  a  crown, 
Blazing  with  lustre  past  the  noontide  beam, 
Or,  with  a  milder  beauty,  mimicking 
The  mystic  signs  of  changeful  Mazzaroth. 
Tarn.  Unheard-of  splendour ! 
Had.  There  they  dwell,  and  muse, 
And  wander ;  beings  beautiful,  immortal, 
Minds  vast  as  heaven,  capacious  as  the  sky, 
Whose  thoughts  connect  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
And  glow  with  light  intense,  imperishable. 
Thus,  in  the  sparry  chambers  of  the  sea 
And  air-pavilions,  rainbow  tabernacles, 
They  study  nature's  secrets,  and  enjoy 
No  poor  dominion. 

Tarn.  Are  they  beautiful, 
And  powerful  far  beyond  the  human  race  7 

Had.   Man's  feeble  heart  cannot  conceive  it 

When 

The  sage  described  them,  fiery  eloquence 
Flow'd  from  his  lips ;  his  bosom  heaved,  his  eyes 
Grew  bright  arid  mystical ;  moved  by  the  theme, 
Like  one  who  feels  a  deity  within. 

Tarn.  WTondrous !    What  intercourse  have  they 

with  men  ? 

Had.  Sometimes  they  deign  to  intermix  with  man, 
But  oft  with  woman. 

Tain.  Ha !  with  woman  1 
Had.  She 

Attracts  them  with  her  gentler  virtues,  soft, 
And  beautiful,  and  heavenly,  like  themselves. 
They  have  been  known  to  love  her  with  a  passion 
Stronger  than  human. 

Tarn.  That  surpasses  all 
You  yet  have  told  me.  . 

Had.  This  the  sage  affirms ; 
And  MOSES,  darkly. 

Tain.  How  do  they  appear  1 
How  manifest  their  love  1 

Had.  Sometimes  't  is  spiritual,  signified 
By  beatific  dreams,  or  more  distinct 
And  glorious  apparition.     They  have  stoop'd 
To  animate  a  human  form,  and  love 
Like  mortals. 

Tarn.  Frightful  to  be  so  beloved  ! 
Who  could  endure  the  horrid  thought !  What  makes 
Thy  cold  hand  tremble 1  or  is't  mine 
That  feels  so  deathy  1 

Had.  Dark  imaginations  haunt  me 
When  I  recall  the  dreadful  interview. 

Tarn.  0,  tell  them  not:  I  would  not  hear  them. 
Had.  But  why  contemn  a  spirit's  love  ?  so  high, 
So  glorious,  if  he  haply  deign'd  ? 

Taut.  Forswear 
My  Maker  !   love  a  demon ! 

II ul  No— 0,  no— 

My  thoughts  but  wan  Jer'd.  Oft,  alas!  they  wander. 
Tarn.  Why  dost  thou  speak  so  sadly  now?    And 
Thine  eyes  are  fix'd  again  upon  Arcturus.       [lo ! 
Thus  ever,  when  thy  drooping  spirits  ebb, 
Thou  gazest  on  that  star.     Hath  it  the  power 
To  cause  or  cure  thy  melancholy  mood  7 

[He  appears  lost  in  thought. 
Tell  me,  ascribest  thou  influence  to  the  stars  ] 
Had.  (starting.}    The  stars !     What  know'st 
thou  of  the  stars  1 


Tarn.  I  know  that  they  were  made  to  rule  the 

night. 
Had.  Like  palace  lamps !     Thou  echoest  well 

thy  grandsire. 

Woman  !  the  stars  are  living,  glorious, 
Amazing,  infinite! 

7am.  Speak  not  so  wildly. 
I  know  them  numberless,  resplendent,  set 
As  symbols  of  the  countless,  countless  years 
That  make  eternity. 

Had.  Eternity! 

0  !  mighty,  glorious,  miserable  thought ! 
Had  ye  endured  like  those  great  sufferers, 
Like  them,  seen  ages,  myriad  ages  roll ; 
Could  ye  but  look  into  the  void  abyss 
With  eyes  experienced,  unobscured  by  torments, 
Then  mightst  thou  name  it,  name  it  feelingly. 
Tarn.  What  ails  thee,  HADAD  ?     Draw  me  not 

so  close. 
Had.  TAMAR  !  I  need  thy  love — more  than  thy 

love — 

Tarn.  Thy  cheek  is  wet  with  tears — Nay,  let  us 

'T  is  late — I  cannot,  must  not  linger.          [part — 

[Breaks  from  him,  and  exit. 

Had.  Loved  and  abhorr'd !    Still,  still  accursed ! 

[He  paces  twice  or  thrice  up  and  down,  with 

passionate  gestures  ,•  then  turns  his  face  to 

the  sky,  and  stands  a  moment  in  silence.] 

0 !  where, 

In  the  illimitable  space,  in  what 
Profound  of  untried  misery,  when  all 
His  worlds,  his  rolling  orbs  of  light,  that  fill 
With  life  and  beauty  yonder  infinite, 
Their  radiant  journey  run,  forever  set, 
Where,  where,  in  what  abyss  shall  I. be  groaning? 

[Exit. 

ARTHUR'S  SOLILOQUY.* 

HERE  let  me  pause,  and  breathe  awhile,  and  wipe 
These  servile  drops  from  ofl*  my  burning  brow. 
Amidst  these  venerable  trees,  the  air 
Seems  hallow'd  by  the  breath  of  other  times. — 
Companions  of  my  fathers  !  ye  have  mark'd 
Their  generations  pass.     Your  giant  arms 
Shadow'd  their  youth,  and  proudly  canopied 
Their  silver  hairs,  when,  ripe  in  years  and  glory, 
These  walks  they  trod  to  meditate  on  heaven. 
What  warlike  pageants  have  ye  seen  !  what  trains 
Of  captives,  and  what  heaps  of  spoil !  what  pomp, 
When  the  victorious  chief,  war's  tempest  o'er, 
In  Warkworth's  bowers  unbound  his  panoply ! 
What  floods  of  splendour,  bursts  of  jocund  din, 
Startled  the  slumbering  tenants  of  these  shades, 
When  night  awoke  the  tumult  of  the  feast, 
The  song  of  damsels,  and  the  sweet-toned  lyre ! 
Then,  princely  PEHCT  reigned  amidst  his  halls, 
Champion,  and  judge,  and  father  of  the  north. 
O,  days  of  ancient  grandeur !  are  ye  gone  1 
Forever  gone  ]     Do  these  same  scenes  behold 
His  offspring  here,  the  hireling  of  a  foe  1 
O,  that  I  knew  my  fate !  that  I  could  read 
The  destiny  which  Heaven  has  mark'd  for  me ! 


*  From  "  Percy's  Masque." 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


[Bore,  1791.) 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE  was  born  in  Boston,  on  the 
twenty-sixth  day  of  October,  in  1791.  His  father, 
who  still  survives,  was  one  of  that  celebrated  band 
who,  in  1773,  resisted  taxation  by  pouring  the  tea 
on  board  several  British  ships  into  the  sea. 

Mr.  SPRAGUE  was  educated  in  the  schools  of 
his  native  city,  which  he  left  at  an  early  period  to 
acquire  in  a  mercantile  house  a  practical  know- 
ledge of  trade.  When  he  was  about  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  he  commenced  the  business  of  a  mer- 
chant on  his  own  account,  and  continued  in  it,  I 
believe,  until  he  was  elected  cashier  of  the  Globe 
Bank,  one  of  the  first  establishments  of  its  kind  in 
Massachusetts.  This  office  he  now  holds,  and  he 
has  from  the  time  he  accepted  it  discharged  its 
duties  in  a  faultless  manner,  notwithstanding  the 
venerable  opinion  that  a  poet  must  be  incapable 
of  successfully  transacting  practical  affairs.  In 
this  period  he  has  found  leisure  to  study  the  works 
of  the  greatest  authors,  and  particularly  those  of 
the  masters  of  English  poetry,  with  which,  proba- 
bly, very  few  contemporary  writers  are  more  fami- 
liar ;  and  to  write  the  admirable  poems  on  which 
is  based  his  own  reputation. 

The  first  productions  of  Mr.  SPRAGUE  which 
attracted  much  attention,  were  a  series  of  brilliant 
prologues,  the  first  of  which  was  written  for  the 
Park  Theatre,  in  New  York,  in  1821.  Prize  thea- 
trical addresses  are  proverbially  among  the  most 
worthless  compositions  in  the  poetic  form.  Their 
brevity  and  peculiar  character  prevents  the  develop- 
'ment  in  them  of  original  conceptions  and  striking 
ideas,  and  they  are  usually  made  up  of  common- 
place thoughts  and  images,  compounded  with  little 
skill.  Those  by  Mr.  SPRAGUE  are  certainly  among 
the  best  of  their  kind,  and  some  passages  in  them 
are  conceived  in  the  true  spirit  of  poetry.  The 
following  lines  are  from  the  one  recited  at  the 
opening  of  a  theatre  in  Philadelphia,  in  1822. 

"  To  grace  the  stage,  the  bard's  careering  mind 
Seeks  other  worlds,  and  leaves  his  own  behind ; 
He  lures  from  air  its  bright,  unprison'd  forms, 
Breaks  through  the  toinb,  and  Death's  dull  region  storms, 
O'er  ruin'd  realms  he  pours  creative  day, 
And  slumbering  kings  his  mighty  voice  obey. 
From  its  damp  shades  the  long-laid  spirit  walks, 
Anil  round  the  murderer's  bed  in  vengeance  stalks. 
Poor,  maniac  Beauty  brings  her  cypress  wreath, — 
Her  smile  a  moonbeam  on  a  blasted  heath  ; 
Round  some  cold  grave  she  comes,  sweet  flowers  to  strew, 
And,  lost  to  Heaven,  still  to  love  is  true. 
Hate  shuts  his  soul  when  dove-eyed  Mercy  pleads ; 
Power  lifts  his  axe,  and  Truth's  bold  =ervice  bleeds ; 
Remorse  drops  anguish  from  his  burning  eyes, 
Feels  hell's  eternal  worm,  and,  shuddering,  dies; 
War's  trophied  minion,  too,  forsakes  the  dust, 
Grasps  his  worn  shield,  and  waves  his  sword  of  rust, 
Sjirinus  to  the  slaughter  at  the  trumpet's  cull, 
Again  to  conquer,  or  again  to  fall." 

The  ode  recited  in  the  Boston  theatre,  at  a  pa- 
geant in  honour  of  SHAKSPEARE,  in  1823,  is  one 


of  the  most  vigorous  and  beautiful  lyrics  in  the 
English  language.  The  first  poet  of  the  world, 
the  greatness  of  his  genius,  the  vast  variety  of  his 
scenes  and  characters,  formed  a  subject  well  fitted 
for  the  flowing  and  stately  measure  chosen  by  our 
author,  and  the  universal  acquaintance  with  the 
writings  of  the  immortal  dramatist  enables  every 
one  to  judge  of  the  merits  of  his  composition. 
Though  to  some  extent  but  a  reproduction  of  the 
creations  of  SHAKSPEAHE,  it  is  such  a  reproduction 
as  none  but  a  man  of  genius  could  effect. 

The  longest  of  Mr.  Sf  HAGUE'S  poems  is  entitled 
"  Curiosity."  It  was  delivered  before  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  Society,  at  Cambridge,  in  August, 
1829.  It  is  in  the  heroic  measure,  and  its  diction 
is  faultless.  The  subject  was  happily  chosen,  and 
admitted  of  a  great  variety  of  illustrations.  The 
descriptions  of  the  miser,  the  novel-reader,  and 
the  father  led  by  curiosity  to  visit  foreign  lands,  are 
among  the  finest  passages  in  Mr.  SPR  AGUE'S  writ- 
ings. "  Curiosity"  was  published  in  Calcutta  a  few 
years  ago,  as  an  original  work  by  a  British  officer, 
with  no  other  alterations  than  the  omission  of  a 
few  American  names,  and  the  insertion  of  others 
in  their  places,  as  SCOTT  for  COOPER,  and  CHAL- 
MERS for  CHAXSISG;  and  in  this  form  it  was  re- 
printed ia  London,  where  it  was  much  praised  in 
some  of  the  critical  gazettes. 

The  poem  delivered  at  the  centennial  celebra- 
tion of  the  settlement  of  Boston,  contains  many 
spirited  passages,  but  it  is  not  equal  to  "Curiosity" 
or  "The  Shakspeare  Ode."  Its  versification  is 
easy  and  various,  but  it  is  not  so  carefully  finished 
as  most  of  Mr.  SPRAGUE'S  productions.  "The 
Winged  Worshippers,"  "Lines  on  the  Death  of 
M.  S.  C.,"  "The  Family  Meeting,"  "Art,"  and 
several  other  short  poems,  evidence  great  skill  in 
the  use  of  language,  and  show  him  to  be  a  master 
of  the  poetic  art  They  are  all  in  good  taste ;  they 
are  free  from  turgid  ness ;  and  are  pervaded  by  a 
spirit  of  good  sense,  which  is  unfortunately  want- 
ing in  much  of  the  verse  written  in  this  age. 

Mr.  SPHAGUE  has  written,  besides  his  poems, 
an  essay  on  drunkenness,  and  an  oration,  pro- 
nounced at  Boston  on  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
the  declaration  of  independence  ;  and  I  believe  he 
contributed  some  papers  to  the  "New  England 
Magazine,"  while  it  was  edited  by  his  friend  J. 
T.  BUCKINGHAM.  The  style  of  his  prose  is  florid 
and  much  less  carefully  finished  than  that  of  his 
poetry. 

He  mixes  but  little  in  society,  and,  I  have  been 
told,  was  never  thirty  miles  from  his  native  city. 
His  leisure  hours  are  passed  among  his  books ; 
with  the  few  "old  friends,  the  tried,  the  true,"  who 
travelled  with  him  up  the  steeps  of  manhood ;  or  in 
the  quiet  of  his  own  fireside.  His  poems  show  the 
strength  of  his  domestic  and  social  affections. 

1-20 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


121 


CURIOSITY.* 


IT  came  from  Heaven — its  power  archangels 

knew, 

When  this  fair  globe  first  rounded  to  their  view ; 
When  the  young  sun  reveal'd  the  glorious  scene 
Where  oceans  gather'd  and  where  lands  grew  green; 
When  the  dead  dust  in  joyful  myriads  swarni'd, 
And  man,  the  clod,  with  GOD'S  own  breath  was 

warm'd : 

It  reign'd  in  Eden — when  that  man  first  woke, 
Its  kindling  influence  from  his  eye-balls  spoke  ; 
No  roving  childhood,  no  exploring  youth 
Led  him  along,  till  wonder  chill'd  to  truth ; 
Full-form'd  at  once,  his  subject  world  he  trod, 
And  gazed  upon  the  labours  of  his  GOD  ; 
On  all,  by  turns,  his  charter'd  glance  was  cast, 
While  each  pleaded  best  as  each  appear'd  the  last ; 
But  when  She  came,  in  nature's  blameless  pride, 
Bone  of  his  bone,  his  heaven-anointed  bride, 
AH  meaner  objects  faded  from  his  sight, 
And  sense  turn'd  giddy  with  the  new  delight ; 
Those  charm'd  his  eye,  but  this  entranced  his  soul, 
Another  self,  queen-wonder  of  the  whole  ! 
Rapt  at  the  view,  in  ecstasy  he  stood, 
And,  like  his  Maker,  saw  that  all  was  good. 

It  reign'd  in  Eden — in  that  heavy  hour 
When  the  arch-tempter  sought  our  mother's  bower, 
In  thrilling  charm  her  yielding  heart  assail'd, 
And  even  o'er  dread  JKHOVAH'S  word  prevail'd. 
There  the  fair  tree  in  fatal  beauty  grew, 
And  hung  its  mystic  apples  to  her  view: 
"  Eat,"  breathed  the  fiend,  beneath  his  serpent  guise, 
"Ye  shall  know  all  things;  gather,  and  be  wise!" 
Sweet  on  her  ear  the  wily  falsehood  stole, 
And  roused  the  ruling  passion  of  her  soul. 
"Ye  shall  become  like  GOD," — transcendent  fate! 
That  GOD'S  command  forgot,  she  pluck'd  and  ate ; 
Ate,  and  her  partner  lured  to  share  the  crime, 
Whose  wo,  the  legend  saith,  must  live  through  time. 
For  this  they  shrank  before  the  Avenger's  face, 
For  this  He  drove  them  from  the  sacred  place; 
For  this  came  down  the  universal  lot, 
To  weep,  to  wander,  die,  and  be  forgot. 

It  came  from  Heaven — it  reigned   in  Eden's 

shades — 

It  roves  on  earth,  and  every  walk  invades: 
Childhood  and  age  alike  its  influence  own  ; 
It  haunts  the  beggar's  nook,  the  monarch's  throne ; 
Hangs  o'er  the  cradle,  leans  above  the  bier, 
Gazed  on  old  Babel's  tower — and  lingers  here. 

To  all  that's  lofty,  all  that's  low  it  turns, 
With  terror  curdles  and  with  rapture  burns ; 
Now  feels  a  seraph's  throb,  now,  less  than  man's, 
A  reptile  tortures  and  a  planet  scans ; 
Now  idly  joins  in  life's  poor,  passing  jars, 
Nowshakes  creation  off,  and  soars  beyond  the  stars. 

'Tis  CURIOSITY — who  hath  not  felt 
Its  spirit,  and  before  its  altar  knelt  1 
In  the  pleased  infant  see  the  power  expand, 
When  first  the  coral  fills  his  little  hand ; 
Throned  in  its  mother's  lap,  it  dries  each  tear, 
As  her  sweet  legend  falls  upon  his  ear ; 

*  Delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Har- 
vard University,  in  1829. 

16 


Next  it  assails  him  in  his  top's  strange  hum, 
Breathes  in  his  whistle,  echoes  in  his  drum; 
Each  gilded  toy,  that  doting  love  bestows, 
He  longs  to  break,  and  every  spring  expose. 
Placed  by  your  hearth,  with  what  delight  he  pores 
O'er  the  bright  pages  of  his  pictured  stores ; 
How  oft  he  steals  upon  your  graver  task, 
Of  this  to  tell  you,  and  of  that  to  ask ; 
And,  when  the  waning  hour  to-bedward  bids, 
Though  gentle  sleep  sit  waiting  on  his  lids, 
How  winningly  he  pleads  to  gain  you  o'er, 
That  he  may  read  one  little  story  more ! 

Nor  yet  alone  to  toys  and  tales  confined, 
It  sits,  dark  brooding,  o'er  his  embryo  mind : 
Take  him  between  your  knees,  peruse  his  face, 
While  all  you  know,  or  think  you  know,  you  trace ; 
Tell  him  who  spoke  creation  into  birth, 
Arch'd  the  broad  heavens,  and  spread  the  rolling 

earth ; 

Who  formed  a  pathway  for  the  obedient  sun, 
And  bade  the  seasons  in  their  circles  run ; 
Who  fill'd  the  air,  the  forest,  and  the  flood, 
And  gave  man  all,  for  comfort,  or  for  food ; 
Tell  him  they  sprang  at  GOD'S  creating  nod — 
He  stops  you  short  with,  "  Father,  who  made  GOD  1 " 

Thus  through  life's  stages  may  we  mark  the  power 
That  masters  man  in  every  changing  hour. 
It  tempts  him  from  the  blandishments  of  home, 
Mountains  to  climb  and  frozen  seas  to  roam ; 
By  air-blown  bubbles  buoy'd,  it  bids  him  rise, 
And  hang,  an  atom  in  the  vaulted  skies ; 
Lured  by  its  charm,  he  sits  and  learns  to  trace 
The  midnight  wanderings  of  the  orbs  of  space ; 
Boldly  he  knocks  at  wisdom's  inmost  gate, 
With  nature  counsels,  and  communes  with  fate ; 
Below,  above,  o'er  all  he  dares  to  rove, 
In  all  finds  GOD,  and  finds  that  GOD  all  love. 

Turn  to  the  world — its  curious  dwellers  view, 
Like  PAUL'S  Athenians,  seeking  something  new. 
Be  it  a  bonfire's  or  a  city's  blaze, 
The  gibbet's  victim,  or  the  nation's  gaze, 
A  female  atheist,  or  a  learned  dog, 
A  monstrous  pumpkin,  or  a  mammoth  hog, 
A  murder,  or  a  muster,  'tis  the  same, 
Life's  follies,  glories,  griefs,  all  feed  the  flame. 
Hark,  where  the  martial  trumpet  fills  the  air, 
How  the  roused  multitude  come  round  to  stare ; 
Sport  drops  his  ball,  Toil  throws  his  hammer  by, 
Thrift  breaks  a  bargain  off,  to  please  his  eye ; 
Up  fly  the  windows,  even  fair  mistress  cook, 
Though  dinner  burn,  must  run  to  take  a  look. 
In  the  thronged  court  the  ruling  passions  read, 
Where  STORY  dooms,  where  WIIIT  and  WEBSTER 

plead; 

Yet  kindred  minds  alone  their  flights  shall  trace, 
The  herd  press  on  to  see  a  cut-throat's  face. 
Around  the  gallows'  foot  behold  them  draw, 
When  the  lost  villain  answers  to  the  law; 
Soft  souls,  how  anxious  on  his  pangs  to  gloat, 
When  the  vile  cord  shall  tighten  round  his  throat ; 
And,  ah  !    each  hard-bought  stand  to  quit  how 

grieved, 

As  the  sad  rumour  runs — "  The  man's  reprieved !" 
See  to  the  church  the  pious  myriads  pour, 
Squeeze  through  the  aisles  and  jostle  round  the  door; 
L 


122 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


Does  LAXSDOX  preach  ? — (I  veil  his  quiet  name 
Who  serves  his  Gon,  and  cannot  stoop  to  fame ;) — 
No,  'tis  some  reverend  mime,  the  latest  rage, 
Who  thumps  the  desk,  that  should  have  trod  the 

stage; 

Cant's  veriest  ranter  crams  a  house,  if  new, 
When  PAUL  himself,  oft  heard,  would  hardly  fill 
a  pew. 

Lo,  where  the  stage,  the  poor,  degraded  stage, 
Holds  its  warp'd  mirror  to  a  gaping  age ; 
There,  where,  to  raise  the  drama's  moral  tone, 
Fool  Harlequin  usurps  Apollo's  throne ; 
There,  where  grown  children  gather  round,  to  praise 
The  new-vamp'd  legends  of  their  nursery  days ; 
Where  one  loose  scene  shall  turn  more  souls  to 

shame, 

Then  ten  of  CHA^XIXG'S  lectures  can  reclaim; 
There,  where  in  idiot  rapture  we  adore 
The  herded  vagabonds  of  every  shore : 
Women  unsex'd,  who,  lost  to  woman's  pride, 
The  drunkard's  stagger  ape,  the  bully's  stride ; 
Pert,  lisping  girls,  who,  still  in  childhood's  fetters, 
Babble  of  love,  yet  barely  know  their  letters ; 
Neat-jointed  mummers,  mocking  nature's  shape, 
To  prove  how  nearly  man  can  match  an  ape ; 
Vaulters,  who,  rightly  served  at  home,  perchance 
Had  dangled  from  the  rope  on  which  they  dance ; 
Dwarfs,  mimics,  jugglers,  all  that  yield  content, 
Where  Sin  holds  carnival  and  Wit  keeps  Lent ; 
Where,  shoals  on  shoals,  the  modest  million  rush, 
One  sex  to  laugh,  and  one  to  try  to  blush, 
When  mincing  RAVENOT  sports  tight  pantalettes, 
And  turns  fops'  heads  while  turning  pirouettes ; 
There,  at  each  ribald  sally,  where  we  hear 
The  knowing  giggle  and  the  scurrile  jeer; 
While  from  the  intellectual  gallery  first 
Rolls  the  base  plaudit,  loudest  at  the  worst. 

Gods !  who  can  grace  yon  desecrated  dome, 
When  he  may  turn  his  SHAKSPEAIIE  o'er  at  home  ? 
Who  there  can  group  the  pure  ones  of  his  race, 
To  see  and  hear  what  bids  him  veil  his  face  1 
Ask  ye  who  can  1  why  I,  arid  you,  and  you ; 
No  matter  what  the  nonsense,  if 'tis  new. 
To  Doctor  Logic's  wit  our  sons  give  ear ; 
They  have  no  time  for  HAMLET,  or  for  LEAR  ; 
Our  daughters  turn  from  gentle  JULIET'S  wo, 
To  count  the  twirls  of  ALMAVIVA'S  toe. 

Not  theirs  the  blame  who  furnish  forth  the  treat, 
But  ours,  who  throng  the  board  and  grossly  eat ; 
We  laud,  indeed,  the  virtue-kindling  stage, 
And  prate  of  SIIAKSPEATIE  and  his  deathless  page; 
But  go,  announce  his  best,  on  COOPER  call, 
COOPER,  "the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all ;" 
Where  are  the  crowds,  so  wont  to  choke  the  door  ] 
'T  is  an  old  thing,  they  've  seen  it  all  before. 

Pray  Heaven,  if  yet  indeed  the  stage  must  stand, 
With  guiltless  mirth  it  may  delight  the  land ; 
Far  better  else  each  scenic  temple  fall, 
And  one  approving  silence  curtain  all. 
Despots  to  shame  may  yield  their  rising  youth, 
But  Freedom  dwells  with  purity  and  truth; 
Then  make  the  effort,  ye  who  rule  the  stage — 
With  novel  decency  surprise  the  age ; 
Even  Wit,  so  long  forgot,  may  play  its  part, 
And  Nature  yet  have  power  to  melt  the  heart ; 


Perchance  the  listeners,  to  their  instinct  true, 
May  fancy  common  sense — 't  were  surely  some- 
thing new. 

Turn  to  the  Press — its  teeming  sheets  survey, 
Big  with  the  wonders  of  each  passing  day ; 
Births,  deaths,  and  weddings,  forgeries,  fires,  and 

wrecks, 
Harangues,  and  hail-storms,  brawls,  and  broken 

necks ; 

Where  half-fledged  bards,  on  feeble  pinions,  seek 
An  immortality  of  near  a  week ; 
Where  cruel  eulogists  the  dead  restore, 
In  maudlin  praise,  to  martyr  them  once  more ; 
Where  ruffian  slanderers  wreak  their  coward  spite, 
And  need  no  venom'd  dagger  while  they  write : 
There,  (with  a  quill  so  noisy  and  so  vain, 
We  almost  hear  the  goose  it  clothed  complain,) 
Where  each  hack  scribe,  as  hate  or  interest  burns, 
Toad  or  toad-eater,  stains  the  page  by  turns ; 
Enacts  virtu,  usurps  the  critic's  chair, 
Lauds  a  mock  GUIDO,  or  a  mouthing  player; 
Viceroys  it  o'er  the  realms  of  prose  and  rhyme. 
Now  puffs  pert  "Pelham,"  now  "The  Course  of 

Time ;" 

And,  though  ere  Christmas  both  may  be  forgot, 
Vows  this  beats  MILTOS,  and  that  WALTER  SCOTT; 
With  SAMSON'S  vigour  feels  his  nerves  expand, 
To  overthrow  the  nobles  of  the  land  ; 
Soils  the  green  garlands  that  for  OTIS  bloom, 
And  plants  a  brier  even  on  CAIIOT'S  tomb; 
As  turn  the  party  coppers,  heads  or  tails, 
And  now  this  faction  and  now  that  prevails ; 
Applauds  to-day  what  yesterday  he  cursed, 
Lampoons  the  wisest,  and  extols  the  worst ; 
While,  hard  to  tell,  so  coarce  a  daub  he  lays, 
Which  sullies  most,  the  slander  or  the  praise. 

Yet,  sweet  or  bitter,  hence  what  fountains  burst, 
While  still  the  more  we  drink,  the  more  we  thirst 
Trade  hardly  deems  the  busy  day  begun, 
Till  his  keen  eye  along  the  page  has  run ; 
The  blooming  daughter  throws  her  needle  by, 
And  reads  her  schoolmate's  marriage  with  a  sigh , 
While  the  grave  mother  puts  her  glasses  on, 
And  gives  a  tear  to  some  old  crony  gone ; 
The  preacher,  too,  his  Sunday  theme  lays  down, 
To  know  what  last  new  folly  fills  the  town ; 
Lively  or  sad,  life's  meanest,  mightiest  things, 
The  fate  of  fighting  cocks,  or  fighting  kings ; 
Naught  comes  amiss,  we  take  the  nauseous  stufi^ 
Verjuice  or  oil,  a  libel  or  a  puff. 

'T  is  this  sustains  that  coarse,  licentious  tribe 
Of  tenth-rate  type-men,  gaping  for  a  bribe  ; 
That  reptile  race,  with  all  that's  good  at  strife, 
Who  trail  their  slime  through  every  walk  of  life , 
Stain  the  white  tablet  where  a  great  man's  name 
Stands  proudly  chisell'd  by  the  hand  of  Fame ;     . 
Nor  round  the  sacred  fireside  fear  to  crawl, 
But  drop  their  venom  there,  and  poison  all. 

'T  is  Curiosity — though,  in  its  round, 
No  one  poor  dupe  the  calumny  has  found, 
Still  shall  it  live,  and  still  new  slanders  breed ; 
What  though  we  ne'er  believe,  we  buy  and  read , 
Like  Scotland's  war-cries,  thrown  from  hand  to 

hand, 
To  rouse  the  angry  passions  of  the  land, 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


123 


So  the  black  falsehood  flies  from  ear  to  car, 
While  goodness  grieves,  but,  grieving,  still  must 

hear. 

All  are  not  such?  O  no,  there  are,  thank  Heaven, 
A  nobler  troop,  to  whom  this  trust  is  given ; 
Who,  all  unbribed,  on  Freedom's  ramparts  stand, 
Faithful  and  firm,  bright  warders  of  the  land. 
By  them  still  lifts  the  Press  its  arm  abroad, 
To  guide  all-curious  man  along  life's  road ; 
To  cheer  young  Genius,  Pity's  tear  to  start, 
In  Truth's  bold  cause  to  rouse  each  fearless  heart; 
O'er  male  and  female  quacks  to  shake  the  rod, 
And  scourge  the  unsex'd  thing  that  scorns  her  Gon; 
To  hunt  Corruption  from  his  secret  den, 
And  show  the  monster  up,  the  gaze  of  wondering 

men. 
How  swells  my  theme !  how  vain  my  power  I 

find, 

To  track  the  windings  of  the  curious  mind ; 
Let  aught  be  hid,  though  useless,  nothing  boots, 
Straightway  it  must  be  pluck'd  up  by  the  roots. 
How  oft  we  lay  the  volume  down  to  ask 
Of  him,  the  victim  in  the  Iron  Mask ; 
The  crusted  medal  rub  with  painful  care, 
To  spell  the  legend  out — that  is  not  there ; 
With  dubious  gaze,  o'er  mossgrown  tombstones 

bend, 

To  find  a  name — the  heralds  never  penn'd  j< 
Dig  through  the  lava-deluged  city's  breast, 
Learn  all  we  can,  and  wisely  guess  the  rest : 
Ancient  or  modern,  sacred  or  profane, 
All  must  be  known,  and  all  obscure  made  plain; 
If 'twas  a  pippin  tempted  EVE  to  sin; 
If  glorious  Bruov  drugg'd  his  muse  with  gin; 
If  Troy  e'er  stood ;  if  SUAKSPEARE  stole  a  deer; 
If  Israel's  missing  tribes  found  refuge  here ; 
If  like  a  villain  Captain  HEXHT  lied ; 
If  like  a  martyr  Captain  MORGAN  died. 

Its  aim  oft  idle,  lovely  in  its  end, 
We  turn  to  look,  then  linger  to  befriend ; 
The  maid  of  Egypt  thus  was  led  to  save 
A  nation's  future  leader  from  the  wave ; 
New  things  to  hear,  when  erst  the  Gentiles  ran, 
Truth  closed  what  Curiosity  began. 
How  many  a  noble  art,  now  widely  known, 
Owes  its  young  impulse  to  this  power  alone ; 
Even  in  its  slightest  working,  we  may  trace 
A  deed  that  changed  the  fortunes  of  a  race : 
BIIUCE,  bann'd  and  hunted  on  his  native  soil, 
With  curious  eye  survey'd  a  spider's  toil : 
Six  timss  the  little  climber  strove  and  fail'd ; 
Six  times  the  chief  before  his  foes  had  quail'd ; 
"  Once  more,"  he  cried,   "  in  thine   my  doom  I 

read, 

Once  more  I  dare  the  fight,  if  thou  succeed;" 
'T  was  done — the  insect's  fate  he  made  his  own, 
Once  more  the  buttle  waged,  and  gain'd  a  throne. 

Behold  the  sick  man,  in  his  easy  chair, 
Barr'd  from  the  busy  crowd  and  bracing  air, — 
How  every  passing  trifle  proves  its  power 
I'o  while  away  the  long,  dull,  lazy  hour. 
As  down  the  pane  the  rival  rain-drops  chase, 
Curious  he  '11  watch  to  see  which  wins  the  race ; 
And  let  two  dojrs  beneath  his  window  fight, 
He  '11  shut  his  Bible  to  enjoy  the  sight. 


So  with  each  new-born  nothing  rolls  the  day, 
Till  some  kind  neighbour,  stumbling  in  his  way, 
Draws  up  his  chair,  the  sufferer  to  amuse, 
And  makes  him  happy  while  he  tells — the  news. 

The  news !   our  morning,  noon,  and  evening 

cry, 

Day  unto  day  repeats  it  till  we  die. 
For  this  the  cit,  the  critic,  and  the  fop, 
Dally  the  hour  away  in  Tonsor's  shop ; 
For  this  the  gossip  takes  her  daily  route, 
And  wears  your  threshold  and  your  patience  out; 
For  this  we  leave  the  parson  in  the  lurch, 
And  pause  to  prattle  on  the  way  to  church; 
Even  when  some  coffin'd  friend  we  gather  round, 
We  ask,  "What  news?"  then  lay  him  in  the 

ground ; 

To  this  the  breakfast  owes  its  sweetest  zest, 
For  this  the  dinner  cools,  the  bed  remains  un- 
press'd. 

What  gives  each  tale  of  scandal  to  the  street, 
The  kitchen's  wonder,  and  the  parlour's  treat  ? 
See  the  pert  housemaid  to  the  keyhole  fly, 
When  husband  storms,  wife  frets,  or  lovers  sigh; 
See  Tom  your  pockets  ransack  for  each  note, 
And  read  your  secrets  while  he  cleans  your  coat; 
See,  yes,  to  listen  see  even  madam  deign, 
When  the  smug  seamstress  pours  her  ready  strain. 
This  wings  that  lie  that  malice  breeds  in  fear, 
No  tongue  so  vile  but  finds  a  kindred  ear; 
Swift  flies  each  tale  of  laughter,  shame,  or  folly, 
Caught  by  Paul  Pry  and  carried  home  to  Polly ; 
On  this  each  foul  calumniator  leans, 
And  nods  and  hints  thevillany  he  means; 
Full  well  he  knows  what  latent  wildfire  lies 
In  the  close  whisper  and  the  dark  surmise ;  • 
A  muffled  word,  a  wordless  wink  has  woke 
A  warmer  throb  than  if  a  DKXTKU  spoke  ; 
And  he,  o'er  EVEIIETT'S  periods  who  would  nod, 
To  track  a  secret,  half  the  town  has  trod. 

O  thou,  from  whose  rank  breath  nor  sex  can 

save, 

Nor  sacred  virtue,  nor  the  powerless  grave, — 
Felon  unwhipp'd  !  than  whom  in  yonder  cells 
Full  many  a  groaning  wretch  less  guilty  dwells, 
Blush — if  of  honest  blood  a  drop  remains, 
To  steal  its  lonely  way  along  thy  veins, 
Blush — if  the  bronze,  long  harden'd  on  thy  cheek, 
Has  left  a  spot  where  that  poor  drop  can  speak ; 
Blush  to  be  branded  with  the  slanderer's  name, 
And,  though  thou  dread'st  not  sin,  at  least  dread 

shame. 

We  hear,  indeed,  but  shudder  while  we  hear 
The  insidious  falsehood  and  the  heartless  jeer ; 
For  each  dark  libel  that  thou  lick'st  to  shape, 
Thou  mayest  from  law,  but  not  from  scorn  escape ; 
The  pointed  finger,  cold,  averted  eye, 
Insulted  virtue's  hiss — thou  canst  not  fly. 

The  churl,  who  holds  it  heresy  to  think, 
Who  loves  no  music  but  the  dollar's  clink, 
Who  laughs  to  scorn  the  wisdom  of  the  schools, 
And  deems  the  first  of  poets  first  of  fools ; 
Who  never  found  what  good  from  science  grew, 
Save  the  grand  truth  that  one  and  one  are  two ; 
And  marvels  BOWDITCH  o'er  a  book  should  pore, 
Unless  to  make  those  two  turn  into  four; 


124 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


Who,  placed  where  Catskill's  forehead  greets  the 

sky, 

Grieves  that  such  quarries  all  unhewn  should  lie; 
Or,  gazing  where  Niagara's  torrents  thrill, 
Exclaims,  "  A  monstrous  stream — to  turn  a  mill !" 
Who  loves  to  feel  the  blessed  winds  of  heaven, 
But  as  his  freighted  barks  are  portward  driven  : 
Even  he,  across  whose  brain  scarce  dares  to  creep 
Aught  but  thrift's  parent  pair — to  get,  to  keep  : 
Who  never  learn'd  life's  real  bliss  to  know — 
With  Curiosity  even  he  can  glow. 

Go,  seek  him  out  on  yon  dear  Gotham's  walk, 
Where  traffic's  venturers  meet  to  trade  and  talk : 
Where  Mammon's  votaries  bend,  of  each  degree, 
The  hard-eyed  lender,  and  the  pale  lendee ; 
Where  rogues,  insolvent,  strut  in  white-wash'd 

pride, 

And  shove  the  dupes,  who  trusted  them,  aside. 
How  through  the  buzzing  crowd  he  threads  his  way, 
To  catch  the  flying  rumours  of  the  day, — 
To  learn  of  changing  stocks,  of  bargains  cross'd, 
Of  breaking  merchants,  and  of  cargoes  lost ; 
The  thousand  ills  that  traffic's  walks  invade, 
And  give  the  heart-ache  to  the  sons  of  trade. 
How  cold  he  hearkens  to  some  bankrupt's  wo, 
Nods  his  wise  head,  and  cries,  "I  told  you  so: 
The  thriftless  fellow  lived  beyond  his  means, 
He  must  buy  brants — I  make  my  folks  eat  beans ;" 
What  cares  he  for  the  knave,  the  knave's  sad  wife, 
The  blighted  prospects  of  an  anxious  life? 
The  kindly  throbs,  that  other  men  control, 
Ne'er  melt  the  iron  of  the  miser's  soul ; 
Through  life's  dark  road  his  sordid  way  he  wends, 
An  incarnation  of  fat  dividends ; 
Bat,  when  to  death  he  sinks,  ungrieved,  unsung, 
Buoy'd  by  the  blessing  of  no  mortal  tongue, — 
No  worth  rewarded,  and  no  want  redress'd, 
To  scatter  fragrance  round  his  place  of  rest,  — 
What  shall  that  hallow'd  epitaph  supply — 
The  universal  wo  when  good  men  die? 
Cold  Cariosity  shall  linger  there, 
To  guess  the  wealth  he  leaves  his  tearless  heir; 
Perchance  to  wonder  what  must  be  his  doom, 
In  the  far  land  that  lies  beyond  the  tomb ; — 
Alas !  for  him,  if,  in  its  awful  plan, 
Heaven  deal  with  him  as  he  hath  dealt  with  man. 

Child  of  romance,  these  work-day  scenes  you 

spurn ; 

For  loftier  things  your  finer  pulses  burn ; 
Through  Nature's  walk  your  curious  way  you  take, 
Gaze  on  her  glowing  bow,  her  glittering  flake, — 
Her  spring's  first  cheerful  green,  her  autumn's  last, 
Born  in  the  breeze,  or  dying  in  the  blast ; 
You  climb  the  mountain's  everlasting  wall ; 
You  linger  where  the  thunder-waters  fall ; 
You  love  to  wander  by  old  ocean's  side, 
And  hold  communion  with  its  sullen  tide; 
Wash'd  to  your  foot  some  fragment  of  a  wreck, 
Fancy  shall  build  again  the  crowded  deck 
That  trod  the  waves,  till,  mid  the  tempest's  frown, 
The  sepulchre  of  living  men  went  down. 
Yet  Fancy,  with  her  milder,  tenderer  glow, 
But  dreams  what  Curiosity  would  know; 
Ye  would  stand  listening,  as  the  booming  gun 
Proclaim'd  the  work  of  agony  half-done ; 


There  would  you  drink  each  drowning  seaman's 

cry, 

As  wild  to  heaven  he  cast  his  frantic  eye; 
Though  vain  all  aid,  though  Pity's  blood  ran  cold, 
The  mortal  havoc  ye  would  dare  behold ; 
Still  Curiosity  would  wait  and  weep, 
Till  all  sank  down  to  slumber  in  the  deep. 

Nor  yet  appeased  the  spirit's  restless  glow: 
Ye  would  explore  the  gloomy  waste  below; 
There,  where  the  joyful  sunbeams  never  fell, 
Where  ocean's  unrecorded  monsters  dwell, 
Where   sleep  earth's  precious  things,  her  rifled 

gold, 

Bones  bleach'd  by  ages,  bodies  hardly  cold, 
Of  those  who  bow'd  to  fate  in  every  form, 
By  battle-strife,  by  pirate,  or  by  storm ; 
The  sailor-chief,  who  Freedom's  foes  defied. 
Wrapp'd  in  the  sacred  flag  for  which  he  died  ; 
The  wretch,  thrown  over  to  the  midnight  foam, 
Stabb'd  in  his  blessed  dreams  of  love  and  home ; 
The  mother,  with  her  fleshless  arms  still  clasp'd 
Round  the  scared  infant,  that  in  death  she  grasp'd ; 
On  these,  and  sights  like  these,  ye  long  to  gaze, 
The  mournful  trophies  of  uncounted  days ; 
All  that  the  miser  deep  has  brooded  o'er, 
Since  its  first  billow  roll'd  to  find  a  shore. 

Once  more  the  Press, — not  that  which  daily 

flings 

Its  fleeting  ray  across  life's  fleeting  things, — 
See  tomes  on  tomes  of  fancy  and  of  power, 
To  cheer  man's  heaviest,  warm  his  holiest  hour. 
Now  Fiction's  groves  we  tread,  where  young  Ro- 
mance 

Laps  the  glad  senses  in  her  sweetest  trance ; 
Now  through  earth's  cold,  unpeopled  realms  we 

range, 

And  mark  each  rolling  century's  awful  change; 
Turn  back  the  tide  of  ages  to  its  head, 
And  hoard  the  wisdom  of  the  honour'd  dead. 
'T  was  Heaven  to  lounge  upon  a  couch,  said 

GHAT, 

And  read  new  novels  through  a  rainy  day: 
Add  but  the  Spanish  weed,  the  bard  was  right ; 
'T  is  heaven,  the  upper  heaven  of  calm  delight ; 
The  world  forgot,  to  sit  at  ease  reclined, 
While  round  one's  head  the  smoky  perfumes  wind, 
Firm  in  one  hand  the  ivory  folder  grasp'd, 
SCOTT'S  uncut  latest  by  the  other  clasp'd ; 
'T  is  heaven,  the  glowing,  graphic  page  to  turn, 
And  feel  within  the  ruling  passion  burn ; 
Now  through  the  dingles  of  his  own  bleak  isle, 
And  now  through  lands  that  wear  a  sunnier  smile, 
To  follow  him,  that  all-creative  one, 
Who  never  found  a  "  brother  near  his  throne." 

Look,  now,  directed  by  yon  candle's  blaze, 
Where  the  false  shutter  half  its  trust  betrays, — 
Mark  that  fair  girl,  reclining  in  her  bed, 
Its  curtain  round  her  polish'd  shoulders  spread , 
Dark  midnight  reigns,  the  storm  is  up  in  power, 
What  keeps  her  waking  in  that  dreary  hour? 
See  where  the  volume  on  her  pillow  lies — 
Claims   RAHCLIFFE   or  CHAPOXE   those  frequent 

sighs  ? 

'T  is  some  wild  legend, — now  her  kind  eye  fills, 
And  now  cold  terror  every  fibre  chills ; 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


125 


Still  she  reads  on — in  Fiction's  labyrinth  lost — 
Of  tyrant  fathers,  and  of  true  love  cross'd  ; 
Of  clanking  fetters,  low,  mysterious  groans, 
Blood-crusted  daggers,  and  uncofHn'd  bones, 
Pale,  gliding  ghosts,  with  fingers  dropping  gore, 
And  blue  flames  dancing  round  a  dungeon  door; — 
Still  she  reads  on — even  though  to  read  she  fears, 
And  in  each  key-hole  moan  strange  voices  hears, 
While  every  shadow  that  withdraws  her  look, 
I    Glares  in  her  face,  the  goblin  of  the  book ; 
Still  o'er  the  leaves  her  craving  eye  is  cast ; 
On  all  she  feasts,  yet  hungers  for  the  last ; 
Counts  what  remain,  now  sighs  there  are  no  more, 
And  now  even  those  half  tempted  to  skip  o'er; 
At  length,  the  bad  all  killed,  the  good  all  pleased, 
Her  thirsting  Curiosity  appeased, 
She  shuts  the  dear,  dear  book,  that  made  her  weep, 
Puts  out  her  light,  and  turns  away  to  sleep. 

Her  bright,  her  bloody  records  to  unrol, 
See  History  come,  and  wake  th'  inquiring  soul : 
How  bounds  the  bosom  at  each  wondrous  deed 
Of  those  who  founded,  and  of  those  who  freed ; 
The  good,  the  valiant  of  our  own  loved  clime, 
Whose  names  shall  brighten  through  the  clouds 

of  time. 

How  rapt  we  linger  o'er  the  volumed  lore 
That  tracks  the  glories  of  each  distant  shore; 
In  all  their  grandeur  and  in  all  their  gloom, 
The  throned,  the  thrall'd  rise  dimly  from  the  tomb ; 
Chiefs,  sages,  bards,  the  giants  of  their  race, 
Earth's  monarch  men,  her  greatness  and  her  grace ; 
Warm'd  as  we  read,  the  penman's  page  we  spurn, 
And  to  each  near,  each  far  arena  turn ; 
Here,  where  the  Pilgrim's  altar  first  was  built, 
Here,  where  the  patriot's  life-blood  first  was  spilt ; 
There,  where  new  empires  spread  along  each  spot 
Whore  old  ones  fleurish'd  but  to  be  forgot, 
Or,  direr  judgment   spared  to  fill  a  page, 
And  with  their  errors  warn  an  after  age. 

And  where  is  he  upon  that  Rock  can  stand, 
Nor  with  their  firmness  feel  his  heart  expand, 
Who  a  new  empire  planted  where  they  trod, 
And  gave  it  to  their  children  and  their  GOD  1 
Who  yon  immortal  mountain-shrine  hath  press'd, 
With  saintlier  relics  stored  than  priest  e'er  bless'd, 
But  felt  each  grateful  pulse  more  warmly  glow, 
In  voiceless  reverence  for  the  dead  below  1 
Who,  too,  by  Curiosity  led  on, 
To  tread  the  shores  of  kingdoms  come  and  gone, 
Where  Faith  her  martyrs  to  the  fagot  led, 
Where  Freedom's  champions  on  the  scaffold  bled, 
Where  ancient  power,  though  stripp'd  of  ancient 

fame, 
Curb'd,  but  not  crushed,  still  lives  for  guilt  and 

shame, 

But  prouder,  happier,  turns  on  home  to  gaze, 
And  thanks  his  Gon  who  gave  him  better  days  1 

Undraw  yon  curtain ;  look  within  that  room, 
Where  all  is  splendour,  yet  where  all  is  gloom : 
Why  weeps  that  mother  1  why,  in  pensive  mood, 
Group  noiseless  round,  that  little,  lovely  brood  1 
The  battledore  is  still,  laid  by  each  book, 
And  the  harp  slumbers  in  its  custom'd  nook. 
Who  hath  dime  this  ?   what  cold,  unpitving  foe 
Hath  made  this  house  the  dwelling-place  of  wo  1 


'T  is  he,  the  husband,  father,  lost  in  care, 
O'er  that  sweet  fellow  in  his  cradle  there : 
The  gallant  bark  that  rides  by  yonder  strand, 
Bears  him  to-morrow  from  his  native  land. 
Why  turns  he,  half-unwilling,  from  his  home  ? 
To  tempt  the  ocean  and  the  earth  to  roam  1 
Wealth  he  can  boast,  a  miser's  sigh  would  hush, 
And  health  is  laughing  in  that  ruddy  blush ; 
Friends  spring  to  greet  him,  and  he  has  no  foe — 
So  honour'd  and  so  bless'd,  what  bids  him  go  ? — 
His  eye  must  see,  hi*  foot  each  spot  must  tread, 
Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  earth's  recorded  dead; 
Where  rise  the  monuments  of  ancient  time, 
Pillar  and  pyramid  in  age  sublime ; 
The  pagan's  temple  and  the  churchman's  tower, 
War's    bloodiest   plain   and  Wisdom's   greenest 

bower ; 

All  that  his  wonder  woke  in  school-boy  themes, 
All  that  his  fancy  fired  in  youthful  dreams  : 
Where  SOCRATES  once  taught  he  thirsts  to  stray, 
Where  HOMER  pour'd  his  everlasting  lay ; 
From  VIRGIL'S  tomb  he  longs  to  pluck  one  flower, 
By  Avon's  stream  to  live  one  moonlight  hour ; 
To  pause  where  England  "  garners  up"  her  great, 
And  drop  a  patriot's  tear  to  MILTON'S  fate  ; 
Fame's  living  masters,  too,  he  must  behold, 
Whose  deeds  shall  blazon  with  the  best  of  old : 
Nations  compare,  their  laws  and  customs  scan, 
And  read,  wherever  spread,  the  book  of  man ; 
For  these  he  goes,  self-banish'd  from  his  hearth, 
And  wrings  the  hearts  of  all  he  loves  on  earth. 

Yet  say,  shall  not  new  joy  these  hearts  inspire, 
When  grouping  round  the  future  winter  fire, 
To  hear  the  wonders  of  the  world  they  burn, 
And  lose  his  absence  in  his  glad  return  1 — 
Return !  alas  !  he  shall  return  no  more, 
To  bless  his  own  sweet  home,  his  own  proud  shore. 
Look  once  again — cold  in  his  cabin  now, 
Death's  finger-mark  is  on  his  pallid  brow ; 
No  wife  stood  by,  her  patient  watch  to  keep, 
To  smile  on  him,  then  turn  away  to  weep ; 
Kind  woman's  place  rough  mariners  supplied, 
And  shared  the  wanderer's  blessing  when  he  died. 
Wrapp'd  in  the  raiment  that  it  long  must  wear, 
Hia  body  to  the  deck  they  slowly  bear ; 
Even  there  the  spirit  that  I  sing  is  true ; 
The  crew  look  on  with  sad,  but  curious  view; 
The  setting  sun  flings  round  his  farewell  rays ; 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  not  a  ripple  plays ; 
How  eloquent,  how  awful  in  its  power, 
The  silent  lecture  of  death's  Sabbath-hour  : 
One  voice  that  silence  breaks — the  prayer  is  said, 
And  the  last  rite  man  pays  to  man  is  paid ; 
The  plashing  waters  mark  his  resting-place, 
And  fold  him  round  in  one  long,  cold  embrace ; 
Bright  bubbles  for  a  moment  sparkle  o'er, 
Then  break,  to  be,  like  him,  beheld  no  more ; 
Down,  countless  fathoms  down,  he  sinks  to  sleep, 
With  all  the  nameless  shapes  that  haunt  the  deep. 

"  Alps  rise  on  Alps" — in  vain  my  muse  essays 
To  lay  the  spirit  that  she  dared  to  raise  : 
What  spreading  scenes  of  rapture  and  of  wo, 
With  rose  and  cypress  lure  me  as  I  go. 
In  every  question  and  in  every  glance, 
In  folly's  wonder  and  in  wisdom's  trance, 

L2 


126 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


In  all  of  life,  nor  yet  of  life  alone, 
In  all  beyond,  this  mighty  power  we  own. 
We  would  unclasp  the  mystic  book  of  fate, 
And  trace  the  paths  of  all  we  love  and  hate ; 
The    father's  heart  would    learn   his   children's 

doom, 

Even  when  that  heart  is  crumbling  in  the  tomb ; 
If  they  must  sink  in  guilt,  or  soar  to  fame, 
And  leave  a  hated  or  a  hallow'd  name ; 
By  hope  elated,  or  depress'd  by  doubt, 
Even  in  the  death-pang  he  would  find  it  out 

What  boots  it  to  your  dust,  your  son  were  born 
An  empire's  idol  or  a  rabble's  scorn  ? 
Think  ye  the  franchised  spirit  shall  return, 
To  share  his  triumph,  his  disgrace  to  mourn  1 
Ah,  Curiosity  !  by  thee  inspired, 
This  truth  to  know  how  oft  has  man  inquired ! 
And  is  it  fancy  all  1  can  reason  say 
Earth's  loves  must  moulder  with  earth's  moulder- 
ing clay  1 

That  death  can  chill  the  father's  sacred  glow, 
And  hush  the  throb  that  none  but  mothers  know  1 
Must  we  believe  those  tones  of  dear  delight, 
The  morning  welcome  and  the  sweet  good-night, 
The  kind  monition  and  the  well-earn'd  praise, 
That  won  and  warm'd  us  in  our  earlier  days, 
Turn'd,  as  they  fell,  to  cold  and  common  air  1 — 
Speak,  proud  Philosophy !  the  truth  declare ! 

Yet,  no,  the  fond  delusion,  if  no  more, 
We  would  not  yield  for  wisdom's  cheerless  lore ; 
A  tender  creed  they  hold,  who  dare  believe 
The  dead  return,  with  them  to  joy  or  grieve. 
How  sweet,  while  lingering  slow  on  shore  or  hill, 
When  all  the  pleasant  sounds  of  earth  are  still, 
When  the  round  moon  rolls  through  the  unpillar'd 


And  stars  look  down  as  they  were  angels'  eyes, 
How  sweet  to  deem  our  lost,  adored  ones  nigh, 
And  hear  their  voices  in  the  night-winds  sigh. 
Full  many  an  idle  dream  that  hope  had  broke, 
And  the  awed  heart  to  holy  goodness  woke  ; 
Full  many  a  felon's  guilt  in  thought  had  died, 
Fear'd  he  his  father's  spirit  by  his  side ; — 
Then  let  that  fear,  that  hope,  control  the  mind ; 
Still  let  us  question,  still  no  answer  find ; 
Let  Curiosity  of  Heaven  inquire, 
Nor  earth's  cold  dogmas  quench  the  ethereal  fire. 
Nor  even  to  life,  nor  death,  nor  time  confined — 
The  dread  hereafter  fills  the  exploring  mind  ; 
We  burst  the  grave,  profane  the  coffin's  lid, 
Unwisely  ask  of  all  so  wisely  hid ; 
Eternity's  dark  record  we  would  read, 
Mysteries,  unravell'd  yet  by  mortal  creed ; 
Of  life  to  come,  unending  joy  and  wo, 
And  all  that  holy  wranglers  dream  below; 
To  find  their  jarring  dogmas  out  we  long, 
Or  which  is  right,  or  whether  all  be  wrong; 
Things  of  an  hour,  we  would  invade  His  throne, 
And  find  out  Him,  the  Everlasting  One ! 
Faith  we  may  boast,  undarken'd  by  a  doubt, 
We  thirst  to  find  each  awful  secret  out ; 
Hope  may  sustain,  and  innocence  impart 
Her  sweet  specific  to  the  fearless  heart  ; 
The  inquiring  spirit  will  not  be  controll'd, 
We  would  make  certain  all,  and  all  behold. 


TJnfathom'd  well-head  of  the  boundless  soul ! 
Whose  living  waters  lure  us  as  they  roll, 
From  thy  pure  wave  one  cheering  hope  we  draw — 
Man,  man  at  least  shall  spurn  proud  Nature's  law. 
All  that  have  breath,  but  he,  lie  down  content, 
Life's  purpose  served,  indeed,  when  life  is  spent ; 
All  as  in  Paradise  the  same  are  found ; 
The  beast,  whose  footstep  shakes  the  solid  ground, 
The  insect  living  on  a  summer  spire, 
The  bird,  whose  pinion  courts  the  sunbeam's  fire ; 
In  lair  and  nest,  in  way  and  want,  the  same 
As  when  their  sires  sought  Adam  for  a  name  : 
Their  be-all  and  their  end-all  here  below, 
They  nothing  need  beyond,  nor  need  to  know; 
Earth  and  her  hoards  their  every  want  supply, 
They  revel,  rest,  then,  fearless,  hopeless,  die. 
But  Man,  his  Maker's  likeness,  lord  of  earth, 
Who  owes  to  Nature  little  but  his  birth, 
Shakes  down  her  puny  chains,  her  wants,  and  woes, 
One  world  subdues,  and  for  another  glows. 
See  him,  the  feeblest,  in  his  cradle  laid ; 
See  him,  the  mightiest,  in  his  mind  array'd ! 
How  wide  the  gulf  he  clears,  how  bold  the  flight 
That  bears  him  upward  to  the  realms  of  light ! 
By  restless  Curiosity  inspired, 
Through  all  his  subject  world  he  roves  untired : 
Looks  back  and  scans  the  infant  days  of  yore, 
On  to  the  time  when  time  shall  be  no  more ; 
Even  in  life's  parting  throb  its  spirit  burns, 
And,  shut  from  earth,  to  heaven   more  warmly 

turns. 

Shall  he  alone,  of  mortal  dwellers  here, 
Thus  soar  aloft  to  sink  in  mid-career  ! 
Less  favour'd  than  a  worm,  shall  his  stern  doom 
Lock  up  these  seraph  longings  in  the  tomb  1 —  v 
O  Thou,  whose  fingers  raised  us  from  the  dust, 
Till  there  we  sleep  again,  be  this  our  trust : 
This  sacred  hunger  marks  the  immortal  mind, 
ByThee'twas  given,  for  Thee,  for  heaven  design'd; 
There  the  rapt  spirit,  from  earth's  grossness  freed, 
Shall  see,  and  know,  and  be  like  Thee  indeed. 
Here  let  me  pause — no  further  I  rehearse 
What  claims  a  loftier  soul,  a  nobler  verse ; 
The  mountain's  foot  I  have  but  loiter'd  round, 
Not  dared  to  scale  its  highest,  holiest  ground ; 
But  ventured  on  the  pebbly  shore  to  stray, 
While  the  broad  ocean  all  before  me  lay  ; — 
How  bright  the  boundless  prospect  there  on  high ! 
How  rich  the  pearls  that  here  all  hidden  lie  ! 
But  not  for  me — to  life's  coarse  service  sold, 
Where  thought  lies  barren  and  naught  breeds  but 

gold— 

'T  is  yours,  ye  favour'd  ones,  at  whose  command 
From  the  cold  world  I  ventured,  here  to  stand  : 
Ye  who  were   lapp'd  in  Wisdom's  murmuring 

bowers, 

Who  still  to  bright  improvement  yield  your  hours ; 
To  you  the  privilege  and  the  power  belong, 
To  give  my  theme  the  grace  of  living  song ; 
Yours  be  the  flapping  of  the  eagle's  wing, 
To  dare  the  loftiest  crag,  and  heavenward  spring ; 
Mine  the  light  task  to  hop  from  spray  to  spray, 
Bless'd  if  I  charm  one  summer  hour  away. 
One  summer  hour — its  golden  sands  have  run, 
And  the  poor  labour  of  the  bard  is  done. — 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


127 


Yet,  ere  I  fling  aside  my  humble  lyre, 
Let  one  fond  wish  its  trembling  strings  inspire ; 
Fancy  the  task  to  Feeling  shall  resign, 
And  the  heart  prompt  the  warm,  untutor'd  line. 
Peace  to  this  ancient  spot !  here,  as  of  old, 
May  Learning  dwell,  and  all  her  stores  unfold ; 
Still  may  her  priests  around  these  altars  stand, 
And  train  to  truth  the  children  of  the  land ; 
Bright  be  their  paths,  within  these  shades  who  rest, 
These  brother-bands — beneath  his  guidance  bless'd, 
Who,  with  their  fatiiers,  here  turn'd  wisdom's  page, 
Who  comes  to  them  the  statesman  and  the  sage. 
Praise  be  his  portion  in  his  labours  here, 
The  praise  that  cheer'da  KIRKLANU'S  mild  career; 
The  love  that  finds  in  every  breast  a  shrine, 
When  zeal  and  gentleness  with  wisdom  join. 
Here  may  he  sit,  while  race  succeeding  race 
Go  proudly  forth  his  parent  care  to  grace ; 
In  head  and  heart  by  him  prepared  to  rise, 
To  take  their  stations  with  the  good  and  wise  : 
This  crowning  recompense  to  him  be  given, 
To  see  them  guard  on  earth  and  guide  to  heaven ; 
Thus,  in  their  talents,  in  their  virtues  bless'd, 
O  be  his  ripest  years  his  happiest  and  his  best ! 


SHAKSPEARE    ODE.* 

GOD  of  the  glorious  lyre ! 
Whose  notes  of  old  on  lofty  Pindus  rang, 

While  JOVE'S  exulting  choir 
Caught  the  glad  echoes  and  responsive  sang — 
Come  !  bless  the  service  and  the  shrine 

We  consecrate  to  thee  and  thine. 

\ 

Fierce  from  the  frozen  north, 
When  Havoc  led  his  legions  forth, 
O'er  Learning's  sunny  groves  the  dark  destroyer 

spread : 

In  dust  the  sacred  statue  slept, 
Fair  Science  round  her  altars  wept, 
And  Wisdom  cowl'd  his  head. 

At  length,  Olympian  lord  of  morn, 
The  raven  veil  of  night  was  torn, 

When,  through  golden  clouds  descending, 
Thou  didst  hold  thy  radiant  flight, 

O'er  Nature's  lovely  pageant  bending, 
Till  Avon  rolled,  all  sparkling  to  thy  sight ! 

There,  on  its  bank,  beneath  the  mulberry's  shade, 
Wrapp'd  in  young  dreams,  a  wild-eyed  minstrel 

stray'd. 

Lighting  there  and  lingering  long, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  bard  his  song; 

Thy  fingers  strung  his  sleeping  shell, 
And  round  his  brows  a  garland  curl'd  ; 

On  his  lips  thy  spirit  fell, 
And  bade  him  wake  and  warm  the  world  ! 

Then  SHAKSPF.ATIE  rose ! 
Across  the  trembling  strings 
His  daring  hand  he  flings, 
And,  lo  !  a  new  creation  glows ! 

*  Delivered  in  the  Boston  Theatre,  in  1823,  at  the  exhi- 
bition of  a  pageant  in  honour  of  SHAKSPEARE. 


There,  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vassal  train  his  high  commands  fulfil. 

Madness,  with  his  frightful  scream, 
Vengeance,  leaning  on  his  lance, 
Avarice,  with  his  blade  and  beam, 
Hatred,  blasting  with  a  glance ; 
Remorse,  that  weeps,  and  Rage,  that  roars, 
And  Jealousy,  that  dotes,  but  dooms,  and  mur- 
ders, yet  adores. 

Mirth,  his  face  with  sun-beams  lit, 
Waking  laughter's  merry  swell, 
Arm  in  arm  with  fresh-eyed  Wit, 
That  waves  his  tingling  lash,  while  Folly  shakes 
his  bell. 

Despair,  that  haunts  the  gurgling  stream, 
Kiss'd  by  the  virgin  moon's  cold  beam, 
Where  some  lost  maid  wild  chaplets  wreathes, 
And,  swan-like,  there  her  own  dirge  breathes, 
Then,  broken-hearted,  sinks  to  rest, 
Beneath  the   bubbling  wave,  that    shrouds   her 
maniac  breast 

Young  Love,  with  eye  of  tender  gloom, 
Now  drooping  o'er  the  hallow'd  tomb 
Where  his  plighted  victims  lie — 
Where  they  met,  but  met  to  die : 
And  now,  when  crimson  buds  are  sleeping, 
Through  the  dewy  arbour  peeping, 
Where   Beauty's   child,   the   frowning   world 

forgot, 

To  youth's  devoted  tale  is  listening, 
Rapture  on  her  dark  lash  glistening, 
While  fairies  leave  their  cowslip  cells  and  guard 
the  happy  spot. 

Thus  rise  the  phantom  throng, 
Obedient  to  their  master's  song, 
And  lead  in  willing  chain  the  wandering  soul  along, 
For  other  worlds  war's  Great  One  sigh'd  in  rain — 
O'er  otherworlds  see  SHAK.SPEAUE  rove  and  reign ! 
The  rapt  magician  of  his  own  wild  lay, 
Earth  and  her  tribes  his  mystic  wand  obey. 
Old  Ocean  trembles,  Thunder  cracks  the  skies, 
Air  teems  with  shapes,  and  tell-tale  spectres  rise : 
Night's  paltering  hags  their  fearful  orgies  keep, 
And  faithless  Guilt  unseals  the  lip  of  Sleep : 
Time  yields  his  trophies  up,  and  Death  restores 
The  mouldered  victims  of  his  voiceless  shores. 
The  fireside  legend,  and  the  faded  page, 
The  crime  that  cursed,  the  deed  that  bless'd  an 

age> 

All,  all  come  forth,  the  good  to  charm  and  cheer, 
To  scourge  bold  Vice,  and  start  the  generous 

tear; 

With  pictured  Folly  gazing  fools  to  shame, 
And  guide  young  Glory's  foot  along  the  path  of 
Fame. 

Lo !  hand  in  hand, 
Hell's  juggling  sisters  stand, 
To  greet  their  victim  from  the  fight ; 

Group'd  on  the  blasted  heath, 
They  tempt  him  to  the  work  of  death,     • 
Then  melt   in  air,  and  mock  his  wondering 
sight. 


128 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


In  midnight's  hallow'd  hour 
He  seeks  the  fatal  tower, 
Where  the  lone  raven,  perch'd  on  high, 
Pours  to  the  sullen  gale 
Her  hoarse,  prophetic  wail, 
And  croaks  the  dreadful  moment  nigh. 
See,  by  the  phantom  dagger  led, 

Pale,  guilty  thing, 
Slowly  he  steals  with  silent  tread, 
And  grasps  his  coward  steel  to  smite  his  sleeping 

king. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  signal  bell, 
Struck  by  that  bold  and  unsex'd  one, 
Whose  milk  is  gall,  whose  heart  is  stone; 
His  ear  hath  caught  the  knell — 

'T  is  done !  't  is  done ! 
Behold  him  from  the  chamber  rushing, 
Where  his  dead  monarch's  blood  is  gashing: 
Look,  where  he  trembling  stands, 

Sad,  gazing  there, 

Life's  smoking  crimson  on  his  hands, 
And  in  his  felon  heart  the  worm  of  wild  despair. 

Mark  the  sceptred  traitor  slumbering ! 

There  flit  the  slaves  of  conscience  round, 
With  boding  tongues  foul  murderers  num- 
bering ; 

Sleep's  leaden  portals  catch  the  sound. 
In  his  dream  of  blood  for  mercy  quaking, 
At  his  own  dull  scream  behold  him  waking ! 
Soon  that  dream  to  fate  shall  turn, 
For  him  the  living  furies  burn ; 
For  him  the  vulture  sits  on  yonder  misty  peak, 
\nd  chides  the  lagging  night,  and  whets  her  hun- 
gry beak. 

Hark !  the  trumpet's  warning  breath 
Echoes  round  the  vale  of  death. 
Unhorsed,  unhelm'd,  disdaining  shield, 
The  panting  tyrant  scours  the  field. 
Vengeance !  he  meets  thy  dooming  blade ! 
The  scourge  of  earth,  the  scorn  of  heaven, 
He  falls !  unwept  and  unforgiven, 
And  all  his  guilty  glories  fade. 
Like  a  crush'd  reptile  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
And  hate's  last  lightning  quivers  from  his  eyes ! 

Behold  yon  crownless  king — 

Yon  white-lock'd,  weeping  sire — 
Where  heaven's  unpillar'd  chambers  ring, 

And  burst  their  streams  of  flood  and  fire ! 
He  gave  them  all — the  daughters  of  his  love : 
That  recreant  pair !   they  drive  him  forth  to 

rove; 

In  such  a  night  of  wo, 
The  cubless  regent  of  the  wood 
Forgets  to  bathe  her  fangs  in  blood, 
And  caverns  with  her  foe ! 
Yet  one  was  ever  kind : 
Why  lingers  she  behind  ] 
0  pity ! — view  him  by  her  dead  form  kneeling, 
Even  in  wild  frenzy  holy  nature  feeling. 

His  aching  eyeballs  strain, 
To  see  those  curtain'd  orbs  unfold, 
That  beauteous  bosom  heave  again: 

But  all  is  dark  and  cold. 
In  agony  the  father  shakes ; 


Grief's  choking  note 
Swells  in  his  throat, 

Each  wither'd  heart-string  tugs  and  breaks ! 
Round  her  pale  neck  his  dying  arms  he  wreathes, 
And  on  her  marble  lips  his  last,  his  death-kiss 
breathes. 

Down!  trembling  wing:  shall  insect  weakness  keep 
The  sun-defying  eagle's  sweep  1 
A  mortal  strike  celestial  strings, 
And  feebly  echo  what  a  seraph  sings  ? 

Who  now  shall  grace  the  glowing  throne, 
Where,  all  unrivall'd,  all  alone, 
Bold  SHAKSPEARP.  sat, and  look'd  creation  through, 
The  minstrel  monarch  of  the  worlds  he  drew  1 

That  throne  is  cold — that  lyre  in  death  unstrung, 
On  whose  proud  note  delighted  Wonder  hung. 
Yet  old  Oblivion,  as  in  wrath  he  sweeps, 
One  spot  shall  spare — the  grave  where  SH  AKSPEAHE 

sleeps. 

Rulers  and  ruled  in  common  gloom  may  lie, 
But  Nature's  laureate  bards  shall  never  die. 
Art's  chisell'd  boast  tmd  Glory's  trophied  shore 
Must  live  in  numbers,  or  can  live  no  more. 
While  sculptured  Jove  some  nameless  waste  may 

claim, 

Still  roars  the  Olympic  car  in  PINDA  it's  fame : 
Troy's  doubtful  walls,  in  ashes  pass'd  away, 
Yet  frown  on  Greece  in  HOMER'S  deathless  lay; 
Rome,  slowly  sinking  in  her  crumbling  fanes, 
Stands  all  immortal  in  her  MARO'S  strains ; 
So,  too,  yon  giant  empress  of  the  isles, 
On  whose  broad  sway  the  sun  forever  smiles, 
To  Time's  unsparing  rage  one  day  must  bend, 
And  all  her  triumphs  in  her  SUAK.SPEAHE  end ! 

O  thou !  to  whose  creative  power 

We  dedicate  the  festal  hour, 
While  Grace  and  Goodness  round  the  altar  stand, 
Learning's  anointed  train,  and  Beauty's  rose-lipp'd 

band — 

Realms  yet  unborn,  in  accents  now  unknown, 
Thy  song  shall  learn,  and  bless  it  for  their  own. 
Deep  in  the  west,  as  Independence  roves, 
His  banners  planting  round  the  land  he  loves, 
Where  Nature  sleeps  in  Eden's  infant  grace, 
In  Time's  full  hour  shall  spring  a  glorious  race  : 
Thy  name,  thy  verse,  thy  language  shall  they  bear, 
And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple  there. 

Our  Roman-hearted  fathers  broke 

Thy  parent  empire's  galling  yoke  ; 

But  thou,  harmonious  monarch  of  the  mind, 

Around  their  sons  a  gentler  chain  shall  bind ; 

Still  o'er  our  land  shall  Albion's  sceptre  wave, 

And  what  her  mighty  lion  lost,  her  mightier  swan 

shall  save. 


THE  BROTHERS. 

WE  are  but  two — the  others  sleep 
Through  death's  untroubled  night ; 

We  are  but  two — O,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


129 


Heart  leaps  to  heart — the  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 

That  good  old  man — his  honest  blood 
Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  lock'd- 

Long  be  her  love  repaid ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rock'd, 

Round  the  same  hearth  we  play'd. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  wo ; — 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

We  are  but  two — be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 


ART. 


tf,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 

Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  cross'd  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'T  was  Art  !  sweet  Art  !  new  radiance  broke 

Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground, 
And  thus  with  seraph  voice  she  spoke  : 

"  The  curse  a  blessing  shall  be  found." 

Shn  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeam  never  blazed  ; 
The  thistle  shrunk,  the  harvest  smiled, 

And  Nature  gladden'd  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 

At  Art's  command,  to  him  are  given  ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

He  rends  the  oak  —  and  bids  it  ride, 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced  ; 
He  smites  the  rock  —  upheaved  in  pride, 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste. 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal, 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He/  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  beauty's  lap  to  fill; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
With  thoughts  that  fill  his  glowing  soul, 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page, 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  control, 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name,  « 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky, 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  throne  on  high. 
In  war  renown'd,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace  ; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race. 
I  17 


LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE.' 


O,  IT  is  life !  departed  days 
Fling  back  their  brightness  while  I  gaze : 
'Tis  EMMA'S  self — this  brow  so  fair, 
Half-curtain'd  in  this  glossy  hair, 
These  eyes,  the  very  home  of  love, 
The  dark  twin  arches  traced  above, 
These  red-ripe  lips  that  almost  speak, 
The  fainter  blush  of  this  pure  cheek, 
The  rose  and  lily's  beauteous  strife — 
It  is — ah  no ! — 'tis  all  but  life. 

'Tis  all  but  life — art  could  not  save 

Thy  graces,  EMMA,  from  the  grave ; 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  thy  smile  is  past, 

Thy  love-lit  eyes  have  look'd  their  last ; 

Mouldering  beneath  the  coffin's  lid, 

All  we  adored  of  thee  is  hid ; 

Thy  heart,  where  goodness  loved  to  dwell, 

Is  throbless  in  the  narrow  cell ; 

Thy  gentle  voice  shall  charm  no  more ; 

Its  last,  last,  joyful  note  is  o'er. 

Oft,  oft,  indeed,  it  hath  been  sung, 
The  requiem  of  the  fair  and  young ; 
The  theme  is  old,  alas  !  how  old, 
Of  grief  that  will  not  be  controll'd, 
Of  sighs  that  speak  a  father's  wo, 
Of  pangs  that  none  but  mothers  know, 
Of  friendship,  with  its  bursting  heart, 
Doom'd  from  the  idol-one  to  part — 
Still  its  sad  debt  must  feeling  pay, 
Till  feeling,  too,  shall  pass  away. 

0  say,  why  age,  and  grief,  and  pain 
Shall  long  to  go,  but  long  in  vain ; 
Why  vice  is  left  to  mock  at  time, 
And,  gray  in  years,  grow  gray  in  crime ; 
While  youth,  that  every  eye  makes  glad, 
And  beauty,  all  in  radiance  clad, 
And  goodness,  cheering  every  heart, 
Come,  but  come  only  to  depart ; 
Sunbeams,  to  cheer  life's  wintry  day, 
Sunbeams,  to  flash,  then  fade  away. 

'Tis  darkness  all !  black  banners  wave 
Round  the  cold  borders  of  the  grave ; 
There,  when  in  agony  we  bend 
O'er  the  fresh  sod  that  hides  a  friend, 
One  only  comfort  then  we  know — 
We,  too,  shall  quit  this  world  of  wo ; 
We,  too,  shall  find  a  quiet  place 
With  the  dear  lost  ones  of  our  race ; 
Our  crumbling  bones  with  theirs  shall  blend, 
And  life's  sad  story  find  an  end. 

And  is  this  all — this  mournful  doom  ? 
Beams  no  glad  light  beyond  the  tomb  1 
Mark  how  yon  clouds  in  darkness  ride ; 
They  do  not  quench  the  orb  they  hide  ; ' 
Still  there  it  wheels — the  tempest  o'er, 
In  a  bright  sky  to  burn  once  more ; 
So,  far  above  the  clouds  of  time, 
Faith  can  behold  a  world  sublime — 
There,  when  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 
The  light  beyond  shall  break  at  last. 


130 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


THE  WINGED  WORSHIPPERS. 

GAT,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  Goo  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  't  is  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's,  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  rear'd  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay, 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 
I'd  bathe  in  you  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'T  were  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  Nature's  own  great  GOD  adore. 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 

GOD  of  wisdom,  GOD  of  might, 

Father !  dearest  name  of  all, 
Bow  thy  throne  and  bless  our  rite ; 

'T  is  thy  children  on  thee  call. 
Glorious  ONE  !  look  down  from  heaven, 

Warm  each  heart  and  wake  each  vow ; 
Unto  Thee  this  house  is  given ; 

With  thy  presence  fill  it  now. 

Fill  it  now !  on  every  soul 

Shed  the  incense  of  thy  grace, 
While  our  anthem-echoes  roll 

Round  the  consecrated  place ; 
While  thy  holy  page  we  read, 

While  the  prayers  Thou  lovest  ascend, 
While  thy  cause  thy  servants  plead, — 

Fill  this  house,  our  GOD,  our  Friend. 

Fill  it  now— O,  fill  it  long ! 

So,  when  death  shall  call  us  home, 
Still  to  Thee,  in  many  a  throng, 

May  our  children's  children  come. 
Bless  them,  Father,  long  and  late, 

Blot  their  sins,  their  sorrows  dry ; 


Make  this  place  to  them  the  gate 
Leading  to  thy  courts  on  high. 

There,  when  time  shall  be  no  more, 

When  the  feuds  of  earth  are  past, 
May  the  tribes  of  every  shore 

Congregate  in  peace  at  last ! 
Then  to  Thee,  thou  ONE  all-wise, 

Shall  the  gather'd  millions  sing, 
Till  the  arches  of  the  skies 

With  their  hallelujahs  ring. 


TO  MY  CIGAR. 

YES,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 

In  learned  doctors'  spite ; 
Thy  clouds  all  other  clouds  dispel, 

And  lap  me  in  delight. 

What  though  they  tell,  with  phizzes  long, 

My  years  are  sooner  pass'd  ? 
I  would  reply,  with  reason  strong, 

They  're  sweeter  while  they  last. 

And  oft,  mild  friend,  to  me  thou  art 

A  monitor,  though  still ; 
Thou  speak'st  a  lesson  to  my  heart, 

Beyond  the  preacher's  skill. 

Thou'rt  like  the  man  of  worth,  who  gives 

To  goodness  every  day, 
The  odour  of  whose  virtues  lives 

When  he  has  passed  away. 

When,  in  the  lonely  evening  hour, 

Attended  but  by  thee, 
O'er  history's  varied  page  I  pore, 

Man's  fate  in  thine  I  see. 

Oft  as  thy  snowy  column  grows, 

Then  breaks  and  falls  away, 
I  trace  how  mighty  realms  thus  rose, 

Thus  tumbled  to  decay. 

A  while,  like  thee,  earth's  masters  burn, 
And  smoke  and  fume  around, 

And  then,  like  thee,  to  ashes  turn, 
And  mingle  with  the  ground. 

Life 's  but  a  leaf  adroitly  roll'd, 
And  time 's  the  wasting  breath, 

That  late  or  early,  we  behold, 
Gives  all  to  dusty  death. 

From  beggar's  frieze  to  monarch's  robe, 
One  common  doom  is  pass'd  : 

Sweet  nature's  works,  the  swelling  globe, 
Must  all  burn  out  at  last. 

And  what  is  he  who  smokes  thee  now  1 — 

A  little  moving  heap, 
That  soon  like  thee  to  fate  must  bow, 

With  thee  in  dust  must  sleep. 

But  though  thy  ashes  downward  go, 

Thy  essence  rolls  on  high  ; 
Thus,  when  my  body  must  lie  low, 

My  soul  shall  cleave  the  sky. 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


131 


CENTENNIAL   ODE.* 


NOT  to  the  pagan's  mount  I  turn 

For  inspirations  now ; 
Olympus  and  its  gods  I  spurn — 

Pure  One,  be  with  me,  Thou! 

Thou,  in  whose  awful  name, 

From  suffering  and  from  shame 
Our  fathers  fled,  and  braved  a  pathless  sea ; 

Thou,  in  whose  holy  fear, 

They  fix'd  an  empire  here, 
And  gave  it  to  their  children  and  to  Thee. 

IT. 
And  You !  ye  bright-ascended  Dead, 

Who  scorn'd  the  bigot's  yoke, 
Come,  round  this  place  your  influence  shed ; 
Your  spirits  I  invoke. 
Come,  as  ye  came  of  yore, 
When  on  an  unknown  shore 
Your  daring  hands  the  flag  of  faith  unfurl'd, 
To  float  sublime, 
Through  future  time 
The  beacon-banner  of  another  world. 


Behold!  they  come — those  sainted  forms, 
Unshaken  through  the  strife  of  storms ; 
Heaven's  winter  cloud  hangs  coldly  down, 
And  earth  puts  on  its  rudest  frown ; 
But  colder,  ruder  was  the  hand 
That  drove  them  from  their  own  fair  land ; 

Their  own  fair  land — refinement's  chosen  seat, 

Art's  trophied  dwelling,  Learning's  green  retreat ; 

By  valour  guarded,  and  by  victory  crown'd, 

For  all,  but  gentle  charity  renown'd. 
With  streaming  eye,  yet  steadfast  heart, 
Even  from  that  land  they  dared  to  part, 

And  burst  each  tender  tie ; 
Haunts,  where  their  sunny  youth  was  pass'd, 
Homes,  where  they  fondly  hoped  at  last 

In  peaceful  age  to  die. 
Friends,  kindred,  comfort,  all  they  spurn'd; 

Their  fathers'  hallow'd  graves ; 
And  to  a  world  of  darkness  turn'd, 
Beyond  a  world  of  waves. 

ir. 

When  ISRAEL'S  race  from  bondage  fled, 
Signs  from  on  high  the  wanderers  led ; 
But  here — Heaven  hung  no  symbol  here, 
Thtir  steps  to  guide,  their  souls  to  cheer ; 
They  saw,  through  sorrow's  lengthening  night, 
Naught  but  the  fagot's  guilty  light ; 
The  cloud  they  gazed  at  was  the  smoke 
That  round  their  murder'd  brethren  broke. 
Nor  power  above,  nor  power  below 
Sustain'd  them  in  their  hour  of  wo; 
A  fearful  path  they  trod, 

And  dared  a  fearful  doom ; 

To  build  an  altar  to  their  GOD, 

And  find  a  quiet  tomb. 

*  Pronounced  at  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  the 
Settlement  of  Boston,  September,  1S30. 


But  not  alone,  not  all  unbless'd, 
The  exile  sought  a  place  of  rest ; 
OJTE  dared  with  him  to  burst  the  knot 
That  bound  her  to  her  native  spot ; 
Her  low,  sweet  voice  in  comfort  spoke, 
As  round  their  bark  the  billows  broke ; 
She  through  the  midnight  watch  was  there, 
With  him  to  bend  her  knees  in  prayer ; 
She  trod  the  shore  with  girded  heart, 
Through  good  and  ill  to  claim  her  part ; 
In  life,  in  death,  with  him  to  seal 
Her  kindred  love,  her  kindred  zeal. 


They  come ; — that  coming  who  shall  tell  1 
The  eye  may  weep,  the  heart  may  swell, 
But  the  poor  tongue  in  vain  essays 
A  fitting  note  for  them  to  raise. 
We  hear  the  after-shout  that  rings 
For  them  who  smote  the  power  of  kings ; 
The  swelling  triumph  all  would  share, 
But  who  the  dark  defeat  would  dare, 
And  boldly  meet  the  wrath  and  wo 
That  wait  the  unsuccessful  blow  ? 
It  were  ah  envied  fate,  we  deem, 
To  live  a  land's  recorded  theme, 

When  we  are  in  the  tomb ; 
We,  too,  might  yield  the  joys  of  home, 
And  waves  of  winter  darkness  roam, 

And  tread  a  shore  of  gloom — 
Knew  we  those  waves,  through  coming  time, 
Should  roll  our  names  to  every  clirne ; 
Felt  we  that  millions  on  that  shore 
Should  stand,  our  memory  to  adore. 
But  no  glad  vision  burst  in  light 
Upon  the  Pilgrims'  aching  sight ; 
Their  hearts  no  proud  hereafter  swell'd ; 
Deep  shadows  veil'd  the  way  they  held ; 
The  yell  of  vengeance  was  their  trump  of  fame, 
Their  monument,  a  grave  without  a  name. 


Yet,  strong  in  weakness,  there  they  stand, 

On  yonder  ice-bound  rock, 
Stern  and  resolved,  that  faithful  band, 

To  meet  fate's  rudest  shock. 
Though  anguish  rends  the  father's  breast, 
For  them,  his  dearest  and  his  best, 

With  him  the  waste  who  trod — 
Though  tears  that  freeze,  the  mother  sheds 
Upon  her  children's  houseless  heads — 

The  Christian  turns  to  GOD  ! 

VIII. 

In  grateful  adoration  now, 
Upon  the  barren  sands  they  bow. 
What  tongue  of  joy  e'er  woke  such  prayer 
As  bursts  in  desolation  there  7 
What  arm  of  strength  e'er  wrought  such  power 
As  waits  to  crown  that  feeble  hour  ? 
There  into  life  an  infant  empire  springs  !• 
There  falls  the  iron  from  the  soul ; 
There  Liberty's  young  accents  roll 
Up  to  the  King  of  kings ! 


132 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


To  fair  creation's  farthest  bound 
That  thrilling  summons  yet  shall  sound ; 
The  dreaming  nations  shall  awake, 
And  to  their  centre  earth's  old  kingdoms  shake. 
Pontiff  and  prince,  your  sway 
Must  crumble  from  that  day ; 
Before  the  loftier  throne  of  Heaven 
The  hand  is  raised,  the  pledge  is  given — 
One  monarch  to  obey,  one  creed  to  own, 
That  monarch,  GOD  ;  that  creed,  His  word  alone. 


Spread  out  earth's  holiest  records  here, 
Of  days  and  deeds  to  reverence  dear ; 
A  zeal  like  this  what  pious  legends  tell  7 
On  kingdoms  built 
In  blood  and  guilt, 

The  worshippers  of  vulgar  triumph  dwell — 
But  what  exploits  with  theirs  shall  page, 

Who  rose  to  bless  their  kind — 
Who  left  their  nation  and  their  age, 
Man's  spirit  to  unbind  1 

Who  boundless  seas  pass'd  o'er, 
And  boldly  met,  in  every  path, 
Famine,  and  frost,  and  heathen  wrath, 

To  dedicate  a  shore, 

Where  Piety's  meek  train  might  breathe  their  vow, 
And  seek  their  Maker  with  an  unshamed  brow ; 
Where  Liberty's  glad  race  might  proudly  come, 
And  set  up  there  an  everlasting  home] 


O,  many  a  time  it  hath  been  told, 
The  story  of  those  men  of  old. 

For  this  fair  Poetry  hath  wreathed 
Her  sweetest,  purest  flower ; 

For  this  proud  Eloquence  hath  breathed 

His  strain  of  loftiest  power ; 
Devotion,  too,  hath  linger'd  round 
Each  spot  of  consecrated  ground, 

And  hill  and  valley  bless'd ; 
There,  where  our  banish'd  fathers  stray'd, 
There,  where  they  loved,  and  wept,  and  pray'd, 

There,  where  their  ashes  rest. 


And  never  may  they  rest  unsung, 
While  Liberty  can  find  a  tongue. 
Twine,  Gratitude,  a  wreath  for  them, 
More  deathless  than  the  diadem, 
Who,  to  life's  noblest  end, 
Gave  up  life's  noblest  powers, 

And  bade  the  legacy  descend 
Down,  down  to  us  and  ours. 


By  centuries  now  the  glorious  hour  we  mark, 
When  to  these  shores  they  steer'd  their  shatter'd 

bark; 

And  still,  as  other  centuries  melt  away, 
Shall  other  ages  come  to  keep  the  day. 
When  we  are  dust,  who  gather  round  this  spot, 
Our  joys,  our  griefs,  our  very  names  forgot, 
Here  shall  the  dwellers  of  the  land  be  seen, 
To  keep  the  memory  of  the  Pilgrims  green. 


Nor  here  alone  their  praises  shall  go  round, 
Nor  here  alone  their  virtues  shall  abound — 
Broad  as  the  empire  of  the  free  shall  spread, 
Far  as  the  foot  of  man  shall  dare  to  tread, 
Where  oar  hath  never  dipp'd,  where  human  tongue 
Hath  never  through  the  woods  of  ages  rung, 
There,  where  the  eagle's  scream  and  wild  wolf 's  cry 
Keep  ceaseless  day  and  night  through  earth  and  sky, 
Even  there,  in  after  time,  as  toil  and  taste 
Go  forth  in  gladness  to  redeem  the  waste, 
Even  there  shall  rise,  as  grateful  myriads  throng, 
Faith's  holy  prayer  and  Freedom's  joyful  song ; 
There  shall  the  flame  that  fiash'd  from  yonder  Rock, 
Light  up  the  land,  till  nature's  final  shock. 


Yet  while,  by  life's  endearments  crown'd, 
To  mark  this  day  we  gather  round, 
And  to  our  nation's  founders  raise 
The  voice  of  gratitude  and  praise, 
Shall  not  one  line  lament  that  lion  race, 
For  us  struck  out  from  sweet  creation's  face  ? 
Alas !  alas  !  for  them — those  fated  bands, 
Whose  monarch  tread  was  on  these  broad,  green 

lands; 

Our  fathers  call'd  them  savage — them,whose  bread, 
In  the  dark  hour,  those  famish'd  fathers  fed ; 
We  call  them  savage,  we, 
Who  hail  the  struggling  free 
Of  every  clime  and  hue ; 
We,  who  would  save 
The  branded  slave, 
And  give  him  lil>erty  he  never  knew ; 
We,  who  but  now  have  caught  the  tale 
That  turns  each  listening  tyrant  pale, 
And  bless'd  the  winds  and  waves  that  bore 
The  tidings  to  our  kindred  shore  ; 
The  triumph-tidings  pealing  from  that  land 
Where  up  in  arms  insulted  legions  stand ; 
There,  gathering  round  his  bold  compeers, 
Where  He,  our  own,  our  welcomed  One, 
Riper  in  glory  than  in  years, 
Down  from  his  forfeit  throne 
A  craven  monarch  hurl'd, 
And  spurn'd  him  forth,  a  proverb  to  the  world ! 


We  call  them  savage — 0,  be  just ! 

Their  outraged  feelings  scan ; 
A  voice  comes  forth,  'tis  from  the  dust — 

The  savage  was  a  man ! 
Think  ye  he  loved  not  1     Who  stood  by, 

And  hi  his  toils  took  part  1 
Woman  was  there  to  bless  his  eye — 

The  savage  had  a  heart ! 
Think  ye  he  pray'd  not  1     When  on  high 

He  heard  the  thunders  roll, 
What  bade  him  look  beyond  the  sky  ? 

The  savage  had  a  soul ! 


I  venerate  the  Pilgrim's  cause, 

Yet  for  the  red  man  dare  to  plead — 

We  bow  to  Heaven's  recorded  laws, 
He  turu'd  to  nature  for  a  creed ; 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


133 


Beneath  the  pillar'd  dome, 
We  seek  our  GOD  in  prayer ; 

Through  boundless  woods  he  loved  to  roam, 

And  the  Great  Spirit  worshipp'd  there. 
But  one,  one  fellow-throb  with  us  he  felt ; 
To  one  divinity  with  us  he  knelt ; 
Freedom,  the  self-same  Freedom  we  adore, 
Bade  him  defend  his  violated  shore. 

He  saw  the  cloud,  ordain'd  to  grow, 

And  burst  upon  his  hills  in  wo ; 

He  saw  his  people  withering  by, 

Beneath  the  invader's  evil  eye ; 
Strange  feet  were  trampling  on  his  father's  bones ; 

At  midnight  hour  he  woke  to  gaze 

Upon  his  happy  cabin's  blaze, 
And  listen  to  his  children's  dying  groans. 

He  saw — and,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

Gave  his  bold  bosom  to  the  fight ; 

To  tiger  rage  his  soul  was  driven ; 

Mercy  was  not — nor  sought  nor  given ; 

The  pale  man  from  his  lands  must  fly ; 

He  would  be  free— or  he  would  die. 


And  was  this  savage  1  say, 
Ye  ancient  few, 
Who  struggled  through 
Young  Freedom's  trial-day — 
What  first  your  sleeping  wrath  awoke  ! 
On  your  own  shores  war's  larum  broke ; 
What  turn'd  to  gall  even  kindred  blood  ! 
Round  your  own  homes  the  oppressor  stood ; 
This  every  warm  affection  chill'd, 
This  every  heart  with  vengeance  thrill'd, 
And  strengthen'd  every  hand ; 
From  mound  to  mound 
The  word  went  round — 
"  Death  for  our  native  land !" 


Ye  mothers,  too,  breathe  ye  no  sigh 
For  them  who  thus  could  dare  to  die  1 
Are  all  your  own  dark  hours  forgot, 

Of  soul-sick  suffering  here  1 
Your  pangs,  as,  from  yon  mountain  spot, 
Death  spoke  in  every  booming  shot 

That  knell'd  upon  your  ear '.' 
How  oft  that  gloomy,  glorious  tale  ye  tell, 
As  round  your  knees  your  children's  children  hang, 

Of  them,  the  gallant  ones,  ye  loved  so  well, 
Who  to  the  conflict  for  their  country  sprang ! 
In  pride,  in  all  the  pride  of  wo, 
Ye  tell  of  them,  the  brave  laid  low, 

Who  for  their  birth-place  bled ; 
In  pride,  the  pride  of  triumph  then, 
Ye  tell  of  them,  the  matchless  men, 

From  whom  the  invaders  fled. 

XVIII. 

And  ye,  this  holy  place  who  throng, 
The  annual  theme  to  hear, 
And  bid  the  exulting  song 
Sound  their  great  names  from  year  to  year ; 
Ye,  who  invoke  the  chisel's  breathing  grace, 
In  marble  majesty  their  forms  to  trace ; 


Ye,  who  the  sleeping  rocks  would  raise, 
To  guard  their  dust  and  speak  their  praise ; 
Ye,  who,  should  some  other  band 
With  hostile  foot  defile  the  land, 
Feel  that  ye  like  them  would  wake, 
Like  them  the  yoke  of  bondage  break, 
Nor  leave  a  battle-blade  undrawn, 
Though  every  hill  a  sepulchre  should  yawn- 
Say,  have  not  ye  one  line  for  those, 

One  brother-line  to  spare, 
Who  rose  but  as  your  fathers  rose, 

And  dared  as  ye  would  dare  7 

XIX. 

Alas  !  for  them — their  day  is  o'er, 
Their  fires  are  out  from  hill  and  shore ; 
No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds ; 
The  plough  is  on  their  hunting-grounds ; 
The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through  their  woods 
The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods, 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry ; 
Their  children — look,  by  power  oppress'd, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west, 

Their  children  go — to  die. 


0,  doubly  lost !  Oblivion's  shadows  close 

Around  their  triumphs  and  their  woes. 

On  other  realms,  whose  suns  have  set, 

Reflected  radiance  lingers  yet ; 

There  sage  and  bard  have  shed  a  light 

That  never  shall  go  down  in  night ; 

There  time-crown'd  columns  stand  on  high, 

To  tell  of  them  who  cannot  die; 

Even  we,  who  then  were  nothing,  kneel 
In  homage  there,  and  join  earth's  general  peal. 
But  the  doom'd  Indian  leaves  behind  no  trace, 
To  save  his  own,  or  serve  another  race ; 
With  his  frail  breath  his  power  has  pass'd  away, 
His  deeds,  his  thoughts  are  buried  with  his  clay ; 

Nor  lofty  pile,  nor  glowing  page 

Shall  link  him  to  a  future  age, 

Or  give  him  with  the  past  a  rank ; 
His  heraldry  is  but  a  broken  bow, 
His  history  but  a  tale  of  wrong  and  wo, 

His  very  name  must  be  a  blank. 


Cold,  with  the  beast  he  slew,  he  sleeps ; 

O'er  him  no  filial  spirit  weeps  ; 
No  crowds  throng  round,  no  anthem-notes  ascend, 
To  bless  his  coming  and  embalm  his  end ; 
Even  that  he  lived,  is  for  his  conqueror's  tongue ; 
By  foes  alone  his  death-song  must  be  sung  ;• 

No  chronicles  but  theirs  shall  tell 
His  mournful  doom  to  future  times ; 

May  these  upon  his  virtues  dwell, 
And  in  his  fate  forget  his  crimes. 

XXII. 

Peace  to  the  mingling  dead ! 

Beneath  the  turf  we  tread, 

Chief,  pilgrim,  patriot  sleep. 
All  gone !  how  changed  !  and  yet  the  same 
As  when  Faith's  herald  bark  first  came 

In  sorrow  o'er  the  deep. 
M 


134 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


Still,  from  his  noonday  height, 
The  sun  looks  down  in  light  ; 
Along  the  trackless  realms  of  space, 
The  stars  still  run  their  midnight  race  ; 
The  same  green  valleys  smile,  the  same  rough  shore 
Still  echoes  to  the  same  wild  ocean's  roar;  — 
But  where  the  bristling  night-wolf  sprang 

Upon  his  startled  prey, 
Where  the  fierce  Indian's  war-cry  rang 

Through  many  a  bloody  fray, 
And  where  the  stern  old  pilgrim  pray'd 

In  solitude  and  gloom, 
Where  the  bold  patriot  drew  his  blade, 

And  dared  a  patriot's  doom,  — 
Behold  !  in  Liberty's  unclouded  blaze 
We  lift  our  heads,  a  race  of  other  days. 


All  gone  !  the  wild  beast's  lair  is  trodden  out  ; 

Proud  temples  stand  in  beauty  there  ; 
Our  children  raise  their  merry  shout 

Where  once  the  death-whoop  vex'd  the  air. 
The  pilgrim  —  seek  yon  ancient  mound  of  graves, 

Beneath  that  chapel's  holy  shade  ; 
Ask,  where  the  breeze  the  long  grass  waves, 

Who,  who  within  that  spot  are  laid  : 
The  patriot  —  go,  to  Fame's  proud  mount  repair; 

The  tardy  pile,  slow  rising  there, 

With  tongueless  eloquence  shall  tell 

Of  them  who  for  their  country  fell. 

XXIV. 

All  gone  !  't  is  ours,  the  goodly  land  — 

Look  round  —  the  heritage  behold  ; 
Go  forth  —  upon  the  mountains  stand  ; 

Then,  if  ye  can,  be  cold. 
See  living  vales  by  living  waters  bless'd  ; 

Their  wealth  see  earth's  dark  caverns  yield  ; 
See  ocean  roll,  in  glory  dress'd, 

For  all  a  treasure,  and  round  all  a  shield  ; 
Hark  to  the  shouts  of  praise 
Rejoicing  millions  raise  ; 
Gaze  on  the  spires  that  rise 
To  point  them  to  the  skies, 
Unfearing  and  unfear'd  ; 
Then,  if  ye  can,  O,  then  forget 
To  whom  ye  owe  the  sacred  debt  — 

The  pilgrim  race  revered  ! 
The  men  who  set  Faith's  burning  lights 
Upon  these  everlasting  heights, 
To  guide  their  children  through  the  years  of  time  ; 
The  men  that  glorious  law  who  taught, 
Unshrinking  liberty  of  thought, 
And  roused  the  nations  with  the  truth  sublime. 

XXV. 

Forget  ?     No,  never  —  ne'er  shall  die 

Those  names  to  memory  dear  ; 
I  read  the  promise  in  each  eye 

That  beams  upon  me  here. 
Descendants  of  a  twice-recorded  race  ! 
Long  may  ye  here  your  lofty  lineage  grace. 
'T  is  not  for  you  home's  tender  tie 

To  rend,  and  brave  the  waste  of  waves  ; 
'T  is  not  for  you  to  rouse  and  die, 

Or  yield,  and  live  a  line  of  slaves. 


The  deeds  of  danger  and  of  death  are  done  : 

Upheld  by  inward  power  alone, 

Unhonour'd  by  the  world's  loud  tongue, 

'T  is  yours  to  do  unknown, 
And  then  to  die  unsung. 
To  other  days,  to  other  men  belong 
The  penman's  plaudit,  and  the  poet's  song; 

Enough  for  glory  has  been  wrought ; 

By  you  be  humbler  praises  sought ; 

In  peace  and  truth  life's  journey  run, 
And  keep  unsullied  what  your  fathers  won. 


Take  then  my  prayer,  ye  dwellers  of  this  spot ! 
Be  yours  a  noiseless  and  a  guiltless  lot. 

I  plead  not  that  ye  bask 
In  the  rank  beams  of  vulgar  fame ; 

To  light  your  steps,  I  ask 
A  purer  and  a  holier  flame. 
No  bloated  growth  I  supplicate  for  yon, 
No  pining  multitude,  no  pamper'd  few ; 
'T  is  not  alone  to  coffer  gold, 
Nor  spreading  borders  to  behold ; 
'T  is  not  fast-swelling  crowds  to  win, 
The  refuse-ranks  of  want  and  sin. 

This  be  the  kind  decree: 
Be  ye  by  goodness  crown'd ; 
Revered,  though  not  renown'd ; 

Poor,  if  Heaven  will,  but  free ! 
Free  from  the  tyrants  of  the  hour, 
The  clans  of  wealth,  the  clans  of  power, 
The  coarse,  cold  scorners  of  their  GOD  ; 
Free  from  the  taint  of  sin, 
The  leprosy  that  feeds  within, 
And  free,  in  mercy,  from  the  bigot's  rod. 


The  sceptre's  might,  the  crosier's  pride, 

Ye  do  not  fear; 
No  conquest  blade,  in  life-blood  dyed, 

Drops  terror  here, — 
Let  there  not  lurk  a  subtler  snare, 
For  wisdom's  footsteps  to  beware. 
The  shackle  and  the  stake 

Our  fathers  fled ; 
Ne'er  may  their  children  wake 
A  fouler  wrath,  a  deeper  dread ; 
Ne'er  may  the  craft  that  fears  the  flesh  to  bind, 
Lock  its  hard  fetters  on  the  mind ; 
Quench'd  be  the  fiercer  flame 
That  kindles  with  a  name ; 
The  pilgrim's  faith,  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
Let  more  than  pilgrim  kindness  seal ; 
Be  purity  of  life  the  test, 
Leave  to  the  heart,  to  heaven,  the  rest. 


So,  when  our  children  turn  the  page, 
To  ask  what  triumphs  mark'd  our  age — 
What  we  achieved  to  challenge  praise, 
Through  the  long  line  of  future  days — 

This  let  them  read,  and  hence  instruction  draw: 
"Here  were  the  many  bless'd, 
Here  found  the  virtues  rest, 

Faith  link'd  with  Love,  and  Liberty  with  Law; 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


135 


Here  industry  to  comfort  led ; 

Her  book  of  light  here  learning  spread ; 

Here  the  warm  heart  of  youth 
Was  woo'd  to  temperance  and  to  truth; 

Here  hoary  age  was  found, 
By  wisdom  and  by  reverence  crown' d. 

No  great  but  guilty  fame 

Here  kindled  pride,  that  should  have  kindled  shame ; 
These  chose  the  better,  happier  part, 
That  pour'd  its  sunlight  o'er  the  heart, 
That  crown'd  their  homes  with  peace  and  health, 
And  weigh'd  Heaven's  smile  beyond  earth's 

wealth; 

Far  from  the  thorny  paths  of  strife 
They  stood,  a  living  lesson  to  their  race, 

Rich  in  the  charities  of  life, 
Man  in  his  strength,  and  woman  in  her  grace ; 
In  purity  and  truth  their  pilgrim  path  they  trod, 
And  when  they  served  their  neighbour,  felt  they 
served  their  GOD." 


This  may  not  wake  the  poet's  verse. 
This  souls  of  fire  may  ne'er  rehearse 

In  crowd-delighting  voice ; 
Yet  o'er  the  record  shall  the  patriot  bend, 
His  quiet  praise  the  moralist  shall  lend, 
And  all  the  good  rejoice. 


This  be  our  story,  then,  in  that  far  day, 
When  others  come  their  kindred  debt  to  pay. 
In  that  far  day  7 — O,  what  shall  be, 
In  this  dominion  of  the  free, 
When  we  and  ours  have  render'd  up  our  trust, 
And  men  unborn  shall  tread  above  our  dust! 
O,  what  shall  be?—  He,  He  alone 
The  dread  response  can  make, 
Who  sitteth  on  the  only  throne 
That  time  shall  never  shake  : 
Before  whose  all-beholding  eyes 
Ages  sweep  on,  and  empires  sink  and  rise. 
Then  let  the  song,  to  Him  begun, 

To  Him  in  reverence  end ; 
Look  down  in  love,  Eternal  One, 

And  Thy  good  cause  defend ; 
Here,  late  and  long,  put  forth  thy  hand, 
To  guard  and  guide  the  Pilgrim's  land. 


LINES  TO  A  YOUNG  MOTHER. 

Youxo  mother !  what  can  feeble  friendship  say, 
To  soothe  the  anguish  of  this  mournful  day ! 
They,  they  alone,  whose  hearts  like  thine  have  bled, 
Know  how  the  living  sorrow  for  the  dead ; 
Each  tutor'd  voice,  that  seeks  such  grief  to  cheer, 
Strikes  cold  upon  the  weeping  parent's  ear ; 
I  've  felt  it  all — alas  !  too  well  I  know 
How  vain  all  earthly  power  to  hush  thy  wo ! 
GOD  cheer  thee,  childless  mother!  'tis  not  given 
For  man  to  ward  the  blow  that  falls  from  heaven. 


I  've  felt  it  all — as  thou  art  feeling  now ; 
Like  thee,  with  stricken  heart  and  aching  brow, 
I  've  sat  and  watch'd  by  dying  beauty's  bed, 
And  burning  tears  of  hopeless  anguish  shed ; 
I  've  gazed  upon  the  sweet,  but  pallid  face, 
And  vainly  tried  some  comfort  there  to  trace ; 
I  've  listen'd  to  the  short  and  struggling  breath ; 
I  've  seen  the  cherub  eye  grow  dim  in  death ; 
Like  thee,  I  've  veil'd  my  head  in  speechless  gloom, 
And  laid  my  first-born  in  the  silent  tomb. 


I  SEE  THEE  STILL. 

"  I  rock'd  her  in  the  cradle, 
And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.    She  was  the  youngest. 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  ?    The  youngest  ne'er  grew  old. 
The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die, 
Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them." 

I  SEE  thee  still  : 

Remembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 
Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 
Thou'rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night; 
In  dreams  I  meet  thee  as  of  old : 
Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear: 
In  every  scene  to  memory  dear 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still, 

In  every  hallow'd  token  round ; 
This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 
This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded, 
This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided, 
These  flowers,  all  wither'd  now,  like  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  me ; 
This  book  was  thine,  here  didst  thou  read ; 
This  picture,  ah !  yes,  here,  indeed, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still : 

Here  was  thy  summer  noon's  retreat, 
Here  was  thy  favourite  fireside  seat ; 
This  was  thy  chamber — here,  each  day, 
I  sat  and  watch'd  thy  sad  decay ; 
Here,  on  this  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie, 
Here,  on  this  pillow,  thou  didst  die : 
Dark  hour!  once  more  its  woes  unfold; 
As  then  I  saw  thee,  pale  and  cold, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still : 

Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined — 
Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  mind ; 
Let  earth  close  o'er  its  sacred  trust, 
But  goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust ; 
Thee,  O !  my  sister,  't  is  not  thee 
Beneath  the  coffin's  lid  I  see ; 
Thou  to  a  fairer  land  art  gone ; 
There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 

To  see  thee  still ! 


136 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  S.  C. 


that  we  must  part — day  after  day, 
I  saw  the  dread  Destroyer  win  his  way ; 
That  hollow  cough  first  rang  the  fatal  knell, 
As  on  my  ear  its  prophet-warning  fell ; 
Feeble  and  slow  thy  once  light  footstep  grew, 
Thy  wasting  cheek  put  on  death's  pallid  hue, 
Thy  thin,  hot  hand  to  mine  more  weakly  clang, 
Each  sweet  "Good  night"  fell  fainter  from  thy 

tongue; 

I  knew  that  we  must  part — no  power  could  save 
Thy  quiet  goodness  from  an  early  grave ; 
Those  eyes  so  dull,  though  kind  each  glance  they 

cast, 

Looking  a  sister's  fondness  to  the  last ; 
Thy  lips  so  pale,  that  gently  press'd  my  cheek, 
Thy  voice— alas !  thou  couldst  but  try  to  speak ; — 
All  told  thy  doom;  I  felt  it  at  my  heart; 
The  shaft  had  struck — I  knew  that  we  must  part. 

And  we  have  parted,  MART — thou  art  gone ! 
Gone  in  thine  innocence,  meek,  suffering  one. 
Thy  weary  spirit  breathed  itself  to  sleep 
So  peacefully,  it  seem'd  a  sin  to  weep, 
In  those  fond  watchers  who  around  thee  stood, 
And  felt,  even  then,  that  GOD,  even  then,  was  good. 
Like  stars  that  struggle  through  the  clouds  of 

night, 

Thine  eyes  one  moment  caught  a  glorious  light, 
As  if  to  thee,  in  that  dread  hour,  'twere  given 
To  know  on  earth  what  faith  believes  of  heaven ; 
Then  like  tired  breezes  didst  fliou  sink  to  rest, 
Nor  one,  one  pang  the  awful  change  confess'd. 
Death  stole  in  softness  o'er  that  lovely  face, 
And  touch'd  each  feature  with  a  new-born  grace ; 
On  cheek  and  brow  unearthly  beauty  lay, 
And  told  that  life's  poor  cares  had  pass'd  away. 
In  my  last  hour  be  Heaven  so  kind  to  me ! 
I  ask  no  more  than  this — to  die  like  thee. 

But  we  have  parted,  MART — thou  art  dead ! 
On  its  last  resting-place  I  laid  thy  head, 
Then  by  thy  coffin-side  knelt  down,  and  took 
A  brother's  farewell  kiss  and  farewell  look ; 
Those  marble  lips  no  kindred  kiss  retum'd ; 
From  those  veil'd  orbs  no  glance  responsive  burn'd ; 
Ah !  then  I  felt  that  thou  hadst  pass'd  away, 
That  the  sweet  face  I  gazed  on  was  but  clay ; 
And  then  came  Memory,  with  her  busy  throng 
Of  tender  images,  forgotten  long ; 
Years  hurried  back,  and  as  they  swiftly  roll'd, 
I  saw  thee,  heard  thee,  as  in  days  of  old ; 
Sad  and  more  sad  each  sacred  feeling  grew; 
Manhood  was  moved,  and  Sorrow  claim'd  her  due ; 
Thick,  thick  and  fast  the  burning  tear-drops  started ; 
I  turn'd  away — and  felt  that  we  had  parted^— 

But  not  forever — in  the  silent  tomb, 
Where  thou  art  laid,  thy  kindred  shall  find  room ; 
A  little  while,  a  few  short  years  of  pain, 
And,  one  by  one,  we  'II  come  to  thee  again ; 
The  kind  old  father  shall  seek  out  the  place, 
And  rest  with  thee,  the  youngest  of  his  race ; 
The  dear,  dear  mother,  bent  with  age  and  grief, 
Shall  lay  her  head  by  thine,  in  sweet  relief; 


Sister  and  brother,  and  that  faithful  friend, 
True  from  the  first,  and  tender  to  the  end, — 
All,  all,  in  His  good  time,  who  placed  us  here, 
To  live,  to  love,  to  die,  and  disappear, 
Shall  come  and  make  their  quiet  bed  with  thee, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  spreading  tree ; 
With  thee  to  sleep  through  death's  long,  dream- 
less night, 
With  thee  rise  up  and  bless  the  morning  light 


THE  FAMILY  MEETING.* 


WE  are  all  here! 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

AH  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  fill'd — we're  all  at  home; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come : 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we're  found: 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour; 

We  're  all — all  here. 

We're  not  all  here! 
Some  are  away — the  dead  ones  dear, 
Who  throng'd  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Look'd  in  and  thinn'd  our  little  band: 
Some  like  a  night-flash  pass'd  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day ; 
The  quiet  graveyard — some  lie  there — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share — 

We  're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Even  they — the  dead — though  dead,  so  dear ; 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remember'd  face  appears ! 
We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past ; 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold ; 
They  're  round  us  as  they  were  of  old — 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  garher'd  dead ; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round, 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
O !  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  buss, 

We  're  all — all  here  ! 

*  Written  on  the  accidental  meeting  of  all  the  surviving 
members  of  a  family. 


HANNAH  F.   GOULD. 


[Bora  about  1792.] 


Miss  GOULD  is  a  native  of  Lancaster,  in  Ver- 
mont, and  was  bom,  I  believe,  in  1792.  Her 
father,  who  was  a  soldier  in  the  revolutionary 
army, — one  of  the  "noble  few"  who  fought  at 
Lexington, — removed,  during  her  youth,  to  New- 
buryport,  near  Boston;  and  the  greater  portion  of 
her  life  has  been  passed  in  that  pleasant  town. 
She  began  to  write  about  twenty  years  ago,  and 
her  poems  have  appeared  in  various  periodicals 


CHANGES  ON  THE  DEEP. 

A  GALLANT  ship !  and  trim  and  tight, 
Across  the  deep  she  speeds  away, 

While  mantled  with  the  golden  light 
The  sun  throws  back,  at  close  of  day. 

And  who,  that  sees  that  stately  ship 

Her  haughty  stem  in  ocean  dip, 

Has  ever  seen  a  prouder  one 

Illumined  by  a  setting  sun  1 

The  breath  of  summer,  sweet  and  soft, 
Her  canvass  swells,  while,  wide  and  fair, 

And  floating  from  her  mast  aloft, 
Her  flag  plays  off  on  gentle  air. 

And,  as  her  steady  prow  divides 

The  waters  to  her  even  sides, 

She  passes,  like  a  bird,  between 

The  peaceful  deep  and  sky  serene. 

And  now  grave  twilight's  tender  veil 

The  moon,  with  shafts  of  silver,  rends ; 
And  down  on  billow,  deck,  and  sail 

Her  placid  lustre  gently  sends. 
The  stars,  as  if  the  arch  of  blue 
Were  pierced  to  let  the  glory  through, 
From  their  bright  world  look  out  and  win 
The  thoughts  of  man  to  enter  in. 

And  many  a  heart  that's  warm  and  true 
That  noble  ship  bears  on  with  pride ; 
While  mid  the  many  forms,  are  two 

Of  passing  beauty,  side  by  side. 
A  fair  young  mother  standing  by 
Her  bosom's  lord,  has  fix'd  her  eye, 
With  his,  upon  the  blessed  star 
That  points  them  to  their  home  afar. 

Their  thoughts  fly  forth  to  those,  who  there 

Are  waiting  now,  with  joy  to  hail 
The  moment  that  shall  grant  their  prayer, 

And  heave  in  sight  their  coming  sail. 
For,  many  a  time  the  changeful  queen 
Of  night  has  vanish'd,  and  been  seen, 
Since,  o'er  a  foreign  shore  to  roam, 
They  passed  from  that  dear,  native  home. 
IS 


since  that  time.    They  have  also  been  collected 
and  published  in  three  duodecimo  volumes. 

Among  American  poets  of  the  second  class, 
Miss  GOULD  has  a  high  rank.  Without  much 
force  of  imagination,  delicacy  of  fancy,  or  affluence 
of  language,  she  has  acquired  popularity  by  the 
purity  of  her  thoughts,  and  the  deep  moral  and 
religious  feeling  she  infuses  into  her  composi- 
tions. 


The  babe,  that  on  its  father's  breast 

Has  let  its  little  eyelids  close, 
The  mother  bears  below  to  rest, 

And  sinks  with  it  in  sweet  repose. 
The  while  a  sailor  climbs  the  shroud, 
And  in  the  distance  spies  a  cloud : 
Low,  like  a  swelling  seed,  it  lies, 
From  which  the  towering  storm  shall  rise. 

The  powers  of  ah"  are  now  about 

To  muster  from  then:  hidden  caves ; 
The  winds,  unchain'd,  come  rushing  out, 

And  into  mountains  heap  the  waves. 
Upon  the  sky  the  darkness  spreads ! 

The  tempest  on  the  ocean  treads ; 
And  yawning  caverns  are  its  track 

Amid  the  waters  wild  and  black. 

Its  voice— but  who  shall  give  the  sounds 

Of  that  dread  voice  ? — The  ship  is  dash'd 
In  roaring  depths — and  now,  she  bounds 

On  high,  by  foaming  surges  lash'd. 
And  how  is  she  the  storm  to  bide  1 
Its  sweeping  wings  are  strong  and  wide ! 
The  hand  of  man  has  lost  control 
O'er  her ! — his  work  is  for  the  soul ! 

She 's  in  a  scene  of  nature's  war : 

The  winds  and  waters  are  at  strife ; 
And  both  with  her  contending  for 
The  brittle  thread  of  human  life 
That  she  contains ;  while  sail  and  shroud 
Have  yielded ;  and  her  head  is  bow'd. 
Then,  who  that  slender  thread  shall  keep, 
But  He,  whose  finger  moves  the  deep  ? 

A  moment — and  the  angry  blast 

Has  done  its  work  and  hurried  on. 
With  parted  cables,  shiver'd  mast ; 

With  riven  sides,  and  anchor  gone, 
Behold  the  ship  in  ruin  lie ; 
While  from  the  waves  a  piercing  cry 
Surmounts  the  tumult  high  and  wild, 
And    shouts    to    heaven,    "  My    child !     my 
child !" 

SM  1ST 


138 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


The  mother  in  the  whelming  surge 

Lifts  up  her  infant  o'er  the  sea, 
While  lying  on  the  awful  verge 

Where  time  unveils  eternity — 
And  calls  to  Mercy,  from  the  skies 
To  come  and  rescue,  while  she  dies, 
The  gift  that,  with  her  fleeting  breath, 
She  offers  from  the  gates  of  death. 

It  is  a  call  for  Heaven  to  hear. 

Maternal  fondness  sends  above 
A  voice,  that  in  her  Father's  ear 

Shall  enter  quick,  for  GOD  is  love. 
In  such  a  moment,  hands  like  these 
Their  Maker  with  their  offering  sees ; 
And  for  the  faith  of  such  a  breast 
He  will  the  blow  of  death  arrest ! 

The  moon  looks  pale  from  out  the  cloud, 
While  Mercy's  angel  takes  the  form 

Of  him,  who,  mounted  on  the  shroud, 
Was  first  to  see  the  coming  storm. 

The  sailor  has  a  ready  arm 

To  bring  relief,  and  cope  with  harm ; 

Though    rough    his  hand,  and  nerved  with 
steel, 

His  heart  is  warm  and  quick  to  feel. 

And  see  him,  as  he  braves  the  frown 
That  sky  and  sea  each  other  give ! 

Behold  him  where  he  plunges  down, 
That  child  and  mother  yet  may  live, 

And  plucks  them  from  a  closing  grave  ! 

They're  saved!  they're  saved!  the  madden'd 
wave 

Leaps  foaming  up,  to  find  its  prey 

Snatch'd  from  its  mouth  and  borne  away. 

They  're  saved !  they  're  saved !  but  where  is  he, 
Who  lull'd  his  fearless  babe  to  sleep  ! 

A  floating  plank  on  that  wild  sea 
Has  now  his  vital  spark  to  keep ! 

But,  by  the  wan,  affrighted  moon 

Help  comes  to  him ;  and  he  is  soon 

Upon  the  deck  with  living  men 

To  clasp  that  smiling  boy  again. 

And  now  can  He,  who  only  knows 
Each  human  breast,  behold  alone 

What  pure  and  grateful  incense  goes 
From  that  sad  wreck  to  his  high  throne. 

The  twain,  whose  hearts  are  truly  one, 

Will  early  teach  their  prattling  son 

Upon  his  little  heart  to  bear 

The  sailor  to  his  GOD,  in  prayer: — 

"  O  Thou,  who  in  thy  hand  dost  hold 

The  winds  and  waves,  that  wake  or  sleep, 
Thy  tender  arms  of  mercy  fold 

Around  the  seamen  on  the  deep ! 
And,  when  their  voyage  of  life  is  o'er, 
May  they  be  welcomed  to  the  shore 
Whose  peaceful  streets  with  gold  are  paved, 
And   angels   sing,   'They're   saved!    they're 
saved !' " 


THE  SNOW-FLAKE. 

"  Now,  if  I  fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  lone  and  lowly  spot, 

To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen,  or  forgot  ? 

And  there  will  my  course  be  ended1!" 
'T  was  this  a  feathery  Snow-flake  said, 
As  down  through  measureless  space  it  stray'd, 
Or  as,  half  by  dalliance,  half-afraid, 

It  seem'd  in  mid-air  suspended. 

"0,  no !"  said  the  Earth,  "thou  shalt  not  lie 
Neglected  and  lone  on  my  lap  to  die, 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky ! 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping. 
But,  then,  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  form — 
Thou  wilt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm, 
But  revive,  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and 
warm, 

And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping ! 

"And  then  thon  shalt  have  thy  choice,  to  be 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  lea, 
In  the  jessamine-bloom,  the  anemone, 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness : — 
To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a  glittering  bead, 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the 

mead, 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed, 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness. 

"  I  '11  let  thee  awake  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep, 
In  a  tremulous  tear ;  or,  a  diamond,  leap 

In  a  drop  from  the  unlock'd  fountain ; 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow,  and  heath, 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath, 
Go  up  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 

Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

"  Or,  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies, 
To  shine  in  the  Iris  I  '11  let  thee  arise, 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending ! 
But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 
I  '11  give  thee  a  new  and  vernal  birth, 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth, 

And  never  regret  descending!" 

"  Then  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  Flake ; 
"But,  bear  it  in  mind,  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers,  nor  the  dew  to  wake ; 

Nor  the  mist,  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning. 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  will  die  with  thee ; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me, 
Must  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free, 

To  the  regions  above  returning. 

"  And  if  true  to  thy  word  and  just  thou  art, 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart, 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart, 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven. 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow ; 
So  thou  mayst  remember  the  Flake  of  Sn&w, 

By  the  promise  that  GOD  hath  given !" 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


139 


THE  WATERFALL. 

YE  mighty  waters,  that  have  join'd  your  forces, 
Roaring  and  dashing  with  this  awful  sound, 

Here  are  ye  mingled ;  but  the  distant  sources 
Whence  ye  have  issued,  where  shall  they  be 
found? 

Who  may  retrace  the  ways  that  ye  have  taken, 
Ye  streams  and  drops  7  who  separate  you  all, 

And  find  the  many  places  ye  've  forsaken, 
To  come  and  rush  together  down  the  fall  ? 

Through  thousand,  thousand  paths  have  ye  been 

roaming, 

In  earth  and  air,  who  now  each  other  urge 
To  the  last  point !  and  then,  so  madly  foaming, 
Leap  down    at   once,  from   this    stupendous 
verge. 

Some  in  the  lowering  cloud  a  while  were  center'd, 
That  in  the  stream  beheld  its  sable  face, 

And  melted  into  tears,  that,  falling,  enter'd 
With  sister  waters  on  this  sudden  race. 

Others,  to  light  that  beam'd  upon  the  fountain, 
Have  from  the  vitals  of  the  rock  been  freed, 

In  silver  threads,  that,  shining  down  the  moun- 
tain, 
Twined  off  among  the  verdure  of  the  mead. 

And  many  a  flower  that  bow'd  beside  the  river, 
In  opening  beauty,  ere  the  dew  was  dried, 

Stirr'd  by  the  breeze,  has  been  an  early  giver 
Of  her  pure  offering  to  the  rolling  tide. 

Thus,  from  the  veins,  through  earth's  dark  bosom 
pouring, 

Many  have  flowed  in  tributary  streams ; 
Some,  in  the  bow  that  bent,  the  sun  adoring, 

Have  shone  in  colours  borrow'd  from  his  beams. 

But  He,  who  holds  the  ocean  in  the  hollow 
Of  his  strong  hand,  can  separate  you  all ! 

His  searching  eye  the  secret  way  will  follow 
Of  every  drop  that  hurries  to  the  fall ! 

We  are,  like  you,  in  mighty  torrents  mingled, 
And  speeding  downward  to  one  common  home ; 

Yet  there's  an  eye  that  every  drop  hath  singled, 
And  mark'd  the  winding  ways  through  which 
we  come. 

Those  who  have  here  adored  the  Sun  of  heaven, 
And  shown  the  world  their  brightness  drawn 
from  him, 

Again  before  him,  though  their  hues  be  seven, 
Shall  blend  their  beauty,  never  to  grow  dim. 

We  bless  the  promise,  as  we  thus  are  tending 
Down  to  the  tomb,  that  gives  us  hope  to  rise 

Before  the  Power  to  whom  we  now  are  bend- 
ing, 
To  stand  his  bow  of  glory  in  the  skies ! 


THE  WINDS. 

WE  come !  we  come !  and  ye  feel  our  might, 
As  we  're  hastening  on  in  our  boundless  flight, 
And  over  the  mountains,  and  over  the  deep, 
Our  broad,  invisible  pinions  sweep, 
Like  the  spirit  of  Liberty,  wild  and  free ! 
And  ye  look  on  our  works,  and  own  't  is  we ; 
Ye  call  us  the  Winds ;  but  can  ye  tell 
Whither  we  go,  or  where  we  dwell ! 

Ye  mark,  as  we  vary  our  forms  of  power, 
And  fell  the  forests,  or  fan  the  flower, 
When  the  hare-bell  moves,  and  the  rush  is  bent, 
When  the  tower 's  o'erthrown,  and  the  oak  is  rent, 
As  we  waft  the  bark  o'er  the  slumbering  wave, 
Or  hurry  its  crew  to  a  watery  grave ; 
And  ye  say  it  is  we !  but  can  ye  trace 
The  wandering  winds  to  their  secret  place  ? 

And,  whether  our  breath  be  loud  or  high, 
Or  come  in  a  soft  and  balmy  sigh, 
Our  threatenings  fill  the  soul  with  fear, 
Or  our  gentle  whisperings  woo  the  ear 
With  music  aerial,  still,  't  is  we. 
And  ye  list,  and  ye  look ;  but  what  do  ye  see  1 
Can  ye  hush  one  sound  of  our  voice  to  peace, 
Or  waken  one  note,  when  our  numbers  cease  1 

Our  dwelling  is  in  the  Almighty's  hand ; 
We  come  and  we  go  at  his  command. 
Though  joy  or  sorrow  may  mark  our  track, 
His  will  is  our  guide,  and  we  look  not  back : 
And  if,  in  our  wrath,  ye  would  turn  us  away, 
Or  win  us  in  gentle  airs  to  play, 
Then  lift  up  your  hearts  to  him,  who  binds 
Or  frees,  as  he  will,  the  obedient  winds. 


THE  SCAR  OF  LEXINGTON. 

WITH  cherub  smile,  the  prattling  boy, 
Who  on  the  veteran's  breast  reclines, 

Has  thrown  aside  his  favourite  toy, 
And  round  his  tender  finger  twines 

Those  scatter'd  locks,  that,  with  the  flight 

Of  fourscore  years,  are  snowy  white ; 

And,  as  a  scar  arrests  his  view, 

He  cries,  "Grandpa,  what  wounded  you?" 

«  My  child,  't  is  five-and-fifty  years 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

Since,  from  a  scene  of  blood  and  tears, 
Where  valour  fell  by  hostile  power, 

I  saw  retire  the  setting  sun 

Behind  the  hills  of  Lexington ; 

While  pale  and  lifeless  on  the  plain 

My  brothers  lay,  for  freedom  slain ! 

"  And  ere  that  fight,  the  first  that  spoke 

In  thunder  to  our  land,  was  o'er, 
Amid  the  clouds  of  fire  and  smoke, 

I  felt  my  garments  wet  with  gore ! 
'T  is  since  that  dread  and  wild  affray, 
That  trying,  dark,  eventful  day, 
From  this  calm  April  eve  so  far, 
I  wear  upon  my  cheek  the  scar. 


140 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


"  When  thou  to  manhood  shalt  be  grown, 

And  I  am  gone  in  dust  to  sleep, 
May  freedom's  rights  be  still  thine  own, 

And  thou  and  thine  in  quiet  reap 
The  unblighted  product  of  the  toil, 
In  which  my  blood  bedew'd  the  soil ! 
And,  while  those  fruits  thou  shalt  enjoy, 
Bethink  thee  of  this  scar,  my  boy. 

"But,  should  thy  country's  voice  be  heard 

To  bid  her  children  fly  to  arms, 
Gird  on  thy  grandsire's  trusty  sword ; 
And,  undismay'd  by  war's  alarms, 
Remember,  on  the  battle-field, 
I  made  the  hand  of  GOD  my  shield : 
And  be  thou  spared,  like  me,  to  tell 
What  bore  thee  up,  while  others  felL" 


THE  WINTER  BURIAL. 

THE  deep-toned  bell  peals  long  and  low, 

On  the  keen,  mid- winter  air; 
A  sorrowing  train  moves  sad  and  slow, 

From  the  solemn  place  of  prayer. 

The  earth  is  in  a  winding-sheet, 

And  nature  wrapp'd  in  gloom, 
Cold,  cold  the  path  which  the  mourners'  feet 

Pursue  to  the  waiting  tomb. 

They  follow  one,  who  calmly  goes 
From  her  own  loved  mansion-door, 

Nor  shrinks  from  the  way  through  gather'd  snows, 
To  return  to  her  home  no  more. 

A  sable  line,  to  the  drift-crown'd  hill, 

The  narrow  pass  they  wind ; 
And  here,  where  all  is  drear  and  chill, 

Their  friend  they  leave  behind. 

The  silent  grave  they  're  bending  o'er, 

A  long  farewell  to  take ; 
One  last,  last  look,  and  then,  no  more 

Till  the  dead  shall  all  awake ! 


THE  FROST. 

THE  Frost  look'd  forth  one  still,  clear  night, 
And  whisper'd,  "  Now  I  shall  be  out  of  sight ; 
So,  through  the  valley,  and  over  the  height, 

In  silence  I  '11  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  on  like  that  blustering  train — 
The  wind  and  the  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain, 
Who  make  so  much  bustle  and  noise  hi  vain ; 

But  I  '11  be  as  busy  as  they." 

Then  he  flew  to  the  mountain,  and  powder'd  its 

crest; 

He  lit  on  the  trees,  and  their  boughs  he  dress'd 
In  diamond  beads ;  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  quivering  lake  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear, 
That  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 


He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  each  pane,  like  a  fairy,  crept ; 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stcpp'd, 

By  the  light  of  the  morn,  were  seen 
Most  beautiful  things;  there  were  flowers  and  trees; 
There  were  bevies  of  birds,  and  swarms  of  bees ; 
There  were  cities,  with  temples  and  towers ;  and 
these 

All  pictured  in  silver  sheen ! 

But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair, — 
He  peep'd  in  the  cupboard,  and  rinding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare, 

"  Now,  just  to  set  them  a-thinking, 
I  '11  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he, 
"This  costly  pitcher  I  '11  burst  in  three; 
And  the  glass  of  water  they  've  left  for  me 

Shall  '  tchick !'  to  tell  them  I  'm  drinking." 


THE  ROBE. 


'T  WAS  not  the  robe  of  state 
Which  the  high  and  the  haughty  wear, 
That  my  busy  hand,  as  the  lamp  burn'd  late, 
Was  hastening  to  prepare. 

It  had  no  clasp  of  gold, 
No  diamond's  dazzling  blaze, 
For  the  festive  board ;  nor  the  graceful  fold 
To  float  in  the  dance's  maze. 

'T  was  not  to  wrap  the  breast 
With  gladness  light  and  warm ; 
For  the  bride's  attire — for  the  joyous  guest, 
Nor  to  clothe  the  sufferer's  form. 

'T  was  not  the  garb  of  wo 
We  wear  o'er  an  aching  heart, 
When  our  eyes  with  bitter  tears  o'erflow, 
And  our  dearest  ones  depart. 

'T  was  what  we  all  must  bear 
To  the  cold,  the  lonely  bed ! 
'T  was  the  spotless  uniform  they  wear 
In  the  chambers  of  the  dead ! 

I  saw  a  fair,  young  maid 
In  the  snowy  vesture  dress'd ; 
So  pure,  she  look'd  as  one  array'd 
For  the  mansions  of  the  bless'd. 

A  smile  had  left  its  trace 
On  her  lip  at  the  parting  breath, 
And  the  beauty  in  that  lovely  face 
Was  fix'd  with  the  seal  of  death  ! 


THE  CONSIGNMENT. 


FIRE,  my  hand  is  on  the  key, 

And  the  cabinet  must  ope ! 
I  shall  now  consign  to  thee 

Things  of  grief,  of  joy,  of  hope. 
Treasured  secrets  of  the  heart 

To  thy  care  I  hence  intrust : 
Not  a  word  must  thou  impart, 

But  reduce  them  all  to  dust. 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


141 


This — in  childhood's  rosy  mom, 

This  was  gaily  fill'd  and  sent. 
Childhood  is  forever  gone ; 

Here — devouring  element. 
This  was  friendship's  cherish'd  pledge ; 

Friendship  took  a  colder  form : 
Creeping  on  its  gilded  edge, 

May  the  blaze  be  bright  and  warm ! 

These — the  letter  and  the  token, 

Never  more  shall  meet  my  view ! 
When  the  faith  has  once  been  broken, 

Let  the  memory  perish  too ! 
This — 't  was  penn'd  while  purest  joy 

Warm'd  the  heart,  and  lit  the  eye: 
Fate  that  peace  did  soon  destroy, 

And  its  transcript  now  will  I ! 

This  must  go !  for,  on  the  seal 

When  I  broke  the  solemn  yew, 
Keener  was  the  pang  than  steel ; 

'T  was  a  heart-string  breaking  too ! 
Here  comes  up  the  blotted  leaf, 

Blister'd  o'er  by  many  a  tear. 
Hence !  thou  waking  shade  of  grief! 

Go,  forever  disappear ! 

This  is  his,  who  seem'd  to  be 

High  as  heaven,  and  fair  as  light : 
But  the  visor  rose,  and  he — 

Spare,  O  memory,  spare  the  sight 
Of  the  face  that  frown'd  beneath, 

While  I  take  it,  hand  and  name, 
And  entwine  it  with  a  wreath 

Of  the  purifying  flame ! 

These — the  hand  is  in  the  grave, 

And  the  soul  is  in  the  skies, 
Whence  they  came !    'T  is  pain  to  save 

Cold  remains  of  sunder'd  ties ! 
Go  together,  all,  and  burn, 

Once  the  treasures  of  my  heart ! 
Still,  my  breast  shall  be  an  urn 

To  preserve  your  better  part ! 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MAIL. 

'T  is  midnight — all  is  peace  profound ! 
But,  lo !  upon  the  murmuring  ground, 
The  lonely,  swelling,  hurrying  sound 

Of  distant  wheels  is  heard ! 
They  come — they  pause  a  moment — when, 
Their  charge  resign'd,  they  start,  and  then 
Are  gone,  and  all  is  hush'd  again, 

As  not  a  leaf  had  stirr'd. 

Hast  thou  a  parent  far  away, 
A  beauteous  child,  to  be  thy  stay 
In  life's  decline — or  sisters,  they 

Who  shared  thine  infant  glee! 
A  brother  on  a  foreign  shore  1 
Is  he  whose  breast  thy  token  bore, 
Or  are  thy  treasures  wandering  o'er 

A  wide,  tumultuous  sea! 


If  aught  like  these,  then  thou  must  feel 
The  rattling  of  that  reckless  wheel, 
That  brings  the  bright,  or  boding  seal, 

On  every  trembling  thread 
That  strings  thy  heart,  till  morn  appears, 
To  crown  thy  hopes,  or  end  thy  fears, 
To  light  thy  smile,  or  draw  thy  tears, 

As  line  on  line  is  read. 

Perhaps  thy  treasure's  in  the  deep, 

Thy  lover  in  a  dreamless  sleep, 

Thy  brother  where  thou  canst  not  weep 

Upon  his  distant  grave ! 
Thy  parent's  hoary  head  no  more 
May  shed  a  silver  lustre  o'er 
His  children  group'd, — nor  death  restore 

Thy  son  from  out  the  wave ! 

Thy  prattler's  tongue,  perhaps,  is  still'd, 

Thy  sister's  lip  is  pale  and  chill'd, 

Thy  blooming  bride,  perchance,  has  fill'd 

Her  corner  of  the  tomb. 
May  be,  the  home  where  all  thy  sweet 
And  tender  recollections  meet, 
Has  shown  its  flaming  winding-sheet 

In  midnight's  awful  gloom ! 

And  while,  alternate,  o'er  my  soul 
Those  cold  or  burning  wheels  will  roll 
Their  chill  or  heat,  beyond  control, 

Till  morn  shall  bring  relief, 
Father  in  heaven,  whate'er  may  be 
The  cup,  which  thou  has  sent  for  me, 
I  know  't  is  good,  prepared  by  Thee, 

Though  fill'd  with  joy  or  grief! 


THE  SHIP  IS  READY. 

FAHE  thee  well !  the  ship  is  ready, 
And  the  breeze  is  fresh  and  steady. 
Hands  are  fast  the  anchor  weighing ; 
High  in  air  the  streamer 's  playing. 
Spread  the  sails — the  waves  are  swelling 
Proudly  round  thy  buoyant  dwelling. 
Fare  thee  well !  and  when  at  sea, 
Think  of  those  who  sigh  for  thee. 

When  from  land  and  home  receding, 
And  from  hearts  that  ache  to  bleeding, 
Think  of  those  behind,  who  love  thee, 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee ! 
Then,  as,  down  to  ocean  glancing, 
In  the  waves  his  rays  are  dancing, 
Think  how  long  the  night  will  be 
To  the  eyes  that  weep  for  thee. 

When  the  lonely  night-watch  keeping, 
All  below  thee  still  and  sleeping, — 
As  the  needle  points  the  quarter 
O'er  the  wide  and  trackless  water, 
Let  thy  vigils  ever  find  thee 
Mindful  of  the  friends  behind  thee ! 
Let  thy  bosom's  magnet  be 
Turn'd  to  those  who  wake  for  thee ! 


142 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


When,  with  slow  and  gentle  motion, 
Heaves  the  bosom  of  the  ocean, — 
While  in  peace  thy  bark  is  riding, 
And  the  silver  moon  is  gliding 
O'er  the  sky  with  tranquil  splendour, 
Where  the  shining  hosts  attend  her: 
Let  the  brightest  visions  be 
Country,  home,  and  friends,  to  thee ! 

When  the  tempest  hovers  o'er  thee, 
Danger,  wreck,  and  death  before  thee, 
While  the  sword  of  fire  is  gleaming, 
Wild  the  winds,  the  torrent  streaming, 
Then,  a  pious  suppliant  bending, 
Let  thy  thoughts,  to  heaven  ascending, 
Reach  the  mercy-seat,  to  be 
Met  by  prayers  that  rise  for  thee  ! 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

« I  AM  a  Pebble !  and  yield  to  none !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone ; — 
«  Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me ; 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail,  and  the  drizzling  rain, 
Have  tried  to  soften  me,  long,  in  vain ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt 
Or  touch  my  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There's  none  that  can  tell  about  my  birth, 
For  I  'm  as  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 
The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world,  like  the  blades  of  grass ; 
And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod, 
That's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod. 
I  am  a  Pebble !  but  who  art  thou, 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough  1" 

The  Acorn  was  shock'd  at  this  rude  salute, 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abash'd  and  mute ; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere ; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 
But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 
Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort, 
At  length  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone, 
«  Since  it  has  happen'd  that  I  am  thrown 
From  the  lighter  element  where  I  grew, 
Down  to  another  so  hard  and  new, 
And  beside  a  personage  so  august, 
Abased,  J  will  cover  my  head  with  dust, 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Wnorn  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun, 
Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !" 
And  soon  in  the  earth  she  sunk  away, 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak ! 
And,  as  it  arose,  and  its  branches  spread, 
The  Pebble  look'd  up,  and,  wondering,  said, 
"  A  modest  Acorn, — never  to  tell 
What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ! 


That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 

In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup ! 

And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth, 

Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth ! 

And,  0  !  how  many  will  tread  on  me, 

To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree, 

Whose  head  is  towering  towards  the  sky, 

Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 

Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 

I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 

But  never,  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  word 

From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard, 

Till  something  without  me  or  within, 

Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I  've  been  I" 

The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 

And  it  lies  there  wrapp'd  in  silence  yet. 


THE  MOON  UPON  THE  SPIRE. 

THE  full-orb'd  moon  has  reach'd  no  higher 
Than  yon  old  church's  mossy  spire, 
And  seems,  as  gliding  up  the  air, 
She  saw  the  fane ;  and,  pausing  there, 
Would  worship,  in  the  tranquil  night, 
The  Prince  of  peace — the  Source  of  light, 
Where  man  for  GOD  prepared  the  place, 
And  GOD  to  man  unveils  his  face. 

Her  tribute  all  around  is  seen ; 
She  bends,  and  worships  like  a  queen ! 
Her  robe  of  light  and  beaming  crown 
In  silence  she  is  casting  down  ; 
And,  as  a  creature  of  the  earth, 
She  feels  her  lowliness  of  birth — 
Her  weakness  and  inconstancy 
Before  unchanging  purity ! 

Pale  traveller,  on  thy  lonely  way, 
'T  is  well  thine  homage  thus  to  pay , 
To  reverence  that  ancient  pile, 
And  spread  thy  silver  o'er  the  aisle 
Which  many  a  pious  foot  has  trod, 
That  now  is  dust  beneath  the  sod ; 
Where  many  a  sacred  tear  was  wept 
From  eyes  that  long  in  death  have  slept ! 

The  temple's  builders — where  are  they  1 

The  worshippers  1 — all  pass'd  away, 

Who  came  the  first,  to  offer  there 

The  song  of  praise,  the  heart  of  prayer ! 

Man's  generation  passes  soon ; 

It  wanes  and  changes  like  the  moon. 

He  rears  the  perishable  wall ; 

But,  ere  it  crumbles,  he  must  fall ! 

And  does  he  sink  to  rise  no  more  1 
Has  he  no  part  to  triumph  o'er 
The  pallid  king  1  no  spark,  to  save 
From  darkness,  ashes,  and  the  gravel 
Thou  holy  place,  the  answer,  wrought 
In  thy  firm  structure,  bars  the  thought ! 
The  spirit  that  establish'd  thee 
Nor  death  nor  darkness  e'er  shall  see ! 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


143 


THE  CHILD  ON  THE  BEACH. 

MART,  a  beautiful,  artless  child, 

Came  down  on  the  beach  to  me, 
Where  I  sat,  and  a  pensive  hour  beguiled 

By  watching  the  restless  sea. 

I  never  had  seen  her  face  before, 

And  mine  was  to  her  unknown ; 
But  we  each  rejoiced  on  that  peaceful  shore 

The  other  to  meet  alone. 

Her  cheek  was  the  rose's  opening  bud, 

Her  brow  of  an  ivory  white ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright  as  the  stars  that  stud 

The  sky  of  a  cloudless  night. 

To  reach  my  side  as  she  gayly  sped, 
With  the  step  of  a  bounding  fawn, 

The  pebbles  scarce  moved  beneath  her  tread, 
Ere  the  little  light  foot  was  gone. 

With  the  love  of  a  holier  world  than  this 

Her  innocent  heart  seem'd  warm ; 
While  the  glad  young  spirit  look'd  out  with  bliss 

From  its  shrine  in  her  sylph-like  form. 

Her  soul  seem'd  spreading  the  scene  to  span 

That  open'd  before  her  view, 
And  longing  for  power  to  look  the  plan 

Of  the  universe  fairly  through. 

She  climb'd  and  stood  on  the  rocky  steep, 
Like  a  bird  that  would  mount  and  fly 

Far  over  the  waves,  where  the  broad,  blue  deep 
Roll'd  up  to  the  bending  sky. 

She  placed  her  lips  to  the  spiral  shell, 

And  breathed  through  every  fold ; 
She  look'd  for  the  depth  of  its  pearly  cell, 

As  a  miser  would  look  for  gold. 

Her  small  white  fingers  were  spread  to  toss 

The  foam,  as  it  reach'd  the  strand : 
She  ran  them  along  in  the  purple  moss, 

And  over  the  sparkling  sand. 

The  green  sea-egg,  by  its  tenant  left, 

And  form'd  to  an  ocean  cup, 
She  held  by  its  sides,  of  their  spears  bereft, 

To  fill,  as  the  waves  roll'd  up. 

But  the  hour  went  round,  and  she  knew  the  space 

Her  mother's  soft  word  assign'd ; 
While  she  seem'd  to  look  with  a  saddening  face 

On  all  she  must  leave  behind. 

She  scarch'd  mid  the  pebbles,  and,  finding  one 

Smooth,  clear,  and  of  amber  dye, 
She  held  it  up  to  the  morning  sun, 

And  over  her  own  mild  eye. 


Then,  "Here,"  said  she,  "I  will-give  you  this, 

That  you  may  remember  me !" 
And  she  scal'd  her  gift  with  a  parting  kiss, 

And  fled  from  beside  the  sea. 

Mary,  thy  token  is  by  me  yet : 

To  me  'tis  a  dearer  gem 
Than  ever  was  brought  from  the  mine,  or  set 

In  the  loftiest  diadem. 

It  carries  me  back  to  the  far-off  deep, 

And  places  me  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  beauteous  child,  who  bade  me  keep 

Her  pebble,  I  meet  once  more. 

And  all  that  is  lovely,  pure,  and  bright, 

In  a  soul  that  is  young,  and  free 
From  the  stain  of  guile,  and  the  deadly  blight 

Of  sorrow,  I  find  in  thee. 

I  wonder  if  ever  thy  tender  heart 

In  memory  meets  me  there, 
Where  thy  soft,  quick  sigh,  as  we  had  to  part, 

Was  caught  by  the  ocean  air. 

Bless'd  one !  over  time's  rude  shore,  on  thee 

May  an  angel  guard  attend, 
And  « a  white,  stone  bearing  a  new  name"  be 

Thy  passport  when  time  shall  end ! 


A  NAME  IN  THE  SAND. 


I  walked  the  ocean  strand  ; 
A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand  : 
I  stoop'd  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 

My  name  —  the  year  —  the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  I  pass'd, 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast  : 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast, 

And  wash'd  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me  ; 
A  wave  of  dark  oblivion's  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  place, 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  time,  and  been  to  be  no  more, 
Of  me  —  my  day  —  the  name  I  bore, 

To  leave  nor  track,  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands, 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
I  know  a  lasting  record  stands, 

Inscribed  against  my  name, 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought  ; 
Of  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought  ; 
And  from  these  fleeting  moments  caught 

For  glory,  or  for  shame. 


CARLOS  WILCOX. 


[Born,  1794.    Died,  1827.] 


?  /,  ( 


THE  ancestors  of  CARLOS  WILCOX  were  among 
the  early  emigrants  to  New  England.  His  father 
was  a  respectable  farmer  at  Newport,  New  Hamp- 
shire, where  the  poet  was  born,  on  the  twenty- 
second  day  of  October,  1794.  When  he  was  about 
four  years  old,  his  parents  removed  to  Orwell,  in 
Vermont;  and  there,  a  few  years  afterward,  he  ac- 
cidentally injured  himself  with  an  axe ;  the  wound, 
for  want  of  care  or  skill,  was  not  healed ;  it  was  a 
cause  of  suffering  for  a  long  period,  and  of  lame- 
ness during  his  life ;  it  made  him  a  minister  of 
religion,  and  a  poet. 

Perceiving  that  this  accident  and  its  conse- 
quences unfitted  him  for  agricultural  pursuits,  his 
parents  resolved  to  give  him  a  liberal  education. 
When,  therefore,  he  was  thirteen  years  old,  he  was 
sent  to  an  academy  at  Castleton ;  and  when  fifteen, 
to  the  college  at  Middlebury.  Here  he  became  re- 
ligious, and  determined  to  study  theology.  He 
won  the  respect  of  the  officers,  and  of  his  asso- 
ciates, by  the  mildness  of  his  temper,  the  gravity 
of  his  manners,  and  the  manliness  of  his  conduct ; 
and  he  was  distinguished  for  his  attainments  in 
languages  and  polite  letters. 

He  was  graduated  in  1813;  and  after  spending 
a  few  months  with  a  maternal  uncle,  in  Georgia, 
he  entered  the  theological  school  at  Andover,  in 
Massachusetts.  He  had  not  been  there  long  when 
one  of  his  classmates  died,  and  he  was  chosen  by 
his  fellows  to  pronounce  a  funeral  oration.  The 
departed  student  was  loved  by  all  for  his  excellent 
qualities ;  but  by  none  more  than  by  WILCOX  ; 
and  the  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  the  purity  of 
diction  which  characterized  his  eulogy,  established 
his  reputation  for  genius  and  eloquence  in  the 
seminary. 

WILCOX  had  at  this  time  few  associates ;  he  was 
a  melancholy  man ;  "  I  walk  my  room,"  he  remarks, 
in  one  of  his  letters,  "with  my  hands  clasped  in 
anguish,  and  my  eyes  streaming  with  tears;"  he 
complained  that  his  mind  was  unstrung,  relaxed 
almost  beyond  the  power  of  reaction ;  that  he  had 
lost  all  control  of  his  thoughts  and  affections,  and 
become  a  passive  slave  of  circumstances ;  « I  feel 
borne  along,"  he  says,  "  in  despairing  listlessness, 
guided  by  the  current  in  all  its  windings,  without 
resolution  to  raise  my  head  to  see  where  I  am,  or 
whither  I  am  going ;  the  roaring  of  a  cataract  before 
me  would  rather  lull  me  to  a  deeper  sleep  than 
rouse  me  to  an  effort  to  escape  destruction."  His 
sufferings  were  apparent  to  his  friends,  among 
whom  there  were  givings-out  concerning  an  un- 
requited passion,  or  the  faithlessness  of  one  whose 
hand  had  been  pledged  to  him ;  and  he  himself 
mentioned  to  some  who  were  his  confidants,  troubles 
of  a  different  kind :  he  was  indebted  to  the  college 
faculty,  and  in  other  ways  embarrassed.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  cause,  all  perceived  that  there 


was  something  preying  on  his  mind ;  that  he  was 
ever  in  dejection. 

As  time  wore  on,  he  became  more  cheerful ;  he 
finished  the  regular  course  of  theological  studies, 
in  1817,  and  in  the  following  spring  returned  to 
Vermont,  where  he  remained  a  year.  In  this  period 
he  began  the  poem,  in  which  he  has  sung 

"Of  true  Benevolence,  its  charms  divine, 
With  other  motives  to  call  forth  its  power, 
And  its  grand  triumphs." 

In  1819,  WILCOX  began  to  preach;  and  his  pro 
fessional  labours  were  constant,  for  a  year,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  his  health  failed,  and  he  ac- 
cepted an  invitation  from  a  friend  at  Salisbury,  in 
Connecticut,  to  reside  at  his  house.  Here  he  re- 
mained nearly  two  years,  reading  his  favourite 
authors,  and  composing  "The  Age  of  Benevo- 
lence." The  first  book  was  published  at  New 
Haven,  in  1822;  it  was  favourably  received  by  the 
journals  and  by  the  public.  He  intended  to  com- 
plete the  poem  in  five  books ;  the  second,  third, 
and  fourth,  were  left  by  him  when  he  died,  ready 
for  the  press ;  but,  for  some  reason,  only  brief  frag- 
ments of  them  have  been  printed. 

During  the  summer  of  1824,  WILCOX  devoted 
his  leisure  hours  to  the  composition  of  "  The  Re- 
ligion of  Taste,"  a  poem  which  he  pronounced 
before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Yale  College ; 
and  in  the  following  winter  he  was  ordained  as 
minister  of  the  North  Congregational  Church,  in 
Hartford.  He  soon  obtained  a  high  reputation  for 
eloquence ;  his  sermons  were  long,  prepared  with 
great  care,  and  delivered  with  deep  feeling.  His 
labours  were  too  arduous ;  his  health  rapidly  de- 
clined; and  in  the  summer  of  1825,  he  sought 
relief  in  relaxation  and  travel.  He  visited  New 
York,  Philadelphia,  the  springs  of  Saratoga,  and, 
for  the  last  time,  his  home  in  Vermont.  In  the 
autumn  he  returned  to  his  parish,  where  he  re- 
mained until  the  spring,  when,  finding  himself 
unable  to  perfprm  the  duties  of  his  office,  he  sent 
to  the  government  of  the  church  his  resignation. 
It  was  reluctantly  accepted,  for  he  had  endeared 
himself,  as  a  minister  and  a  man,  to  all  who  knew 
him.  The  summer  of  1826  was  passed  at  New- 
port, Rhode  Island,  in  the  hope  that  the  sea-breeze 
and  bathing  in  the  surf  would  restore  his  health. 
He  was  disappointed ;  and  in  September,  he  visited 
the  White  Mountains,  in  New  Hampshire,  and 
afterward  went  to  Boston,  where  he  remained  se- 
veral weeks.  Finally,  near  the  end  of  December, 
he  received  an  invitation  to  preach  in  Danbury,  in 
Connecticut  He  went  immediately  to  his  new 
parish,  and  during  the  winter  discharged  the  duties 
of  his  profession  regularly.  But  as  the  spring 
came  round,  his  strength  foiled ;  and  on  the  27th 

of  May,  1827,  he  died. 

144 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


145 


There  is  much  merit  in  some  passages  of  the 
fragment  of  the  "  Age  of  Benevolence."  WILCOX 
was  pious,  gentle-hearted,  and  unaffected  and  re- 
tiring in  his  manners.  The  general  character  of 
his  poetry  is  religious  and  sincere.  He  was  a 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.* 

Loxo  swoln  in  drenching  rain,  seeds,  germs,  and 

buds 

Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams. 
Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 
Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 
A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed,  in  one  short  week, 
Is  naked  Nature  in  her  full  attire. 
On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 
Is  all  the  woodland,  fill'd  with  sunbeams,  pour'd 
Through  the  bare  tops,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 
With  strong  reflection :  on  the  last,  'tis  dark 
With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 
In  one  short  week  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms ; 
And  now,  when  steep'd  in  dew  or  gentle  showers, 
It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze, 
Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 
E'en  from  the  juicy  leaves  of  sudden  growth, 
And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air, 
Fill'd  with  a  watery  glimmering,  receives 
A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 
Each  day  are  heard,  and  almost  every  hour, 
New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  groves. 
And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feather'd  train 
At  evening  twilight  come ;  the  lonely  snipe, 
O'er  marshy  fields,  high  in  the  dusky  air, 
Invisible,  but  with  faint,  tremulous  tones, 
Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head ; 
And.  in  mid  air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 
Flying  a  while  at  random,  uttering  oft 
A  cheerful  cry,  attended  with  a  shake 
Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but  when  upturn'd 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky, 
One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each, 
Then  far  down  diving  with  a  hollow  sound  ; 
And,  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood, 
The  whip-poor-will,  her  name  her  only  song. 
She,  soon  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 
Of  whooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones, 
To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn, 
Are  by  her  voice  diverted  and  held  mute, 
Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove ; 
And  when  the  twilight,  deepen'd  into  night, 
Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  comes, 
And  on  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 
Of  unfrequented  door  lighting  unseen, 
Breaks;  into  strains  articulate  and  clear, 
The  closing  sometimes  quicken'd,  as  in  sport. 
Now,  animate  throughout,  from  morn  to  eve 
All  harmony,  activity,  and  joy, 
Is  lovely  Nature,  as  in  her  bless'd  prime. 
The  robin  to  the  garden  or  green  yard, 

*  This  and  the  four  following  extracts  are  from  "The 
Age  of  Benevolence." 

19 


lover  of  nature,  and  he  described  rural  sights  and 
sounds  with  singular  clearness  and  fidelity.  In  the 
ethical  and  narrative  parts  of  his  poems,  he  was  less 
successful  than  in  the  descriptive;  but  an  earnest- 
ness and  simplicity  pervaded  all  that  he  wrote. 


Close  to  the  door,  repairs  to  build  again 
Within  her  wonted  tree  ;  and  at  her  work 
Seems  doubly  busy  for  her  past  delay.    ' 
Along  the  surface  of  the  winding  stream, 
Pursuing  every  turn,  gay  swallows  skim, 
Or  round  the  borders  of  the  spacious  lawn 
Fly  in  repeated  circles,  rising  o'er 
Hillock  and  fence  with  motion  serpentine, 
Easy,  and  light.     One  snatches  from  the  ground 
A  downy  feather,  and  then  upward  springs, 
Follow'd  by  others,  but  oft  drops  it  soon, 
In  playful  mood,  or  from  too  slight  a  hold, 
When  all  at  once  dart  at  the  falling  prize. 
The  flippant  blackbird,  with  light  yellow  crown, 
Hangs  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  chatters  thick 
Till  her  breath  fails,  when,  breaking  off,  she  drops 
On  the  next  tree,  and  on  its  highest  limb 
Or  some  tall  flag,  and  gently  rocking,  sits, 
Her  strain  repeating.     With  sonorous  notes 
Of  every  tone,  mix'd  in  confusion  sweet, 
All  chanted  in  the  fulness  of  delight, 
The  forest  rings :  where,  far  around  enclosed 
With  bushy  sides,  and  cover'd  high  above 
With  foliage  thick,  supported  by  bare  trunks, 
Like  pillars  rising  to  support  a  roof, 
It  seems  a  temple  vast,  the  space  within 
Rings  loud  and  clear  with  thrilling  melody. 
Apart,  but  near  the  choir,  with  voice  distinct, 
The  merry  mocking-bird  together  links 
In  one  continued  song  their  different  notes, 
Adding  new  life  and  sweetness  to  them  all. 
Hid  under  shrubs,  the  squirrel,  that  in  fields 
Frequents  the  stony  wall  and  briery  fence, 
Here  chirps  so  shrill,  that  human  feet  approach 
Unheard  till  just  upon  him,  when,  with  cries 
Sudden  and  sharp,  he  darts  to  his  retreat 
Beneath  the  mossy  hillock  or  aged  tree ; 
But  oft  a  moment  after  reappears, 
First  peeping  out,  then  starting  forth  at  once 
With  a  courageous  air,  yet  in  his  pranks 
Keeping  a  watchful  eye,  nor  venturing  far 
Till  left  unheeded.     In  rank  pastures  graze, 
Singly  and  mutely,  the  contented  herd  ; 
And  on  the  upland  rough  the  peaceful  sheep ; 
Regardless  of  the  frolic  lambs,  that,  close 
Beside  them,  and  before  their  faces  prone, 
With  many  an  antic  leap  and  butting  feint, 
Try  to  provoke  them  to  unite  in  sport, 
Or  grant  a  look,  till  tired  of  vain  attempts  ; 
When,  gathering  in  one  company  apart, 
All  vigour  and  delight,  away  they  run, 
Straight  to  the  utmost  corner  of  the  field, 
The  fence  beside  ;  then,  wheeling,  disappear 
In  some  small  sandy  pit,  then  rise  to  view ; 
Or  crowd  together  up  the  heap  of  earth 
Around  some  upturn'd  root  of  fallen  tree, 
N 


146 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


And  on  its  top  a  trembling  moment  stand, 

Then  to  the  distant  flock  at  once  return. 

Exhilarated  by  the  general  joy, 

And  the  fair  prospect  of  a  fruitful  year, 

The  peasant,  with  light  heart  and  nimble  step, 

His  work  pursues,  as  it  were  pastime  sweet. 

With  many  a  cheering  word,  his  willing  team 

For  labour  fresh,  he  hastens  to  the  field 

Ere  morning  lose  its  coolness ;  but  at  eve, 

When  loosen'd  from  the  plough  and  homeward 

turn'd, 

He  follows  slow  and  silent,  stopping  oft 
To  mark  the  daily  growth  of  tender  grain 
And  meadows  of  deep  verdure,  or  to  view 
His  scatter'd  flock  and  herd,  of  their  own  will 
Assembling  for  the  night  by  various  paths, 
The  old  now  freely  sporting  with  the  young, 
Or  labouring  with  uncouth  attempts  at  sport. 


A  SUMMER  NOON. 

A  SULTHT  noon,  not  in  the  summer's  prime, 
When  all  is  fresh  with  life,  and  youth,  and  bloom, 
But  near  its  close,  when  vegetation  stops, 
And  fruits  mature  stand  ripening  in  the  sun, 
Soothes  and  enervates  with  its  thousand  charms, 
Its  images  of  silence  and  of  rest, 
The  melancholy  mind.     The  fields  are  still ; 
The  husbandman  has  gone  to  his  repast, 
And,  that  partaken,  on  the  coolest  side 
Of  his  abode,  reclines  in  sweet  repose. 
Deep  in  the  shaded  stream  the  cattle  stand, 
The  flocks  beside  the  fence,  with  heads  all  prone, 
And  panting  quick.     The  fields,  for  harvest  ripe, 
No  breezes  bend  in  smooth  and  graceful  waves, 
While  with  their  motion,  dim  and  bright  by  turns, 
The  sunshine  seems  to  move ;  nor  e'en  a  breath 
Brushes  along  the  surface  with  a  shade 
Fleeting  and  thin,  like  that  of  flying  smoke. 
The  slender  stalks  their  heavy  bended  heads 
Support  as  motionless  as  oaks  their  tops. 
O'er  all  the  woods  the  topmost  leaves  are  still ; 
E'en  the  wild  poplar  leaves,  that,  pendent  hung 
By  stems  elastic,  quiver  at  a  breath, 
Rest  in  the  general  calm.     The  thistle  down, 
Seen  high  and  thick,  by  gazing  up  beside 
Some  shading  object,  in  a  silver  shower 
Plumb  down,  and  slower  than  the  slowest  snow, 
Through  all  the  sleepy  atmosphere  descends ; 
And  where  it  lights,  though  on  the  steepest  roof, 
Or  smallest  spire  of  grass,  remains  unmoved. 
White  as  a  fleece,  as  dense  and  as  distinct 
From  the  resplendent  sky,  a  single  cloud, 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  air  becalm'd, 
Drops  a  lone  shadow,  as  distinct  and  still, 
On  the  bare  plain,  or  sunny  mountain's  side ; 
Or  in  the  polish'd  mirror  of  the  lake, 
In  which  the  deep  reflected  sky  appears 
A  calm,  sublime  immensity  below. 

No  sound  nor  motion  of  a  living  thing 
The  stillness  breaks,  but  such  as  serve  to  soothe, 
Or  cause  the  soul  to  feel  the  stillness  more. 
The  yellow-hammer  by  the  way-side  picks, 
Mutely,  the  thistle's  seed ;  but  in  her  flight, 


So  smoothly  serpentine,  her  wings  outspread 
To  rise  a  little,  closed  to  fall  as  far, 
Moving  like  sea-fowl  o'er  the  heaving  waves, 
With  each  new  impulse  chimes  a  feeble  note. 
The  russet  grasshopper  at  times  is  heard, 
Snapping  his  many  wings,  as  half  he  flies, 
Half-hovers  in  the  air.     Where  strikes  the  sun, 
With  sultriest  beams,  upon  the  sandy  plain, 
Or  stony  mount,  or  in  the  close,  deep  vale, 
The  harmless  locust  of  this  western  clime, 
At  intervals,  amid  the  leaves  unseen, 
Is  heard  to  sing  with  one  unbroken  sound, 
As  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  beginning  low, 
And  rising  to  the  midst  with  shriller  swell, 
Then  in  low  cadence  dying  all  away. 
Beside  the  stream,  collected  in  a  flock, 
The  noiseless  butterflies,  though  on  the  ground, 
Continue  still  to  wave  their  open  fans 
Powder'd  with  gold ;  while  on  the  jutting  twigs 
The  spindling  insects  that  frequent  the  banks 
Rest,  with  their  thin,  transparent  wings  outspread 
As  when  they  fly.     Ofttimes,  though  seldom  seen, 
The  cuckoo,  that  in  summer  haunts  our  groves, 
Is  heard  to  moan,  as  if  at  every  breath 
Panting  aloud.     The  hawk,  in  mid-air  high, 
On  his  broad  pinions  sailing  round  and  round, 
With  not  a  flutter,  or  but  now  and  then, 
As  if  his  trembling  balance  to  regain, 
Utters  a  single  scream,  but  faintly  heard, 
And  all  again  is  still. 


SEPTEMBER. 


THE  sultry  summer  past,  September  comes, 
Soft  twilight  of  the  slow-declining  year. 
All  mildness,  soothing  loneliness,  and  peace ; 
The  fading  season  ere  the  falling  come, 
More  sober  than  the  buxom,  blooming  May, 
And  therefore  less  the  favourite  of  the  world, 
But  dearest  month  of  all  to  pensive  minds. 
'T  is  now  far  spent ;  and  the  meridian  sun, 
Most  sweetly  smiling  with  attemper'd  beams, 
Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth. 
Beneath  its  yellow  lustre,  groves  and  woods, 
Checker'd  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  hues, 
While  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away, 
Shine  doubly  rich.     It  were  a  sad  delight 
Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  sne  it  tinged 
Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 
The  yellow,  red,  or  purple  of  the  trees 
That,  singly,  or  in  tufts,  or  forests  thick 
Adorn  the  shores ;  to  see.  perhaps,  the  s:de 
Of  some  high  mount  reflected  far  below, 
With  its  bright  colours,  intcrmix'd  with  spots 
Of  darker  green.     Yes,  it  were  sweetly  sad 
To  wander  in  the  open  fields,  and  hear, 
E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noonday  hardly  past, 
The  lulling  insects  of  the  summer's  night ; 
To  hear,  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 
A  lonely  bee  long  roving  here  and  there 
To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain ; 
Then  rising  quick,  and  with  a  louder  hum, 
In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head, 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


147 


Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away, 

As  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu ; 

To  hear,  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side, 

Late  full  of  music,  nothing  save,  perhaps, 

The  sound  of  nutshells,  by  the  squirrel  dropp'd 

From  some  tall  beech,  fast  falling  through  the  leaves. 


SUNSET  IN  SEPTEMBER.* 

THE  sun  now  rests  upon  the  mountain  tops — 
Begins  to  sink  behind — is  half  conceal'd — 
And  now  is  gone :  the  last  faint,  twinkling  beam 
Is  cut  in  twain  by  the  sharp  rising  ridge. 
Sweet  to  the  pensive  is  departing  day, 
When  only  one  small  cloud,  so  still  and  thin, 
So  thoroughly  imbued  with  amber  light, 
And  so  transparent,  that  it  seems  a  spot 
Of  brighter  sky,  beyond  the  farthest  mount, 
Hangs  o'er  the  hidden  orb ;  or  where  a  few 
Long,  narrow  stripes  of  denser,  darker  grain, 
At  each  end  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  point, 
With  golden  borders, sometimes  straight  and  smooth, 
And  sometimes  crinkling  like  the  lightning  stream, 
A  half-hour's  space  above  the  mountain  lie ; 
Or  when  the  whole  consolidated  mass, 
That  only  threaten'd  rain,  is  broken  up 
Into  a  thousand  parts,  and  yet  is  one, 
One  as  the  ocean  broken  into  waves ; 
And  all  its  spongy  parts,  imbibing  deep 
The  moist  effulgence,  seem  like  fleeces  dyed 


wiiu  MIS  uf?HCf?iming  j^i  try.      j  in*  s 
fcctly  beautiful  when  ;in  afternoon 


orui-wesicrn  uiiisis,  mat  sweep  iresn  irom  ii«j  snow- 
anks  on  the  Grand  Monadnock,  make  the  in  valid,  at  least, 
igl)  for  a  more  congenial  climate. — Rev.  G.  B.  CUEEVER. 


Deep  scarlet,  saffron  light,  or  crimson  dark, 
As  they  are  thick  or  thin,  or  near  or  more  remote, 
All  fading  soon  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
Till  twilight  end.     But  now  another  scene, 
To  me  most  beautiful  of  all,  appears : 
The  sky,  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 
Throughout  the  west,  is  kindled  to  a  glow 
So  bright  and  broad,  it  glares  upon  the  eye, 
Not  dazzling,  but  dilating  with  calm  force 
Its  power  of  vision  to  admit  the  whole. 
Below,  'tis  all  of  richest  orange  dye, 
Midway,  the  blushing  of  the  mellow  peach 
Paints  not,  but  tinges  the  ethereal  deep ; 
And  here,  in  this  most  lovely  region,  shines, 
With  added  loveliness,  the  evening-star. 
Above,  the  fainter  purple  slowly  fades, 
Till  changed  into  the  azure  of  mid-heaven. 

Along  the  level  ridge,  o'er  which  the  sun 
Descended,  in  a  single  row  arranged, 
As  if  thus  planted  by  the  hand  of  art, 
Majestic  pines  shoot  up  into  the  sky, 
And  in  its  fluid  gold  seem  half-dissolved. 
Upon  a  nearer  peak,  a  cluster  stands 
With  shafts  erect,  and  tops  converged  to  one, 
A  stately  colonnade,  with  verdant  roof; 
Upon  a  nearer  still,  a  single  tree, 
With  shapely  form,  looks  beautiful  alone ; 
While,  farther  northward,  through  a  narrow  pass 
Scoop'd  in  the  hither  range,  a  single  mount 
Beyond  the  rest,  of  finer  smoothness  seems, 
And  of  a  softer,  more  ethereal  blue, 
A  pyramid  of  polish'd  sapphire  built. 

But  now  the  twilight  mingles  into  one 
The  various  mountains ;  levels  to  a  plain 
This  nearer,  lower  landscape,  dark  with  shade, 
Where  every  object  to  my  sight  presents 
Its  shaded  side ;  while  here  upon  these  walls, 
And  in  that  eastern  wood,  upon  the  trunks 
Under  thick  foliage,  reflective  shows 
Its  yellow  lustre.     How  distinct  the  line 
Of  the  horizon,  parting  heaven  and  earth  ! 


SUMMER  EVENING  LIGHTNING. 


FATI  off  and  low 

In  the  horizon,  from  a  sultry  cloud, 
WThere  sleeps  in  embryo  the  midnight  storm, 
The  silent  lightning  gleams  in  fitful  sheets, 
Illumes  the  solid  mass,  revealing  thus 
Its  darker  fragments,  and  its  ragged  verge ; 
Or  if  the  bolder  fancy  so  conceive 
Of  its  fantastic  forms,  revealing  thus 
Its  gloomy  caverns,  rugged  sides  and  tops 
Writh  beetling  cliffs  grotesque.     But  not  so  bright 
The  distant  flashes  gleam  as  to  efface 
The  window's  image,  on  the  floor  impressed 
By  the  dim  crescent ;  or  outshines  the  light 
Cast  from  the  room  upon  the  trees  hard  by, 
If  haply,  to  illume  a  moonless  night, 
The  lighted  taper  shine ;  though  lit  in  vain, 
To  waste  away  unused,  and  from  abroad 
Distinctly  through  the  open  window  seen, 
Lone,  pale,  and  still  as  a  sepulchral  lamp. 


148 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  IMAGINATION.* 


JUST  in  the  centre  of  that  wood  was  rear'd 
Her  castle,  all  of  marble,  smooth  and  white ; 
Above  the  thick  young  trees,  its  top  appear'd 
Among  the  naked  trunks  of  towering  height ; 
And  here  at  morn  and  eve  it  glitter'd  bright, 
As  often  by  the  far-off  traveller  seen 
In  level  sunbeams,  or  at  dead  of  night, 
When  the  low  moon  shot  in  her  rays  between 
That  wide-spread  roof  and  floor  of  solid  foliage 
green. 

Through  this  wide  interval  the  roving  eye 
From  turrets  proud  might  trace  the  waving  line 
Where  meet  the  mountains  green  and  azure  sky, 
And  view  the  deep  when  sun-gilt  billows  shine ; 
Fair  bounds  to  sight,  that  never  thought  confine, 
But  tempt  it  far  beyond,  till  by  the  charm 
Of  some  sweet  wood-note  or  some  whispering  pine 
Call'd  home  again,  or  by  the  soft  alarm 
Of  Love's  approaching  step,  and  her  encircling  arm. 

Through  this  wide  interval,  the  mountain  side 
Show'd  many  a  sylvan  slope  and  rocky  steep : 
Here  roaring  torrents  hi  dark  forests  hide ; 
There  silver  streamlets  rush  to  view,  and  leap 
Unheard  from  lofty  cliffs  to  valleys  deep  : 
Here  rugged  peaks  look  smooth  in  sunset  glow, 
Along  the  clear  horizon's  western  sweep ; 
There  from  some  eastern  summit  moonbeams  flow 
Along  o'er  level  wood,  far  down  to  plains  below. 

Now  stretch'd  a  blue,  and  now  a  golden  zone 
Round  that  horizon ;  now  o'er  mountains  proud 
Dim  vapours  rest,  or  bright  ones  move  alone : 
An  ebon  wall,  a  smooth,  portentous  cloud, 
First  muttering  low,  anon  with  thunder  loud, 
Now  rises  quick,  and  brings  a  sweeping  wind 
O'er  all  that  wood  in  waves  before  it  bow'd ; 
And  now  a  rainbow,  with  its  top  behind 
A  spangled  veil  of  leaves,  seems  heaven  and  earth 
to  bind. 

Above  the  canopy,  so  thick  and  green, 
And  spread  so  high  o'er  that  enchanted  vale, 
Through  scatter'd  openings  oft  were  glimpses  seen 
Of  fleecy  clouds,  that,  link'd  together,  sail 
In  moonlight  clear  before  the  gentle  gale : 
Sometimes  a  shooting  meteor  draws  a  glance ; 
Sometimes  a  twinkling  star,  or  pkmet  pale, 
Long  holds  the  lighted  eye,  as  in  a  trance ; 
And  oft  the  milky-way  gleams  through  the  white 
expanse. 

1  That  castle's  open  windows,  though  half-hid 
With  flowering  vines,  show'd  many  a  vision  fair  : 
A  face  all  bloom,  or  light  young  forms,  that  thrid 
Some  maze  within,  or  lonely  ones  that  wear 
The  garb  of  joy  with  sorrow's  thoughtful  air, 
Oft  caught  the  eye  a  moment :  and  the  sound 
Of  low,  sweet  music  often  issued  there, 
And  by  its  magic  held  the  listener  bound, 

And  seem'd  to  hold  the  winds  and  forests  far  around. 

*  This  and  the  two  extracts  which  follow  are  from 
"  The  Religion  of  Taste." 


Within,  the  queen  of  all,  in  pomp  or  mirth, 
While  glad  attendants  at  her  glance  unfold 
Their  shining  wings,  and  fly  through  heaven  and 

earth, 

Oft  took  her  throne  of  burning  gems  and  gold, 
Adorn'd  with  emblems  that  of  empire  told, 
And  rising  in  the  midst  of  trophies  bright, 
That  bring  her  memory  from  the  days  of  old, 
And  help  prolong  her  reign,  and  with  the  flight 
Of  every  year  increase  the  wonders  of  her  might. 

In  all  her  dwelling,  tales  of  wild  romance, 
Of  terror,  love,  and  mystery  dark  or  gay, 
Were  scatter'd  thick  to  catch  the  wandering  glance, 
And  stop  the  dreamer  on  his  unknown  way ; 
There,  too,  was  every  sweet  and  lofty  lay, 
The  sacred,  classic,  and  romantic,  sung 
As  that  enchantress  moved  in  might  or  play ; 
And  there  was  many  a  harp  but  newly  strung, 
Yet  with  its  fearless  notes  the  whole  wide  valley 
rung. 

There,  from  all  lands  and  ages  of  her  fame, 
Were  marble  forms,  array'd  in  order  due, 
In  groups  and  single,  all  of  proudest  name ; 
In  them  the  high,  the  fair,  and  tender  grew 
To  life  intense  in  love's  impassion'd  view, 
And  from  each  air  and  feature,  bend  and  swell, 
Each  shapely  neck,  and  lip,  and  forehead  threw 
O'er  each  enamour'd  sense  so  deep  a  spell, 
The  thoughts  but  with  the  past  or  bright  ideal  dwell. 

The  walls  around  told  all  the  pencil's  power ; 
There  proud  creations  of  each  mighty  hand 
Shone  with  their  hues  and  lines,  as  in  the  hour 
When  the  last  touch  was  given  at  the  command 
Of  the  same  genius  that  at  first  had  plann'd, 
Exulting  in  its  great  and  glowing  thought: 

'Bright  scenes  of  peace  and  war,  of  sea  and  land, 
Of  love  and  glory,  to  new  life  were  wrought, 

From  history,  from  fable,  and  from  nature  brought. 

With  these  were  others  all  divine,  drawn  all 
From  ground  where  oft,  with  signs  and  accents 

dread, 

The  lonely  prophet  doom'd  to  sudden  fall 
Proud  kings  and  cities,  and  with  gentle  tread 
Bore  life's  quick  triumph  to  the  humble  dead, 
And  where  strong  angels  flew  to  blast  or  save, 
Where  martyr'd  hosts  of  old,  and  youthful  bled, 
And  where  their  mighty  LORD  o'er  land  and  wave 
Spread  life  and  peace  till  death,  then  spread  them 

through  the  grave. 

From  these  fix'd  visions  of  the  hallow'd  eye, 
Some  kindling  gleams  of  their  ethereal  glow, 
Would  ofttimes  fall,  as  from  the  opening  sky, 
On  eyes  delighted,  glancing  to  and  fro, 
Or  fasten'd  till  their  orbs  dilated  grow; 
Then  would  the  proudest  seem  with  joy  to  learn 
Truths  they  had  fear'd  or  felt  ashamed  to  know ; 
The  skeptic  would  believe,  the  lost  return ; 
And  all  the  cold  and  low  would  seem  to  rise  and  burn. 

Theirs  was  devotion  kindled  by  the  vast, 
The  beautiful,  impassion'd,  and  refined  ; 
And  in  the  deep  enchantment  o'er  them  cast, 
They  look'd  from  earth,  and  soar'd  above  their  kind 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


149 


To  the  bless'd  calm  of  an  abstracted  mind, 
And  its  communion  with  things  all  its  own, 
Its  forms  sublime  and  lovely ;  as  the  blind, 
Mid  earthly  scenes,  forgotten,  or  unknown, 
Live  in  ideal  worlds,  and  wander  there  alone. 

Such  were  the  lone  enthusiasts,  wont  to  dwell 
With  all  whom  that  enchantress  held  subdued, 
As  in  the  holiest  circle  of  her  spell, 
Where  meaner  spirits  never  dare  intrude, 
They  dwelt  in  calm  and  silent  solitude, 
Rapt  in  the  love  of  all  the  high  and  sweet, 
In  thought,  and  art,  and  nature,  and  imbued 
With  its  devotion  to  life's  inmost  seat, 
As  drawn  from  all  the  charms  which  in  that  val- 
ley meet. 


ROUSSEAU  AND  COWPER. 

ROTTSSE  ATT  could  weep — yes,  with  a  heart  of  stone 
The  impious  sophist  could  recline  beside 
The  pure  and  peaceful  lake,  and  muse  alone 
On  all  its  loveliness  at  eventide : 
On  its  small  running  waves,  in  purple  dyed 
Beneath  bright  clouds,  or  all  the  glowing  sky, 
On  the  white  sails  that  o'er  its  bosom  glide, 
And  on  surrounding  mountains  wild  and  high, 
Till  tears  unbidden  gush'd  from  his  enchanted  eye. 

But  his  were  not  the  tears  of  feeling  fine, 
Of  grief  or  love ;  at  fancy's  flash  they  flow'd, 
Like  burning  drops  from  some  proud,  lonely  pine, 
By  lightning  fired ;  his  heart  with  passion  glow'd 
Till  it  consumed  his  life,  and  yet  he  show'd 
A  chilling  coldness  both  to  friend  and  foe, 
As  Etna,  with  its  centre  an  abode 
Of  wasting  fire,  chills  with  the  icy  snow 
Of  all  its  desert  brow  the  living  world  below. 

Was  he  but  justly  wretched  from  his  crimes  1 
Then  why  was  COWPKU'S  anguish  oft  as  keen, 
With  all  the  heaven-born  virtue  that  sublimes 
Genius  and  feeling,  and  to  things  unseen 
Lifts  the  pure  heart  through  clouds  that  roll  be- 
tween 

The  earth  and  skies,  to  darken  human  hope  1 
Or  wherefore  did  those  clouds  thus  intervene 
To  render  vain  faith's  lifted  telescope, 
And  leave  him  in  thick  gloom  his  weary  way  to 
grope  1  f 

He,  too,  could  give  himself  to  musing  deep ; 
By  the  calm  lake  at  evening  he  could  stand, 
Lonely  and  sad,  to  see  the  moonlight  sleep 
On  all  its  breast,  by  not  an  insect  fann'd, 
And  hear  low  voices  on  the  far-off  strand, 
Or  through  the  still  and  dewy  atmosphere  . 
The  pipe's  soft  tones  waked  by  some  gentle  hand, 
From  fronting  shore  and  woody  island  near 
In  echoes  quick  return'd  more  mellow  and  more 
clear. 

And  he  could  cherish  wild  and  mournful  dreams, 
In  the  pine  grove,  when  low  the  full  moon  fair 
Shot  under  lofty  tops  her  level  beams, 
Stretching  the  shades  of  trunks  erect  and  bare, 


In  stripes  drawn  parallel  with  order  rare, 
As  of  some  temple  vast  or  colonnade, 
While  on  green  turf,  made  smooth  without  his  care, 
He  wander'd  o'er  its  stripes  of  light  and  shade 
And  heard  the  dying  day-breeze  all  the  boughs 
pervade. 

'Twas  thus  in  nature's  bloom  and  solitude 
He  nursed  his  grief  till  nothing  could  assuage ; 
'Twas  thus  his  tender  spirit  was  subdued, 
Till  in  life's  toils  it  could  no  more  engage ; 
And  his  had  been  a  useless  pilgrimage, 
Had  he  been  gifted  with  no  sacred  power, 
To  send  his  thoughts  to  every  future  age ; 
But  he  is  gone  where  grief  will  not  devour, 
Where  beauty  will  not  fade,  and  skies  will  never 
lower. 


THE  CURE  OF  MELANCHOLY. 


thou,  to  whom  long  worshipp'd  nature  lends 
No  strength  to  fly  from  grief  or  bear  its  weight, 
Stop  not  to  rail  at  foes  or  fickle  friends, 
Nor  set  the  world  at  naught,  nor  spurn  at  fate  ; 
None  seek  thy  misery,  none  thy  being  hate  ; 
Break  from  thy  former  self,  thy  life  begin  ; 
Do  thou  the  good  thy  thoughts  oft  meditate, 
And  thou  shall  feel  the  good  man's  peace  within, 
And  at  thy  dying  day  his  wreath  of  glory  win. 

With  deeds  of  virtue  to  embalm  his  name, 
He  dies  in  triumph  or  serene  delight  ; 
Weaker  and  weaker  grows  his  mortal  frame 
At  every  breath,  but  in  immortal  might 
His  spirit  grows,  preparing  for  its  flight  : 
The  world  recedes  and  fades  like  clouds  of  even, 
But  heaven  comes  nearer  fast,  and  grows  more 

bright, 

All  intervening  mists  far  ofF  are  driven  ; 
The  world  will  vanish  soon,  and  all  will  soon  be 

heaven. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief] 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppress'd  with  woes  untold  1 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief? 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold  : 
'T  is  when  the  rose  is  wrapp'd  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty  ;  not  when,  all  unroll'd, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom  rich  and  fair 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  am- 
bient air. 

Wake,  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers, 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the 

night 

When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  number'd  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight  ; 
Wake  ere  the  earthborn  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  address'd  ; 
Do  something  —  do  it  soon  —  with  all  thy  might  ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself  inactive  were  no  longer  bless'd. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 

.-   A 


150 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined ; 
Pray  Heaven  with  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fix'd  and  feelings  purely  kind, 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  Heaven  permit 
To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air ; 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies,  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare ; 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 
Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That,  mid  gay  thousands,  with  the   suns  and 

showers 
Of  half  a  century,  grows  alone  before  it  flowers. 

Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 
To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves, 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  heaven  ? 
Did  NEWTON  learn  from  fancy,  as  it  roves, 
To  measure  worlds,  and  follow  where  each  moves  1 
Did  HOWARD  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease, 
By  wanderings  wild  that  nature's  pilgrim  loves  7 
Or  did  PAUL  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace, 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles  of 
Greece  ? 

Beware  lest  thou,  from  sloth,  that  would  appear 
But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 
Thy  want  of  worth ;  a  charge  thou  couldst  not  hear 
From  other  lips,  without  a  blush  of  shame, 
Or  pride  indignant ;  then  be  thine  the  blame, 
And  make  thyself  of  worth ;  and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles -of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame; 
'T  is  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  miss'd, 
Or  let  all  soon  forget  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist 

Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know, — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above ; 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow ; 
The  seed  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours, 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
Shall  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  yield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal 
bowers. 


SIGHTS  AND  SOUNDS  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

ETIE  long  the  clouds  were  gone,  the  moon  was  set; 
When  deeply  blue  without  a  shade  of  gray, 
The  sky  was  fill'd  with  stars  that  almost  met, 
Their  points  prolong'd  and  sharpen'd  to  one  ray ; 
Through  their  transparent  air  the  milky-way 
Seem'd  one  broad  flame  of  pure  resplendent  white, 
As  if  some  globe  on  fire,  turn'd  far  astray, 
Had  cross'd  the  wide  arch  with  so  swift  a  flight, 
That  for  a  moment  shone  its  whole  long  track  of 
light. 


At  length  in  northern  skies,  at  first  but  small, 
A  sheet  of  light  meteorous  begun 
To  spread  on  either  hand,  and  rise  and  fall 
In  waves,  that  slowly  first,  then  quickly  run 
Along  its  edge,  set  thick  but  one  by  one 
With  spiry  beams,  that  all  at  once  shot  high, 
Like  those  through  vapours  from  the  setting  sun ; 
Then  sidelong  as  before  the  wind  they  fly, 
Like  streaking  rain  from  clouds  that  flit  along  the 
sky. 

Now  all  the  mountain-tops  and  gnlfs  between 
Seem'd  one  dark  plain ;  from  forests,  caves  pro- 
found, 

And  rushing  waters  far  below  unseen, 
Rose  a  deep  roar  in  one  united  sound, 
Alike  pervading  all  the  air  around, 
And  seeming  e'en  the  azure  dome  to  fill, 
And  from  it  through  soft  ether  to  resound 
In  low  vibrations,  sending  a  sweet  thrill 
To  every  finger's  end  from  rapture  deep  and  still. 


LIVE  FOR  ETERNITY. 

A  BRIGHT  or  dark  eternity  in  view, 
With  all  its  fix'd,  unutterable  things, 
What  madness  in  the  living  to  pursue, 
As  their  chief  portion,  with  the  speed  of  wings, 
The  joys  that  death-beds  always  turn  to  stings ! 
Infatuated  man,  on  earth's  smooth  waste 
To  dance  along  the  path  that  always  brings 
Quick  to  an  end,  from  which  with  tenfold  haste 
Back  would  he  gladly  fly  till  all  should  be  retraced ' 

Our  life  is  like  the  hurrying  on  the  eve 
Before  we  start,  on  some  long  journey  bound, 
When  fit  preparing  to  the  last  we  leave, 
Then  run  to  every  room  the  dwelling  round, 
And  sigh  that  nothing  needed  can  be  found ; 
Yet  go  we  must,  and  soon  as  day  shall  break; 
We  snatch  an  hour's  repose,  when  loud  the  sound 
For  our  departure  calls ;  we  rise  and  take 
A  quick  and  sad  farewell,  and  go  ere  well  awake. 

Rear'd  in  the  sunshine,  blasted  by  the  storms 
Of  changing  time,  scarce  asking  why  or  whence, 
Men  come  and  go  like  vegetable  forms, 
Though  heaven  appoints  for  them  a  work  immense, 
Demanding  constant  thought  and  zeal  intense, 
Awaked  by  hopes  and  fears  that  leave  no  room 
For  rest  to  mortals  in  the  dread  suspense, 
While  yet  they  know  not  if  beyond  the  tomb 
A  long,  long  life  of  bliss  or  wo  shall  be  their  doom. 

What  matter  whether  pain  or  pleasures  fill 
The  swelling  heart  one  little  moment  here] 
From  both  alike  how  vain  is  every  thrill, 
While  an  untried  eternity  is  near! 
Think  not  of  rest,  fond  man,  in  life's  career; 
The  joys  and  grief  that  meet  thee,  dash  aside 
Like  bubbles,  and  thy  bark  right  onward  steer 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  till  it  cross  the  tide, 
Shoot  into  port  in  triumph,  or  serenely  glide. 


HENRY  WARE,  JR. 


[Born,  1794.    Died,  1843.] 


HEXRY  WARE,  D.  D.,  a  son  of  HENRY  WARE, 
D.  D.,  and  brother  of  WILLIAM  WARE,  D.  D., 
author  of  "  Probus,"  etc.,  was  born  in  Hingham, 
Massachusetts,  on  the  seventh  of  April,  1794; 
was  graduated  at  Cambridge  in  1812;  completed 
his  theological  studies  in  1815;  was  ordained 
minister  of  the  Second  Congregational  (Jhurch,  in 
Boston,  in  1817;  received  RALPH  WALDO  EMER- 
sox  as  his  colleague,  in  1829 ;  for  the  recovery  of 
his  health  soon  after  visited  Europe ;  and  on  his 
return,  in  1830,  resigned  his  charge  and  entered 


TO  THE  URSA  MAJOR. 

WITH  what  a  stately  and  majestic  step 
That  glorious  constellation  of  the  north 
Treads  its  eternal  circle  !  going  forth 
Its  princely  way  among  the  stars  in  slow 
And  silent  brightness.     Mighty  one,  all  hail ! 
I  joy  to  see  thee  on  thy  glowing  path 
Walk,  like  some  stout  and  girded  giant ;  stern, 
Unwearied,  resolute,  whose  toiling  foot 
Disdains  to  loiter  on  its  destined  way. 
The  other  tribes  forsake  their  midnight  track, 
And  rest  their  weary  orbs  beneath  thy  wave ; 
But  thou  dost  never  close  thy  burning  eye, 
Nor  stay  thy  steadfast  step.     But  on,  still  on, 
While  systems  change,  and  suns  retire,  and  worlds 
Slumber  and  wake,  thy  ceaseless  march  proceeds. 
The  near  horizon  tempts  to  rest  in  vain. 
Thou,  faithful  sentinel,  dost  never  quit 
Thy  long-appointed  watch ;  but,  sleepless  still, 
Dost  guard  the  fix'd  light  of  the  universe, 
And  bid  the  north  forever  know  its  place. 

Ages  have  witness'd  thy  devoted  trust, 
Unchanged,  unchanging.     When  the  sons  of  God 
Sent  forth  that  shout  of  joy  which  rang  through 

heaven, 

And  echo'd  from  the  outer  spheres  that  bound 
The  illimitable  universe,  thy  voice 
Join'd  the  high  chorus  ;  from  thy  radiant  orbs 
The  glad  cry  sounded,  swelling  to  His  praise, 
Who  thus  had  east  another  sparkling  gem, 
Little,  but  beautiful,  amid  the  crowd 
Of  splendours  that  enrich  his  firmament. 
As  thou  art  now,  so  wast  thou  then  the  same. 
Ages  have  roll'd  their  course,  and  time  grown  gray; 
The  earth  has  gather'd  to  her  womb  again, 
And  yet  again,  the  myriads  that  were  born 
Of  her  uncounted,  unremember'd  tribes. 
The  seas  have  changed  their  beds  ;  the  eternal  hills 
Have  stoop'd  with  age  ;  the  solid  continents 
Have  left  their  banks ;  and  man's  imperial  works — 
The  toil,  pride,  strength  of  kingdoms,  which  had 
flung 


upon  the  office  of  Professor  of  Pulpit  Eloquence 
and  the  Pastoral  Care  in  the  Theological  School 
connected  with  Harvard  College,  which  he  held 
until  tiie  summer  of  1842,  when  he  gave  up  his 
public  duties.  He  died  September  22,  1843. 

Dr.  WARE'S  writings,  theological,  critical,  and 
miscellaneous,  are  numerous  and  valuable.  In  1815 
he  published  "  A  Poem  on  Occasion  of  the  Peace ;" 
in  1824  "The  Vision  of  Liberty;"  hi  1837,  "The 
Feast  of  the  Tabernacles,"  and  at  various  times 
many  shorter  pieces,  chiefly  devotional. 


Their  haughty  honours  in  the  face  of  heaven, 
As  if  immortal — have  been  swept  away : 
Shatter'd  and  mouldering,  buried  and  forgot. 
But  time  has  shed  no  dimness  on  thy  front, 
Nor  touch'd  the  firmness  of  thy  tread ;   youth, 

strength, 

And  beauty  still  are  thine  ;  as  clear,  as  bright, 
As  when  the  Almighty  Former  sent  thee  forth, 
Beautiful  offspring  of  his  curious  skill, 
To  watch  earth's  northern  beacon,  and  proclaim 
The  eternal  chorus  of  eternal  Love. 

I  wonder  as  I  gaze.     That  stream  of  light, 
Undimm'd,  unquench'd — just  as  I  see  it  now — 
Has  issued  from  those  dazzling  points  through  years 
That  go  back  far  into  eternity. 
Exhaustless  flood  !  forever  spent,  renew'd 
Forever !     Yea,  and  those  refulgent  drops, 
Which  now  descend  upon  my  lifted  eye, 
Left  their  far  fountain  twice  three  years  ago. 
While  those  wing'd  particles,  whose  speed  outstrips 
The  flight  of  thought,  were  on  their  way,  the  earth 
Compass'd  its  tedious  circuit  round  and  round, 
And,  in  the  extremes  of  annual  change,  beheld 
Six  autumns  fade,  six  springs  renew  their  bloom. 
So  far  from  earth  those  mighty  orbs  revolve ! 
So  vast  the  void  through  which  their  beams  descend! 
Yes,  glorious  lamp  of  GOD  !  He  may  have  quench'd 
Your  ancient  flames,  and  bid  eternal  night 
Rest  on  your  spheres ;  and  yet  no  tidings  reach 
This  distant  planet.     Messengers  still  come 
Laden  with  your  far  fire,  and  we  may  seem 
To  see  your  lights  still  burning ;  while  their  blaze 
But  hides  the  black  wreck  of  extinguish'd  realms, 
Where  anarchy  and  darkness  long  have  reign'd. 

Yet  what  is  this,  which  to  the  astonish'd  mind 
Seems  measureless,  and  which  the  baffled  thought 
Confounds  1     A  span,  a  point,  in  those  domains 
Which  the  keen  eye  can  traverse.     Seven  stars 
Dwell  in  that  brilliant  cluster,  and  the  sight 
Embraces  all  at  once ;  yet  each  from  each 
Recedes  as  far  as  each  of  them  from  earth. 
And  every  star  from  every  other  burns 
No  less  remote.     From  the  profound  of  heaven, 

151 


152 


HENRY   WARE,  JR. 


Untravell'd  even  in  thought,  keen,  piercing  rays 
Dart  through  the  void,  revealing  to  the  sense 
Systems  and  worlds  unnumber'd.     Take  the  glass 
And  search  the  skies.  The  opening  skies  pour  down 
Upon  your  gaze  thick  showers  of  sparkling  fire ; 
Stars,  crowded,  throng'd,  in  regions  so  remote, 
That  their  swift  beams — the  swiftest  things  that 

be— 

Have  travell'd  centuries  on  their  flight  to  earth. 
Earth,  sun,  and  nearer  constellations !  what 
Are  ye  amid  this  infinite  extent 
And  multitude  of  GOD'S  most  infinite  works  ! 

And  these  are  suns !  vast,  central,  living  fires, 
Lords  of  dependent  systems,  kings  of  worlds 
That  wait  as  satellites  upon  their  power, 
And  flourish  in  their  smile.     Awake,  my  soul, 
And  meditate  the  wonder !     Countless  suns 
Blaze  round   thee,  leading  forth  their  countless 

worlds ! 

Worlds  in  whose  bosoms  living  things  rejoice, 
And  drink  the  bliss  of  being  from  the  fount 
Of  all-pervading  Love.     What  mind  can  know, 
What  tongue  can  utter  all  their  multitudes ! 
Thus  numberless  in  numberless  abodes ! 
Known  but  to  thee,  bless'd  Father !  Thine  they  are, 
Thy  children,  and  thy  care ;  and  none  o'erlook'd 
Of  thee  !     No,  not  the  humblest  soul  that  dwells 
Upon  the  humblest  globe,  which  wheels  its  course 
Amid  the  giant  glories  of  the  sky, 
Like  the  mean  mote  that  dances  in  the  beam 
Amongst  the  mirror'd  lamps,  which  fling 
Their  wasteful  splendour  from  the  palace  wall, 
None,  none  escape  the  kindness  of  thy  care ; 
All  compass'd  underneath  thy  spacious  wing, 
Each  fed  and  guided  by  thy  powerful  hand. 

Tell  me,  ye  splendid  orbs !  as  from  your  throne 
Ye  mark  the  rolling  provinces  that  own 
Your  sway,  what  beings  fill  those  bright  abodes  1 
How  form'd,  how  gifted  1  what  their  powers,  their 

state, 

Their  happiness,  their  wisdom  1     Do  they  bear 
The  stamp  of  human  nature  1     Or  has  GOD 
Peopled  those  purer  realms  with  lovelier  forms 
And  more  celestial  minds  1     Does  Innocence 
Still  wear  her  native  and  untainted  bloom  ? 
Or  has  Sin  breathed  his  deadly  blight  abroad, 
And  sow'd  corruption  in  those  fairy  bowers  1 
Has  War  trod  o'er  them  with  his  foot  of  fire  1 
And  Slavery  forged  his  chains ;  and  Wrath,  and 

Hate, 

And  sordid  Selfishness,  and  cruel  Lust 
Leagued  their  base  bands  to  tread  out  light  and  truth , 
And  scatter  wo  where  Heaven  had  planted  joy? 
Or  are  they  yet  all  paradise,  unfallen 
And  uncorrupt  1  existence  one  long  joy, 
Without  disease  upon  the  frame,  or  sin 
Upon  the  heart,  or  weariness  of  life ; 
Hope  never  quench'd,  and  age  unknown, 
And  death  unfear'd ;  while  fresh  and  fadeless  youth 
Glows  in  the  light  from  Go  n's  near  throne  of  love  1 

Open  your  lips,  ye  wonderful  and  fair  ! 
Speak,  speak !  the  mysteries  of  those  living  worlds 
Unfold !     No  language  7     Everlasting  light 
And  everlasting  silence  ?     Yet  the  eye 
May  read  and  understand.     The  hand  of  GOD 


Has  written  legibly  what  man  may  know, 
THE  GLOJIY  OF  THE  MAKER.     There  it  shines, 
Ineffable,  unchangeable ;  and  man, 
Bound  to  the  surface  of  this  pigmy  globe, 
May  know  and  ask  no  more.     In  other  days, 
When  death  shall  give  the  encumber'd  spirit  wings, 
Its  range  shall  be  extended ;  it  shall  roam, 
Perchance,  among  those  vast,  mysterious  spheres, 
Shall  pass  from  orb  to  orb,  and  dwell  in  each, 
Familiar  with  its  children ;  learn  their  laws, 
Arid  share  their  state,  and  study  and  adore 
The  infinite  varieties  of  bliss 
And  beauty,  by  the  hand  of  Power  divine 
Lavish'd  on  all  its  works.     Eternity 
Shall  thus  roll  on  with  ever  fresh  delight ; 
No  pause  of  pleasure  or  improvement ;  world 
On  world  still  opening  to  the  instructed  mind 
An  unexhausted  universe,  and  time 
But  adding  to  its  glories.     While  the  soul, 
Advancing  ever  to  the  Source  of  light 
And  all  perfection,  lives,  adores,  and  reigns 
In  cloudless  knowledge,  purity,  and  bliss. 


SEASONS  OF  PRAYER. 

To  prayer,  to  prayer ; — for  the  morning  breaks, 
And  earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 
His  light  is  on  all  below  and  above, 
The  light  of  gladness,  and  life,  and  love. 
0,  then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 
Send  up  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer ; — for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone,1 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 
Like  a  curtain  from  GOD'S  kind  hand  it  flows, 
To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of 
night. 

To  prayer ; — for  the  day  that  GOD  has  bless'd 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom ; 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb.' 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  Heaven  the  hallow'd  hours. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

O,  hour  of  bliss !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows. 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  her  precious  care. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell, 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell ! 
Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 
And  pray  for  his  soul  through  Him  who  died. 
Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow — 
O,  what  is  earth  and  its  pleasures  now ! 


HENRY    WARE,  JR. 


153 


And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair, 
But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  1 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye  that  upward  bends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm,  confiding  air; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  Gon's,his  last  words  prayer. 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier ! 

A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 

It  commends  the  spirit  to  GOD  who  gave ; 

It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold,  dark  grave ; 

It  points  to  the  glory  where  he  shall  reign, 

Who  whisper'd,  «  Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss ! 
But  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this. 
The  ransom'd  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing ; 
But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise ; 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 

Awake,  awake,  and  gird  up  thy  strength 

To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 

To  him  who  unceasing  love  displays, 

Whom  the  powers  of  nature  unceasingly  praise, 

To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given ; 

For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


THE  VISION  OF  LIBERTY.* 

THE  evening  heavens  were  calm  and  bright ; 

No  dimness  rested  on  the  glittering  light    [high; 
That  sparkled  from  that  wilderness  of  worlds  on 

Those  distant  suns  burn'd  on  in  quiet  ray ; 

The  placid  planets  held  their  modest  way : 
And  silence  reign'd  profound  o'er  earth,  and  sea, 
and  sky. 

0  what  an  hour  for  lofty  thought ! 
My  spirit  burn'd  within ;  I  caught 

A  holy  inspiration  from  the  hour. 

Around  me  man  and  nature  slept ; 

Alone  my  solemn  watch  I  kept, 
Till  morning  dawn'd,  and  sleep  resumed  her  power. 

A  vision  pass'd  upon  my  soul. 
I  still  was  gazing  up  to  heaven, 
As  in  the  early  hours  of  even ; 

1  still  beheld  the  planets, roll, 
And  all  those  countless  sons  of  light 

Flame  from  the  broad  blue  arch,  and  guide  the 
moonless  night. 

When,  lo,  upon  the  plain, 

Just  where  it  skirts  the  swelling  main, 

A  massive  castle,  far  and  high, 

In  towering  grandeur  broke  upon  my  eye. 

Proud  in  its  strength  and  years,  the  ponderous  pile 
Flung  up  its  time-defying  towers ; 

Its  lofty  gates  seem'd  scornfully  to  smile 
At  vain  assault  of  human  powers, 

And  threats  and  arms  deride. 

Its  gorgeous  carvings  of  heraldric  pride 

*  From  a  poem  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society,  at  Cambridge,  in  1825. 
20 


In  giant  masses  graced  the  walls  above, 
And  dungeons  yawn'd  below. 

Yet  ivy  there  and  moss  their  garlands  wove, 
Grave,  silent  chroniclers  of  time's  protracted  flow. 

Bursting  on  my  steadfast  gaze, 

See,  within,  a  sudden  blaze ! 
So  small  at  first,  the  zephyr's  slightest  swell, 

That  scarcely  stirs  the  pine-tree  top, 

Nor  makes  the  wither'd  leaf  to  drop, 
The  feeble  fluttering  of  that  flame  would  quelL 

But  soon  it  spread — 

Waving,  rushing,  fierce,  and  red — 

From  wall  to  wall,  from  tower  to  tower, 

Raging  with  resistless  power ; 
Till  every  fervent  pillar  glow'd, 

And  every  stone  seem'd  burning  coal, 
Instinct  with  living  heat,  that  flow'd 

Like  streaming  radiance  from  the  kindled  pole. 

Beautiful,  fearful,  grand,       • 

Silent  as  death,  I  saw  the  fabric  stand. 

At  length  a  crackling  sound  began ; 

From  side  to  side,  throughout  the  pile  it  ran ; 

And  louder  yet  and  louder  grew, 

Till  now  in  rattling  thunder-peals  it  grew; 

Huge  shiver'd  fragments  from  the  pillars  broke, 

Like  fiery  sparkles  from  the  anvil's  stroke. 

The  shatter'd  walls  were  rent  and  riven, 

And  piecemeal  driven 

Like  blazing  comets  through  the  troubled  sky. 

'T  is  done ;  what  centuries  had  rear'd, 

In  quick  explosion  disappeared, 
Nor  even  its  ruins  met  my  wondering  eye. 

But  in  their  place — 

Bright  with  more  than  human  grace, 
Robed  in  more  than  mortal  seeming, 

Radiant  glory  in  her  face,  [ing — 

And  eyes  with  heaven's  own  brightness  beam- 
Rose  a  fair,  majestic  form, 
As  the  mild  rainbow  from  the  storm. 
I  mark'd  her  smile,  I  knew  her  eye ; 

And  when,  with  gesture  of  command, 

She  waved  aloft  the  cap-crown'd  wand, 
My  slumbers  fled  mid  shouts  of  "  Liberty !" 

Read  ye  the  dream  1  and  know  ye  not 
How  truly  it  unlock'd  the  world  of  fate ! 

Went  not  the  flame  from  this  illustrious  spot, 
And  spreads  it  not,  and  burns  in  every  state  ? 

And  when  their  old  and  cumbrous  walls, 
Fill'd  with  this  spirit,  glow  intense, 
Vainly  they  rear'd  their  impotent  defence : 

The  fabric  falls ! 

That  fervent  energy  must  spread, 

Till  despotism's  towers  be  overthrown; 

And  in  their  stead, 
Liberty  stands  alone ! 

Hasten  the  day,  just  Heaven ! 

Accomplish  thy  design ; 
And  let  the  blessings  thou  hast  freely  given, 

Freely  en  all  men  shine ; 
Till  equal  rights  be  equally  enjoy'd 
And  human  power  for  human  good  employ'd ; 
Till  law,  and  not  the  sovereign,  rule  sustain, 
And  peace  and  virtue  undisputed  reign. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


[Born,  1794.] 


Mr.  BRYANT  was  horn  in  Cummington,  Mas- 
sachusetts, on  the  third  day  of  November,  1794. 
At  a  very  early  age  he  gave  indications  of  superior 
genius,  and  his  father,  an  eminent  physician,  dis- 
tinguished for  erudition  and  taste  as  well  as  for 
extensive  and  thorough  knowledge  of  science, 
watched  with  deep  interest  the  development  of  his 
faculties  under  the  most  careful  and  judicious  in- 
struction. At  ten  years  of  age  he  made  very  cre- 
ditable translations  from  some  of  the  Latin  poets, 
which  were  printed  in  a  newspaper  at  Northamp- 
ton, and  during  the  vehement  controversies  between 
the  Federalists  and  Democrats,  which  marked  the 
period  of  Jefferson's  administration,  he  wrote  "  The 
Embargo,"  a  political  satire,  which  was  printed  in 
Boston  in  1808.  TASSO  when  nine  years  of  age 
wrote  some  lines  to  his  mother  which  have  been 
praised,  COWLEY  at  ten  finished  his  "Tragical 
History  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,"  POPE  when 
twelve  his  "  Ode  to  Solitude,"  and  « the  wondrous 
boy  CHATTEHTOX,"  at  the  same  age,  some  verses 
entitled  "  A  Hymn  for  Christmas  Day ;"  but  none 
of  these  pieces  are  superior  to  that  which  gave  a 
title  to  the  volume  of  our  precocious  American. 
The  satire  was  directed  against  President  JEFFEH- 
sox  and  his  party,  and  has  recently  been  quoted 
to  prove  the  author  an  inconsistent  politician,  the 
last  forty  years  having  furnished  no  ground,  it  may 
be  supposed,  for  such  an  accusation.  The  descrip- 
tion of  a  caucus,  in  the  following  extract,  shows 
that  there  has  been  little  change  in  the  character 
of  such  assemblies,  and  it  will  be  confessed  that 
the  lines  are  remarkably  spirited  and  graphic  for 
so  young  an  author : 

"  E'en  while  I  sing,  see  Faction  urge  her  claim, 
Mislead  with  falsehood,  and  with  zeal  inflame ; 
Lift  her  black  banner,  spread  her  empire  wide, 
And  stalk  triumphant  with  a  Fury's  stride. 
She  blows  her  brazen  trump,  and,  at  the  sound, 
A  motley  throng,  obedient,  flock  around ; 
A  mist  of  changing  hue  o'er  all  she  flings, 
And  darkness  perches  on  all  her  dragon  wings  ! 

"  Oh,  might  some  patriot  rise,  the  gloom  dispel, 
Chase  Error's  mist,  and  break  her  magic  spell ! 
But  vain  the  wish,  for,  hark  !  the  murmuring  meed 
Of  hoarse  applause  from  yonder  shed  proceed; 
Enter,  and  view  the  thronging  concourse  there, 
Intent,  with  gaping  mouth  and  stupid  stare; 
While,  in  the  midst,  their  supple  leader  stands, 
Harangues  aloud,  and  flourishes  his  hands  ; 
To  adulation  tunes  his  servile  throat, 
And  sues,  successful,  for  each  blockhead's  vote." 

Some  of  the  democrats  affected  to  believe  that 
Master  Bur  ANT  was  older  than  was  confessed,  or 
that  another  person  had  written  "The  Embargo;" 
but  the  book  was  eagerly  read,  and  in  a  few  months 
a  second  edition  appeared,  with  some  additional 
pieces.  To  this  was  prefixed  the  following  ad- 
vertisement : 


"  A  doubt  having  been  intimated  in  the  Monthly 
Anthology  of  June  last,  whether  a  youth  of  thirteen 
years  could  have  been  the  author  of  this  poem — 
in  justice  to  his  merits  the  friends  of  the  writer 
feel  obliged  to  certify  the  fact  from  their  personal 
knowledge  of  himself  and  his  family,  as  well  as 
his  literary  improvement  and  extraordinary  talents. 
They  would  premise,  that  they  do  not  come  un- 
called before  the  public  to  bear  this  testimony. 
They  would  prefer  that  he  should  be  judged  by  his 
works,  without  favour  or  affection.  As  the  doubt 
has  been  suggested,  they  deem  it  merely  an  act  of 
justice  to  remove  it,  after  which  they  leave  him  a 
candidate  for  favour  in  common  with  other  literary 
adventurers.  They  therefore  assure  the  public, 
that  Mr.  BRYANT,  the  author,  is  a  native  of  Cum- 
mington, in  the  county  of  Hampshire,  and  in  the 
month  of  November  last  arrived  at  the  age  of  four- 
teen years.  These  facts  can  be  authenticated  by 
many  of  the  inhabitants  of  that  place,  as  well  as 
by  several  of  his  friends,  who  give  this  notice  ;  and 
if  it  be  deemed  worthy  of  further  inquiry,  the  prin- 
ter is  enabled  to  disclose  their  names  and  places 
of  residence." 

In  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age,  BRYANT  en- 
tered an  advanced  class  of  Williams  College,  in 
which  he  soon  became  distinguished  for  his  attain- 
ments generally,  and  especially  for  his  proficiency 
in  classical  learning.  In  1812  he  obtained  from 
the  faculty  an  honourable  discharge,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  entering  upon  the  study  of  the  law,  and  in 
1815  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  commenced 
the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the  village  of  Great 
Barrington,  where  he  was  soon  after  married. 

When  but  little  more  than  eighteen  years  of 
age  he  had  written  his  noble  poem  of  "  Thanatop- 
sis,"  which  was  published  in  the  North  American 
Review  for  1816.*  In  1821  he  delivered  before 
the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  College 
his  longest  poem,  "  The  Ages,"  in  which,  from  a 
survey  of  the  past  eras  of  the  world,  and  of  the 
successive  advances  of  mankind  in  knowledge,  vir- 
tue, and  happiness,  he  endeavours  to  justify  and 
confirm  the  hopes  of  the  philanthropist  for  the 
future  destinies  of  man.  It  is  in  the  stanza  of 
SPENSEK,  and  in  its  versification  is  not  inferior  to 
"  The  Faerie  Queene."  "  To  a  Waterfowl,"  "  In- 
scription for  an  entrance  to  a  Wood,"  and  several 
other  pieces  of  nearly  as  great  merit  were  likewise 
written  during  his  residence  at  Great  Barrington. 

Having  passed  ten  years  in  successful  practice  in 
the  courts,  he  determined  to  abandon  the  unconge- 
nial business  of  a  lawyer,  and  devote  his  attention 
more  exclusively  to  literature.  With  this  view, 
in  1825,  he  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York,  and 


*  See  note  on  page  92. 


154 


WILLIAM  CULLED  BRYANT. 


155 


with  a  friend,  established  "  The  New  York  Re- 
view and  Atheneum  Magazine,"  in  which  he  pub- 
lished several  of  his  finest  poems,  and  in  "  The 
Hymn  to  Death"  paid  a  touching  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  his  father,  who  died  in  that  year.  In 
1826  he  assumed  the  chief  direction  of  the  "Even- 
ing Post,"  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  influential 
political  and  commercial  gazettes  in  this  country, 
with  which  he  has  ever  since  been  connected. 
In  1827,  1828,  and  1829,  he  was  associated  with 
Mr.  VEHPLANCIC  and  Mr.  SANDS  in  the  production 
of  "  The  Talisman,"  an  annual ;  and  he  wrote 
two  or  three  of  the  "  Tales  of  Glauber  Spa,"  to 
which,  besides  himself,  Miss  Sedgwick,  Mr.  Paul- 
ding,  Mr.  Leggett,  and  Mr.  Sands  were  contributors. 
An  intimate  friendship  subsisted  between  him  and 
Mr.  SANDS,  and  when  that  brilliant  writer  died,  in 
1832,  he  assisted  Mr.  VEUPLANCK  in  editing  his 
works. 

In  the  summer  of  1834,  Mr.  BRYANT  visited 
Europe,  with  his  family,  intending  to  devote  a  few 
years  to  literary  studies,  and  to  the  education  of 
his  children.  He  travelled  through  France,  Ger- 
many, and  Italy,  and  resided  several  months  in 
each  of  the  cities  of  Florence,  Pisa,  Munich,  and 
Heidelberg.  The  dangerous  illness  of  his  partner 
and  associate,  the  late  WILLIAM  LEOGETT,  com- 
pelled him  to  return  hastily  in  the  early  part  of 
1836.  The  summer  of  1840  he  passed  in  Florida 
and  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi,  and  in  1844  he 
revisited  Europe.  He  resides  still  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  and  continues  to  devote  the  chief  part 
of  his  time  to  the  editorship  of  the  Evening  Post, 
which  has  been  for  many  years  the  leading  journal 
of  the  democratic  party. 

In  1832  a  collection  of  all  the  poems  Mr.  BRY- 
ANT had  then  written  was  published  in  New  York; 
it  was  soon  after  reprinted  in  Boston,  and  a  copy 
of  it  reaching  WASHINGTON  IRVING,  who  was 
then  in  England,  he  caused  it  to  be  published  in 
London,  where  it  has  since  passed  through  several 
editions.  In  1842  he  published  "  The  Fountain 
and  other  Poems;"  in  1844  "The  White-Footed 
Deer  and  other  Poems,"  and  in  1846  a  splendid 
edition  of  his  complete  Poetical  Works,  illustrated 
with  engravings  from  pictures  by  Leutze,  has  been 
published  in  Philadelphia  by  Carey  &  Hart.  No 
volume  has  issued  from  the  American  press,  of 
which  the  country  should  be  more  proud.  We 
may  send  it  abroad  as  a  representative  of  our  lite- 
rature, and  as  a  proof  of  our  proficiency  in  the  arts. 

The  many  and  high  excellencies  of  Mr.  BUYANT 
have  been  almost  universally  recognised.  With 
men  of  every  variety  of  tastes  he  is  a  favourite. 
His  works  abound  with  passages  of  profound  re- 
flection which  the  philosopher  meditates  in  his 
closet,  and  with  others  of  such  simple  beauty  and 
obvious  intention  as  please  the  most  illiterate. 
In  his  pages  arc  illustrated  all  the  common  defini- 
tions of  poetry,  yet  they  are  pervaded  by  a  single 
purpose  and  spirit.  Of  the  essential  but  inferior 
characteristics  of  poetry,  which  make  it  an  art,  he 
has  a  perfect  mastery.  Very  few  equal  him  in 
grace  and  power  of  expression.  Every  line  has 
compactness,  precision,  and  elegance,  and  flows 


with  its  fellows  in  exquisite  harmony.  His  man- 
ner is  on  all  occasions  fitly  chosen  for  his  subject. 
His  verse  is  solemn  and  impressive,  or  airy  and 
playful,  as  suits  his  purpose.  His  beautiful  imagery 
is  appropriate,  and  has  that  air  of  freshness  which 
distinguishes  the  productions  of  an  author  writing 
from  his  own  observations  of  life  and  nature  ra- 
ther than  from  books. 

Mr.  BRYANT  is  a  translator  to  the  world  of  the 
silent  language  of  the  universe.  He  "  conforms 
his  life  to  the  beautiful  order  of  God's  works."  In 
the  meditation  of  nature  he  has  learned  high  les- 
sons of  philosophy  and  religion.  With  no  other 
poet  does  the  subject  spring  so  naturally  from  the 
object;  the  moral,  the  sentiment,  from  the  contem- 
plation of  the  things  about  him.  There  is  nothing 
forced  in  his  inductions.  By  a  genuine  earnest- 
ness he  wins  the  sympathy  of  his  reader,  and  pre- 
pares him  to  anticipate  his  thought.  By  an  imper- 
ceptible influence  he  carries  him  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  a  poem,  and  leaves  him  infused  with 
the  very  spirit  in  which  it  is  conceived. 

In  his  descriptions  of  nature  there  is  remarkable 
fidelity.  They  convey  in  an  extraordinary  degree 
the  actual  impression  of  what  is  grand  and  beauti- 
ful and  peculiar  in  our  scenery.  The  old  and 
shadowy  forests  stand  as  they  grew  up  from  the 
seeds  God  planted,  the  sea-like  prairies  stretching 
in  airy  undulations  beyond  the  eye's  extremest 
vision,  our  lakes  and  mountains  and  rivers,  he 
brings  before  us  in  pictures  warmly  coloured  with 
the  hues  of  the  imagination,  and  as  truthful  as 
those  which  COLE  puts  on  the  canvas. 

It  has  been  complained  that  there  is  very  little 
sentiment,  very  little  of  the  blending  of  passion 
with  philosophy,  in  BRYANT'S  poetry ;  that  his 
antique  and  dignified  simplicity  is  never  warmed 
with  human  sympathy.  This  is  true  in  a  degree, 
but  in  many  of  his  poems  are  passages  of  touching 
pathos,  and  his  interest  in  his  race  appears,  con- 
trary to  the  general  experience,  to  increase  with 
his  age. 

It  has  been  denied  by  some  persons,  reasoning 
from  our  descent,  education,  language,  and  man- 
ners, identifying  us  so  closely  with  another  people, 
that  we  can  have  a  distinctive  national  literature. 
But  there  are  very  few  of  BRYANT'S  poems  that 
could  have  been  written  in  any  country  but  our 
own.  They  breathe  the  very  spirit  of  our  young 
and  vigorous  life.  He  feels  not  more  sensibly  the 
grandeur  and  beauty  of  creation  as  manifested  only 
in  our  own  land,  than  he  does  the  elevating  influ- 
ences of  that  freedom  and  power  which  is  enjoyed 
by  none  but  the  citizens  of  this  republic.  To  the 
thoughtful  critic  every  thing  in  his  verse  belongs 
to  America,  and  is  as  different  from  what  marks 
the  poetry  of  England  as  it  is  from  that  which 
most  distinguishes  the  poetry  of  Germany  or 
France. 

Mr.  BRYANT  is  still  in  the  meridian  of  his  life; 
among  the  most  recent  of  his  productions  are  some 
of  the  finest  he  has  written ;  and  we  may  look 
with  confidence  to  an  increase  of  the  bases  of  his 
high  reputation,  second  now  to  that  of  no  contem- 
porary who  writes  in  our  language. 


156 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.    When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice-<Sfet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  is  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourish'd  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, — 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

*  Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers,  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills 
Rock-ribb'd,  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  pour'd  round 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,.— i     [all, 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe,  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  there  reign  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest, — and  \yhat  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living — and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  1     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  latigh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 


His  favourite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  Irave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gather'd  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 
->d5o  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave,  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustain'd  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  that  draws  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


7^         FOREST  HYMN. 

THE  groves  were  GOD'S  first  temples.    Ere  man 

learn'd 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offer'd  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks, 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  sway'd  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bow'd 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power, 
And  inaccessible  majesty.  -  Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
GOD'S  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?   Let  me,  at  least, 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  rear'd  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose    [down 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  hi  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.  The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches  ;  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.    No  fantastic  can-ings  show, 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race,  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.  But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds, 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ; — thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


157 


That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 

Comes,  scarcely  felt;-£-the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 

The  fresh,  moist  ground^are  all  instinct  with  thce. 

Here  is  continual  worship ; — nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.  Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace, 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.   This  mighty  oak, 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated, — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.    That  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  delicate  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  frojpi  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finish'd,  yet  renew'd 
Forever.    Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth, 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     O,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.    Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy,  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.    For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 
/  There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seem'd 
Less  aged  .than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deem'd  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink, 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     O,  Gon  !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift,  darn  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 


Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms* 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by? 
O,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchain'd  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 

THE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Has  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens, 
apd  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they  : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies,  * 

Thou  keep'st  thy  old,  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air, 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there  ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure 
walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done ; 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze — the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and 
cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wreck'd  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 

And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  foot- 
steps right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  yad  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright,  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 
O 


158 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


THE  PRAIRIES. 

THESE  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 
The  prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.    Lo !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fix'd, 
And  motionless  forever. — Motionless  ? — 
No — they  are  all  unchain'd  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  south ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines       [play'd 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisp'd  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fann'd 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work : 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their 

slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.    Fitting  floor 
For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 
With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations !     The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 
Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high,  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides, 
The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they  here — 
The  dead  of  other  days? — and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion  ?    Let  the  mighty  mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest,  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A  race,  that  long  has  pass'd  away, 
Built  them ; — a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heap'd,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the 
Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms  [Greek 

Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 
Nourish'd  their  harvests ;  here  their  herds  were  fed, 
When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  low'd, 
And  bow'd  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmur'd  with  their  toils, 
Till  twilight  blush'd,  and  lovers  walk'd,  and  woo'd 
In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 
From  instruments  of  unremember'd  form, 
Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man  came — 
The  roaming  hunter-tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 
And  the  mound-builders  vanish'd  from  the  earth. 
The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 


Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie-wolf 
Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 
Yawns  by  my  path.    The  gopher  mines  the  ground 
Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.    All  is  gone — 
All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones — 
The  platforms  where  they  worshipp'd  unknown 

gods — 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 
To  keep  the  foe  at  bay — till  o'er  the  walls 
The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 
The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and  heap'd 
With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 
Flock'd  to  those  vast,  uncover'd  sepulchres, 
And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumph'd.     Kindly  words 
Welcomed  and  soothed  him ;  the  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs ;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seem'd  to  forget, — yet  ne'er  forgot, — the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butcher'd,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  GOD 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.    The  red  man,  too — 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face — among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.     Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps — yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamp'd  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learn'd  the  fear  of  man, 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.     The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.     From  the 

ground 

Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.     All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


159 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  MARIOX'S  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  green  wood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings-  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil: 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gather'd 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly, 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  MARION  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain ; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp— 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary,  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  MARION, 

For  MARIOX  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more, 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 


TO  THE  PAST. 

Thou  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn, 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom ; 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  that  draws  us  to  the  ground. 

And  last,  man's  life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain — thy  gates  deny 
All  passage,  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  givest  them  back — nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gather'd,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea. 

Labours  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublish'd  charity — unbroken  faith — 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  falter'd  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unutter'd,  unrevered ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappear'd. 

Thine,  for  a  space,  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb,  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth,  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perish'd — no ! 
Kind  words,  remember'd  voices,  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat ; 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  evil  die, 
And  sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


160 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIES. 

Ar,  tliis  is  freedom ! — these  pure  skies 

Were  never  stain'd  with  village  smoke : 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke. 
Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me,  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game ; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 

Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 

From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge ; 
The  bear,  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 

Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge ; 
In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay ; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 

Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 

Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumber'd  with  a  train 

Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray ! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 

No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades ; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  fire,  when  frostwinds  sere 

The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky : 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 

Speaks  solemnly ;  and  I  behold 
The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 

And  lonely  river,  seaward  roll'd. 
Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew  1 

Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 
And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue, 

Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ] 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 

Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 
Wide  are  these  woods — I  thread  the  maze 

Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 
I  hunt,  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 

O'er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height ; 
And  kind  the  voice,  and  glad  the  eyes 

That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 

THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm; — 

The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpast, — 
And,  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm 

Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 

I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 

Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scoop'd  out  and  villages  be- 
tween. 

The  rain-drops  glisten'd  on  the  trees  around, 

Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirr'd, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds  to  the  ground 

Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 

For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung  [heard 

And  gossip'd,  as  he  hasten'd  ocean-war'd  ; 
To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper 
upsprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 

Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 

That  seem'd  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 

The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them ;  in  the  way 

Stroll'd  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turn'd  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at 
play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 

Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 

And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous  scene;  while  far  beyond  them  all, 

On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 

Was  pour'd  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft, 
golden  light. 

I  look'd,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 

When,  o'er  earth's  continents  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony ; 

When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 

Nor  the  black  stake  be  dress'd,  nor  in  the  sun 

The  o'erlabour'd  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were 
done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when 't  is  past. 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 

On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven 
shall  lie. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT. 


161 


THE  RIVULET. 

THIS  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove,  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  a  while,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dress'd, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Pass'd  o'er  me ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deem'd  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  pass'd  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half-afraid, 
I  wander'd  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever-joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  th}T  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  water-cress ; 
And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changes!  not — but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I  've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  colouring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth  : 
21 


The  radiant  beauty,  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  GOD, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sober'd  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bow'd  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould, 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date,) 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favourite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age,  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


JUNE. 

I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round; 
And  thought,  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

Within  the  silent  ground, 
'T  were  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  sent  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould,  ..  \V 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 
And  icy  clods  above  it  roll'd, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 
Away ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 
Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  press'd 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick,  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale,  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming  bird. 

And  what,  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 


162 


WILLIAM  CULLEN   BRYANT. 


And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 
The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  soften'd  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene ; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is — that  his  grave  is  green ; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear,  again,  his  living  voice. 


TO  THE  EVENING  WIND. 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high 
their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorch'd  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And  languishing  to  hearv  thy  welcome  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretch'd  beyond  the  sight. 

Go  forth,  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, — 

GOD'S  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide,  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning,  from  the  innumerable  boughs, 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast: 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the 
grass. 

Stoop  o'er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 
The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming  stone ; 

That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  willows  stray, 
And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 

May  think  of  gentle  souls  that  pass'd  away, 
Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown, 

Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of  men, 

And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again. 


The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shall  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moisten'd  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more 
deep; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odours  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


LINES  ON  REVISITING  THE  COUNTRY. 


upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer  sky, 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie, 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scoop'd  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
••  To  gaze  upon  the  mountains,  to  behold, 
With  deep  affection,  the  pure,  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  roll'd, 
To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 
The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here,  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air; 

And  where  the  season's  milder  fervours  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  a  while  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  streams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows — when,  hi  the  sultry 
tune, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast,  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime ; 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow, 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


163 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL. 


our  hills  and  valleys,  I  have  known 
Wise  and  grave  men,  who,  while  their  diligent 

hands 

Tended  or  gather'd  in  the  fruits  of  earth, 
Were  reverent  learners  in  the  solemn  school 
Of  Nature.     Not  hi  vain  to  them  were  sent 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  or  the  vernal  shower 
That  darken'd  the  brown  tilth,  or  snow  that  beat 
On  the  white  winter  hills.   Each  brought,  in  turn, 
Some  truth  ;  some  lesson  on  the  life  of  man, 
Or  recognition  of  the  Eternal  Mind, 
Who  veils  his  glory  with  the  elements. 

One  such  I  knew  long  since,  a  white-hair'd  man, 
Pithy  of  speech,  and  merry  when  he  would  ; 
A  genial  optimist,  who  daily  drew 
From  what  he  saw  his  quaint  moralities. 
Kindly  he  held  communion,  though  so  old, 
With  me,  a  dreaming  boy,  and  taught  me  much, 
That  books  tell  not,  and  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 

The  sun  of  May  was  bright  in  middle  heaven, 
And  stecp'd  the  sprouting  forests,  the  green  hills, 
And  emerald  wheat-fields,  in  his  yellow  light. 
Upon  the  apple  tree,  where  rosy  buds 
Stood  cluster'd,  ready  to  burst  forth  in  bloom, 
The  robin  warbled  forth  his  full,  clear  note 
For  hours,  and  wearied  not.    Within  the  woods, 
Whose  young  and  half-transparent  leaves  scarce 

cast 

A  shade,  gay  circles  of  anemones 
Danced  on  their  stalk's  ;  the  shad-bush,  white  with 

flowers, 

Brighten'd  the  glens;  the  new-leaved  butternut, 
And  quivering  poplar,  to  the  roving  breeze 
Gave  a  balsamic  fragrance.     In  the  fields, 
I  saw  the  pulses  of  the  gentle  wind 
On  the  young  grass.     My  heart  was  touch'd  with 

j°y> 

At  so  much  beauty,  flushing  every  hour 

Into  a  fuller  beauty  ;  but  my  friend, 

The  thoughtful  ancient,  standing  at  my  side, 

Gazed  on  it  mildly  sad.     I  ask'd  him  why. 

"Well  may'st  thou  join  in  gladness,"  he  replied, 

"  With  the  glad  earth,  her  springing  plants  and 

flowers, 

And  this  soft  wind,  the  herald  of  the  green, 
Luxuriant  summer.    Thou  art  young,  like  them, 
And  well  mayst  thou  rejoice.    But  while  the  flight 
Of  sexsons  fills  and  knits  thy  spreading  frame, 
It  withers  mine,  and  thins  my  hair,  and  dims 
These  eyes,  whose   fading  light   shall   soon  be 

quench'd 
In  utter  darkness.     Hearest  tliou  that  bird1?" 

I  listen'd,  and  from  midst  the  depth  of  woods 
Heard  the  low  signal  of  the  grouse,  that  wears 
A  sable  ruff"  around  his  mottled  neck  : 
Partridae  they  call  him  by  our  northern  streams, 
And  pheasant  by  the  Delaware.     He  bent 
'Gainst  his  barr'd  sides  his  speckled  wings,  and 

made 
A  sound  like  distant  thunder;  slow  the  strokes 


At  first,  then  fast  and  faster,  till  at  length 
They  pass'd  into  a  murmur,  and  were  still. 

"There  hast  thou,"  said  my  friend,  "a  fitting  type 
Of  human  life.     'T  is  an  old  truth,  I  know, 
But  images  like  these  will  freshen  truth. 
Slow  pass  our  days  in  childhood,  every  day 
Seems  like  a  century ;  rapidly  they  glide 
In  manhood,  and  in  life's  decline  they  fly ; 
Till  days  and  seasons  flit  before  the  mind 
As  flit  the  snow-flakes  in  a  winter  storm, 
Seen  rather  than  distinguish'd.    Ah !  I  seem 
As  if  I  sat  within  a  helpless  bark, 
By  swiftly-running  waters  hurried  on 
To  shoot  some  mighty  clifF.    Along  the  banks 
Grove  after  grove,  rock  after  frowning  rock, 
Bare   sands,  and  pleasant  homesteads ;   flowery 

nooks, 

And  isles  and  whirlpools  in  the  stream,  appear 
Each  after  each;  but  the  devoted  skiff 
Darts  by  so  swiftly,  that  their  images 
Dwell  not  upon  the  mind,  or  only  dwell 
In  dim  confusion ;  faster  yet  I  sweep 
By  other  banks,  and  the  great  gulf  is  near. 

"  Wisely,  my  son,  while  yet  thy  days  are  long, 
And  this  fair  change  of  seasons  passes  slow, 
Gather  and  treasure  up  the  good  they  yield — 
All  that  they  teach  of  virtue,  of  pure  thoughts, 
And  kind  affections,  reverence  for  thy  Gon, 
And  for  thy  brethren ;  so,  when  thou  shall  come 
Into  these  barren  years  that  fleet  away 
Before  their  fruits  are  ripe,  thou  mayst  not  bring 
A  mind  unfurnish'd,  and  a  wither'd  heart." 

Long  since  that  white-hair'd  ancient  slept — but 

still, 
When  the   red  flower-buds   crowd   the  orchard 

bough, 

And  the  ruff'd  grouse  is  drumming  far  within 
The  woods,  his  venerable  form  again 
Is  at  my  side,  his  voice  is  in  my  ear. 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE.* 

THE  summer  day  has  closed — the  sun  is  set: 
Well  have  they  done  their  office,  those  bright  hours, 
The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly  out 
In  the  red  west.   The  green  blade  of  the  ground 
Has  risen,  and  herds  have  cropp'd  it;  the  young 

twig 

Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the  sun ; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste  have  blown, 
And  wither'd ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon  the  soil 
From  bursting  cells,  and  in  their  graves  await 
Their  resurrection.     Insects  from  the  pools 
Have  fill'd  the  air  a  while  with  humming  wings, 
That  now  are  still  forever;  painted  moths 
Have  wander'd  the  blue  sky,  and  died  again; 
The  mother-bird  hath  broken,  for  her  brood 
Their  prison-shells,  or  shoved  them  from  the  nest, 


*  From  an  unfinished  poem. 


1G4 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.   In  bright  alcoves, 
In  woodland  cottages  with  barky  walls, 
In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous  town, 
Mothers  have  clasp'd  with  joy  the  new-born  babe. 
Graves,  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the  shore 
Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 
Of  the  throng'd  city,  have  been  hollow'd  out, 
And  fill'd,  and  closed.  This  day  hath  parted  friends, 
That  ne'er  before  were  parted ;  it  hath  knit 
New  friendships ;  it  hath  seen  the  maiden  plight 
Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him  who  long 
Hath  woo'd;  and  it  hath  heard,  from  lips  which  late 
Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh  word, 
That  told  the  wedded  one  her  peace  was  flown. 
Farewell  to  the  sweet  sunshine  !     One  glad  day 
Is  added  now  to  childhood's  merry  days, 
And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet  age. 
Still  the  fleet  hours  run  on ;  and  as  I  lean 
Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps  are  lit 
By  those  who  watch  flie  dead,  and  those  who  twine 
Flowers  for  the  bride.    The  mother  from  the  eyes 
Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  painful  light, 
And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn  breath. 

O  thou  great  Movement  of  the  universe, 
Or  Change,  or  Flight  of  Time — for  ye  are  one ! 
That  bcarest,  silently,  this  visible  scene 
Into  Night's  shadow,  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  1 
I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me  on, 
Yet  know  not  whither.     Man  foretells  afar 
The  courses  of  the  stars ;  the  very  hour 
He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright : 
Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  sorrow  and  of  death 
Come  unforewarned.    Who  next,  of  those  I  love, 
Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 
From  virtue  ?     Strife  with  foes,  or  bitterer  strife 
With   friends,  or  shame,  and   general  scorn  of 

men — 

Which,  who  can  bear? — or  the  fierce  rack  of  pain, 
Lae  they  within  my  path?     Or  shall  the  years 
Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive  pace, 
Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  1 
Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life, 
Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my  strength, 
Impend  around  me  1     0 !  beyond  that  bourne, 
In  the  vast  cycle  of  being,  which  begins 
At  that  broad  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 
Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress  clothe 
Its  workings?  Gently — so  have  good  men  taught — 
Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 
Into  the  new,  the  eternal  flow  of  things, 
Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven, 
Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace. 


HYMN  OF  THE  CITY. 

NOT  in  the  solitude 
Alone,  mey  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or  see 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity ; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 


Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty ! — here,  amidst  the  crowd 

Through  the  great  city  roll'd, 
With  everlasting  murmur,  deep  and  loud — 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 
'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human  kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings  lies, 

And  lights  their  inner  homes — 
For  them  thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded  skies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 

Thy  spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along; 

And  this  eternal  sound — 
Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng — 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  thee. 

And  when  the  hours  of  rest 
Come,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment,  too,  is  thine; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

WHITHEH,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  witn  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way ! 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  martrc  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fann'd, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  shelter'd  nest. 

• 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow'd  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 


WILLIAM   OULLEN   BRYANT. 


165 


He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

X 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 


this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 
And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encounter'd  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gush'd  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gush'd,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now,  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouth'd  gun  and  staggering  wain ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry ; 

0  !  be  it  never  heard  again. 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year. 

A  wild  and  many-weapon'd  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet,  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not, 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  hissing,  stinging  bolt  of  scorn; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crush'd  to  earth,  shall  rise  again: 
The  eternal  years  of  GOD  are  hers; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  help'd  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  peal'd 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come, 

The  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods, 

And  meadows  brown  and  sear. 
Heap'd  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove, 

The  wither'd  leaves  lie  dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust, 

And  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown, 

And  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow, 

Through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers, 

That  lately  sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs, 

A  beauteous  sisterhood .' 
Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves ; 

The  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds, 

With  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie, 

But  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth, 

The  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet, 

They  perish'd  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died, 

Amid  the  summer  glow ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod, 

And  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook 

In  autumn  beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven, 

As  falls  the  plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  thair  smile  was  gone, 

From  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day, 

As  still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee 

From  out  their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 

Though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light 

The  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers 

Whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood 

And  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in 

Her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up 

And  faded  by  my  side; 
In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her, 

When  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely 

Should  have  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one, 

Like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  sent'.c  and  so  beautiful, 

Should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


166 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT. 


THE  WINDS. 

Y>:  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 
Softly  ye  play'd  a  few  brief  hours  ago ; 

Ye  bore  the  murmuring1  bee ;  ye  toss'd  the  hair 
O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow; 

Ye  roll'd  the  round,  white  cloud  through  depths  of 
blue ; 

Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew; 

Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 

How  are  ye  changed !  Ye  take  the  cataract's  sound, 
Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  and  its  might ; 

The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground ; 
The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 

The  clouds  before  you  sweep  like  eagles  past ; 

The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 

Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 
Skyward,  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 

The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain, 

To  scape  your  wrath;  ye  seize  and  dash  them  dead. 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain ; 

The  harvest  field  becomes  a  river's  bed ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drown'd, 
And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest's  sound, 
Rise,  as  the  rushing  floods  close  over  head. 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 
A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray ; 

Ye  fling  its  waters  round  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's 
spray. 

See !  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 

Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 

And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings, 
And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

Why  rage  ye  thus? — no  strife  for  liberty       [fear, 
Has  made  you  mad ;  no  tyrant,  strong  through 

Has  chain'd  your  pinions,  till  ye  wrench'd  them  free, 
And  rush'd  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere : 

For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow ; 

Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go ; 

Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of 

snow, 
Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 

O,  ye  wild  winds !  a  mightier  power  than  yours 

In  chains  upon  the  shores  of  Europe  lies; 
The  sceptred  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures, 

Watch  his  mute  throes  with  terror  in  their  eyes : 
And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand, 
And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band, 
And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand, 
To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 

Yet,  O,  when  that  wrong'd  spirit  of  our  race, 

Shall  break,as  soon  he  must,  his  long-worn  chains, 
And  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place, 

Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 
Let  him  not  rise,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air, 
To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare, 
To  fill  the  earth  with  wo,  and  blot  her  fair 

Unconscious  breast  with  blood  from  human  veins. 


But  may  he,  like  the  spring-time,  come  abroad, 

Who  crumbles  winter's  gyves  with  gentle  might, 
When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  Goi>, 

Come  spouting  up  the  unseal'd  springs  to  light; 

Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  Jeet, 

The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnings  sweet, 

And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost  meet, 

Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient  night. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 

ERE,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  autumn,  all  around  our  vale 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 

In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colour'd  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  -giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendours  glow, 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 

In  these  bright  walks ;  the  sweet  southwest,  at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strown 

Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
.Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  1 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 
Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ; 
Their  sunny-colour'd  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 

Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters  run, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseat  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

O,  Autumn!  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad ; 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad  ? 

Ah!  'twere  a  lot  too  bless'd 
Forever  in  thy  colour'd  shades  to  stray ; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  southwest 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad ;  the  tug  for  wealth  and  power, 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


167 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM. 

HERE  arc  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarted  pines, 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses;   here  the 

ground 

Was  never  touch'd  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring  up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungather'd.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks  and  winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter  as  they  pass 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars  thickly  set 
With  pale  blue  berries.    In  these  peaceful  shades — 
Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  Liberty. 

0  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crown'd  his  slave, 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Arm'd  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  :  one  Aailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword;  thy 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarr'd      [brow, 
With  tokens  of  old  wars ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  and  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has 

launch'd 

His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  Hea- 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep,   [ven. 
Arid  his  swart  armourers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain ;  yet  while  he  deems  thee 

bound, 

The  links  are  shiver'd,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birth-right  was  not  given  by  human  hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.    In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes :  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  Deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
The  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obey'd, 
Is  later  born  than  thou ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  slialt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler ;  he  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  wither'd  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  fair  and  gallant  mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on 

thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 


With  chains  conceal'd  in  chaplets.     Oh !  not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword,  nor  yet,  O  Freedom !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat,  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  Earth  and  Heaven.    But  wouldst  thou 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men,      [rest 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


THE  RETURN  OF  YOUTH. 

MY  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime, 

For  thy  fair  youthful  years  too  swift  of  flight ; 
Thou  musest,  with  wet  eyes,  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful  hopes  that  fill'd  the  world  with  light, 
Years  when  thy  heart  was  bold,  thy  hand  was  strong, 

Thy  tongue  was  prompt  the  generous  thought  to 

speak, 
And  willing  faith  was  thine,  and  scorn  of  wrong 

Summon'd  the  sudden  crimson  to  thy  cheek. 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days, 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep ; 
A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slopes  downward  to  the  place  of  common  sleep ; 
And  they  who  walk'd  with  thee  in  life's  first  stage, 

Leave  one  by  one  thy  side,  and,  waiting  near, 
Thou  seest  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age — 

Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness,  and  fear. 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 

Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die. 
Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn, 

Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky ; 
Waits,  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wing  and  hides, 

Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour ; 
Waits,  like  the  vanish'd  spring,  that  slumbering 
bides, 

Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more 

sweet 
Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet 
He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again, 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear 

A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales ; 
A  murmur,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore, 

Of  streams  that  water  banks  for  ever  fab-, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air? 


168 


WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 


THE   FUTURE    LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 

When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  T 
That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given? 

My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

Shall  it  be  banish'd  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven? 

In  meadows  framed  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfetter'd  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  join'd  us  here ; 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, — 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there  ;  for  thou  hast  bow'd  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell 

Shrink  and  consume  the  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me  in  that  calmer  home 
The  wisdom  that  I  learn'd  so  ill  in  this — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

THOU  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colour'd  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest,  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 

Or  columbines  in  purple  dress'd, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 


I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


OH,  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL  MAIDS. 

OR,  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thy  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild  ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyesore  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unprcss'd, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  SORROW. 


long  years  has  the  desert  rain 
Dropp'd  on  the  clods  that  hide  thy  face  ; 
Seven  long  years  of  sorrow  and  pain 
I  have  thought  of  thy  burial  place. 

Thought  of  thy  fate  in  the  distant  west, 
Dying  with  none  that  loved  thee  near  ; 

They  who  flung  the  earth  on  thy  breast 
Turn'd  from  the  spot  without  a  tear. 

There,  I  think,  on  that  lonely  grave, 
Violets  spring  in  the  soft  May  shower  ; 

There  in  the  summer  breezes  wave 
Crimson  phlox  and  moccasin  flower. 

There  the  turtles  alight,  and  there 
Feeds  with  her  fawn  the  timid  doe  ; 

There,  when  the  winter  woods  are  bare, 
Walks  the  wolf  on  the  crackling  snow. 

Soon  wilt  thou  wipe  my  tears  away  ; 

All  my  task  upon  earth  is  done  ; 
My  poor  father,  old  and  gray, 

Slumbers  beneath  the  church-yard  stone. 

In  the  dreams  of  my  lonely  bed, 
Ever  thy  form  before  me  seems; 

All  night  long  I  talk  with  the  dead, 
All  day  long  I  think  of  my  dreams. 

This  deep  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches, 
This  long  pain,  a  sleepless  pain  — 

When  the  Father  my  spirit  takes 
I  shall  feel  it  no  more  again. 


JOHN    NEAL. 

[Born  about  1794.] 


Ma.  NEAL  is  a  native  of  Portland.  In  1815  he 
went  to  Baltimore,  and  was  there  associated  several 
years  with  JOHN  PIEHPONT  in  mercantile  transac- 
tions ;  but  these  resulting  disastrously,  he  turned 
his  attention  to  literature,  commencing  his  career 
by  writing  for  « The  Portico,"  a  monthly  maga- 
zine, a  series  of  critical  essays  on  the  works  of 
BYRON.  In  1818,  he  published  "Keep  Cool,"  a 
novel,  and  in  the  following  year  "  The  Battle  of 
Niagara,  Goldau  the  Maniac  Harper,  and  other 
Poems,  by  Jehu  O'Cataract,"*  and  "Otho,"  a  tra- 
gedy. He  also  wrote  a  large  portion  of  ALT-EN'S 
"  History  of  the  American  Revolutiodj"  which  ap- 
peared early  in  1821.  In  1822  he  published  in 
Philadelphia  a  second  novel,  entitled  "Logan," 
which  was  reprinted  soon  after  in  London.  This 
was  followed  in  1823  by  "Seventy-six,"  the  most 
popular  of  his  fictions;  " Randolph,"-)-  a  story 
which  attracted  considerable  attention  at  the  time 
by  the  notices  it  contained  of  the  most  prominent 
politicians,  authors,  and  artists  then  in  the  country ; 
and  "  Errata,  or  the  Works  of  Will  Adams." 

Near  the  close  of  the  last-mentioned  year  Mr. 
NEAL  went  abroad.  Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Lon- 
don he  became  a  contributor  to  various  periodicals, 
for  which  he  wrote,  chiefly  under  the  guise  of  an 
Englishman,  numerous  articles  to  correct  erroneous 
opinions  which  prevailed  in  regard  to  the  social 
and  political  condition  of  the  United  States.  He 
made  his  first  appearance  in  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, in  «  Sketches  of  the  Five  American  Presi- 
dents and  the  Five  Candidates  for  the  Presidency," 
a  paper  which  was  widely  republished,  and,  with 
others,  led  to  his  introduction  to  many  eminent 
persons,  among  whom  was  JEIIEMT  BENTHAM, 
who  continued  until  his  death  to  be  Mr.  NEAL'S 
warm  personal  friend. 

After  passing  four  years  in  Great  Britain  and  on 
the  continent,  in  which  time  appeared  his  «  Brother 
Jonathan,"  a  novel,  Mr.  NKAL  came  back  to  his 

*  "JEHU  O'CATARACT"  was  a  name  given  to  NEAL 
bythe  Delphian  Club  of  Baltimore,  of  which  PAUL  ALLEN, 
Gen.  BYND,  Rev.  JOHN  PIERPONT,  Judge  BHECKEN- 
RIDQE,  NEAL,  and  other  distinguished  men,  were  then 
members.  The  second  edition  of  the  Battle  of  Niagara 
was  published  in  1819,  and  for  "  JEHU  O'CATARACT"  was 
substituted  the  real  name  of  the  author. 

In  this  edition  of"'  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America" 
I  have  quoted  from  the  "  Bittle  of  Niagara"  as  it  appear- 
ed with  the  "  last  additions  and  corrections."  I  had 
seen  only  the  first  impression  of  it  when  this  work  was 
originally  prepared  for  the  press. 

t  In  a  note  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Mr.  NEAL  says 
he  wrote  "Randolph"  in  thirty-six  days,  with  an  inter- 
val of  about  a  week  between  the  two  volumes,  in  which 
he  wrote  nothing;  "Errata"  in  less  than  thirty-nine 
days  ;  and  "  Seventy-six"  in  twenty-seven  days.  During 
this  time  he  was  engaged  in  professional  business. 

n 


native  city  of  Portland,  where  he  now  resides. 
Since  his  return  he  has  published  «  Rachel  Dyer," 
"A  uthorship,"  «  The  Down  Easters,"  and  "  Ruth  El- 
der ;"  edited  "The  Yankee,"  a  weekly  gazette,  two 
years,  and  contributed  largely  to  other  periodicals. 

Mr.  NEAL'S  novels  contain  numerous  passages 
marked  by  brilliancy  of  sentiment  and  expression, 
and  occasional  scenes  which  show  that  he  possesses 
dramatic  ability.  They  are  original ;  they  are  writ- 
ten from  the  impulses  of  his  heart,  and  are  pervaded 
by  the  peculiarities  of  his  character ;  but  most  of 
them  were  produced  rapidly  and  carelessly,  and  are 
without  unity,  aim,  or  continuous  interest 

His  poems  have  the  unquestionable  stamp'  of 
genius.  He  possesses  imagination  in  a  degree  of 
sensibility  and  energy  hardly  surpassed  in  this  age. 
The  elements  of  poetry  are  poured  forth  in  his  verses 
with  a  prodigality  and  power  altogether  astonishing. 
But  he  is  deficient  in  the  constructive  faculty.  He 
has  no  just  sense  of  proportion.  No  one  with  so 
rich  and  abundant  materials  had  ever  less  skill  in 
using  them.  Instead  of  bringing  the  fancy  to  adorn 
the  structures  of  the  imagination,  he  reverses  the 
poetical  law,  giving  to  the  imagination  the  second- 
ary office,  so  that  the  points  illustrated  are  quite 
forgotten  in  the  accumulation  and  splendour  of  the 
imagery.  The  "  Battle  of  Niagara,"  with  its  rapid 
and  slow,  gay  and  solemn  movement,  falls  on  the 
ear  as  if  it  were  composed  to  martial  music.  It 
is  marred,  however,  by  his  customary  faults.  The 
isthmus  which  bounds  the  beautiful  is  as  narrow 
as  that  upon  the  borders  of  the  sublime,  and  he 
crosses  both  without  hesitation.  Passages  in  it 
would  be  magnificent  but  for  lines  or  single  words 
which,  if  the  reader  were  not  confident  that  he  had 
before  him  the  author's  own  edition,  he  would  think 
had  been  thrown  in  by  some  burlesquing  enemy. 

I  have  heard  an  anecdote  which  illustrates  the 
rapidity  with  which  he  writes.  When  he  lived  in 
Baltimore,  he  went  one  evening  to  the  rooms  of 
PIEHPONT,  and  read  to  him  a  poem  which  he  had 
just  completed.  The  author  of"  Airs  of  Palestine" 
was  always  a  nice  critic,  and  he  frankly  pointed 
out  the  faults  of  the  performance.  NEAL  promised 
to  revise  it,  and  submit  it  again  on  the  following 
morning.  At  the  appointed  time  he  repaired  to 
the  apartment  of  his  friend,  and  read  to  him  a  new 
poem,  of  three  or  four  hundred  lines.  He  had 
tried  to  improve  his  first,  but  failing  to  do  so,  had 
chosen  a  new  subject,  a  new  measure,  and  produced 
an  entirely  new  work,  before  retiring  to  sleep. 

In  the  last  edition  of  his  Poems,  Mr.  NEAL  pre- 
sents some  specimens  of  an  intended  epic  on  the 
conquest  of  Peru ;  and  he  has  written  many  lyrical 
pieces,  not  included  in  his  collections,  which  have 
been  popular. 

P  109 


170 


JOHN    NEAL. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  OF  PERU. 
INVOCATION  TO  THE  DEITY. 

0  THOU,  from  whom  the  rebel  angels  fled, 
When  thou  didst  rend  thine  everlasting  veil, 
And  show  thy  countenance  in  wrath !     O  Thou, 
Before  whose  brow,  unclothed  in  light — put  forth 
In  awful  revelation — they  that  stood 
Erect  in  heaven,  they  that  walk'd  sublime, 
E'en  in  thy  presence,  Lord !  and  they  that  shone 
Most  glorious  'mid  the  host  of  glorious  ones, 
With  Lucifer — the  Morning  Star,  the  Terrible, 
The  chief  of  old  immortals — with  the  sight 
Were  suddenly  consumed !     Almighty !  Thou, 
Whose  face  but  shone  upon  the  rebel  host 
Of  warring  constellations,  and  their  crowns 
Were  quench'd  for  ever !  and  the  mightiest  fell, 
And  lo !  innumerable  wings  went  up, 
And  gather'd  round  about  the  Eternal's  throne, 
And  all  the  solitudes  of  air  were  fill'd 
With  thunders  and  with  voices !  and  the  war 
Fled  from  thy  presence !     And  thy  wrath  was  o'er, 
And  heaven  again  in  peace ! 

O  Thou — our  Inspiration — Thou,  0  God ! 
To  whom  the  prophets  and  the  crowned  kings, 
The  bards  of  many  years,  who  caught  from  Thee 
Their  blazing  of  the  spirit !  Thou,  to  whom 
The  Jewish  monarchs,  on  their  ivory  thrones, 
Flaming  with  jewelry,  have  fallen  down 
And  rung  their  golden  harps,  age  after  age ! 
O  Thou,  to  whom  the  gifted  men  of  old, 
Who  stood  among  the  mysteries  of  heaven, 
Read  the  thick  stars,  and  listened  to  the  wind, 
Interpreted  the  thunder,  told  the  voice 
Of  Ocean  tumbling  in  his  caves,  explained 
The  everlasting  characters  of  Same 
That  burn  upon  the  firmament,  and  saw 
The  face  of  him  that  sitteth  in  the  sun, 
And  read  the  writing  there,  that  comes  and  goes, 
Revealing  to  the  eyes  the  fate  of  men, 
Of  monarchs,  and  of  empires ! — men  who  stood 
Amid  the  solitudes  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  heard 
From  the  high  mountain-top  the  silent  Night 
Give  out  her  uninterpreted  decrees  ! — 
The  venerable  men !  the  old,  and  mighty, 
Prophets  and  bards  and  kings,  whose  souls  were  fill'd 
With  immortality,  and  visions,  till 
Then-  hearts  have  ached  with  weary  supplication ; 
Till  all  the  Future,  rushing  o'er  their  strings, 
In  tempest  and  in  light,  hath  drown'd  their  prayers, 
And  left  their  mighty  harps  all  ringing  loud 
With  prophecy  and  wo !     O  Thou,  to  whom 
Innumerable  suns,  and  moons,  and  worlds, 
The  glorious  elevations  of  the  sky, 
The  choirs  of  cherubim  and  seraphim — 
Immortal  multitudes,  that  worship  round 
Thine  echoing  throne — upon  their  golden  harps 
And  silver  trumps,  and  organs  of  the  air, 
Pour  everlasting  melody !     O  Thou,  to  whom 
All  this  hath  been  familiar  from  the  hour 
When  thou  didst  bow  the  heavens,  and,  at  the  sound 
Of  many  thunders,  pealing  thy  decree, 
Creation  sprang  to  light,  when  time  began 
And  all  the  boundless  sky  was  full  of  suns, 
Rolling  in  symphony,  and  man  was  made 


Sublime  and  confident,  and  woman,  up 

From  the  sunshine  of  the  Eternal  rose, 

All  intellect  and  love !  and  all  the  hills 

And  all  the  vales  were  green ,  and  all  the  ti  ees  in  flower. 

— 0,  bless  our  trembling  harp ! 


FROM  THE  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

A  CAVALCADE  SEEN  AT  SUNSET  THROUGH  A 
GORGE. 

AH,  now  let  us  gaze !  what  a  wonderful  sky ! 
How  the  robe  of  the  god,  in  its  flame-colored  dye, 
Goes  ruddily,  flushingly,  sweepingly  by  ! .... 
Nay,  speak  !  did  you  ever  behold  such  a  night  1 
While  the  winds  blew  about,  and  the  waters  were 
The  sun  rolling  home  in  an  ocean  of  light !     [bright, 
But  hush  !  there  is  music  away  in  the  sky ; 
Some  creatures  of  magic  are  charioting  by  ;     [wild 
Now  it  comes — what  a  sound !  'tis  as  cheerful  and 
As  the  echo  of  caves  to  the  laugh  of  a  child  ; 
Ah  yes,  they  are  here !  See,  away  to  your  left, 
W7here  the  sun  has  gone  down,  where  the  mountains 

are  cleft, 

A  troop  of  tall  horsemen !  How  fearless  they  ride ! 
'Tis  a  perilous  path  o'er  that  steep  mountain's  side; 
Careering  they  come,  like  a  band  of  young  knights, 
That  the  trumpet  of  morn  to  the  tilting  invites ; 
With  high-nodding  plumes,  and  with  sun-shh>y  vests ; 
W7ith  wide-tossing  manes,  and  with  mail-cover'd 

breasts ; 

With  arching  of  necks,  and  the  plunge  and  the  pride 
Of  their  high-mettled  steeds,  as  they  galloping  ride, 
In  glitter  and  pomp ;  with  their  housings  of  gold. 
With  their  scarlet  and  blue,  as  their  squadrons  unfold 
Flashing  changeable  light,  like  a  banner  unroll'd ! 
Now  they  burst  on  the  eye  in  their  martial  array 
And  now  they  have  gone,  like  a  vision  of  day. 
In  a  streaming  of  splendour  they  came — but  they 

wheel'd ; 

And  instantly  all  the  bright  show  was  conceal'd — 
As  if 't  were  a  tournament  held  in  the  sky, 
Betray'd  by  some  light  passing  suddenly  by ; 
Some  band  by  the  flashing  of  torches  reveal'd, 
As  it  fell  o'er  the  boss  of  an  uplifted  shield, 
Or  banners  and  blades  in  the  darkness  conceal'd 


APPROACH  OF  EVENING. 

A  GLOW,  like  enchantment,  is  seen  o'er  the  lake, 
Like  the  flush  of  the  sky,  when  the  day  heralds  wake 
And  o'er  its  dull  bosom  their  soft  plumage  shake. 
Now  the  warmth  of  the  heaven  is  fading  away — 
Young  Evening  comes  up  in  pursuit  of  the  Day — 
The  richness  and  mist  of  the  tints  that  were  there 
Are  melting  away  like  the  bow  of  the  air — 
The  blue-bosom'd  water  heaves  darker  and  bluer, 
The  chife  and  the  trees  are  seen  bolder  and  truer, 
The  landscape  has  less  of  enchantment  and  light : 
But  it  lies  the  more  steady  and  firm  in  the  sight. 
The  lustre-crown'd  peaks,  while  they  dazzled  the  eye, 
Seem'd  loosen'd  and  passing  away  in  the  sky, 
And  the  far-distant  hills,  in  their  tremulous  blue, 
But  bafned  the  eye,  as  it  dwelt  on  their  hue. 


JOHN    NEAL. 


171 


The  light  of  the  hill,  and  the  wave,  and  the  sky 
Grow  fainter,  and  fainter : — The  wonders  all  die  ! 

The  visions  have  gone !  they  have  vanish'd  away, 
Unobserved  in  their  change,  like  the  bliss  of  a  day. 
The  rainbows  of  heaven  were  bent  in  our  sight, 
And  fountains  were  gushing  like  wine  in  its  light, 
And  seraphs  were  wheeling  around  in  their  flight — 
A  moment :  and  all  was  enveloped  in  night ! 
'Tis  thus  with  the  dreams  of  the  high-heaving  heart : 
They  come  but  to  blaze,  and  they  blaze  to  depart — 
Their  gossamer  wings  are  too  thin  to  abide 
The  chilling  of  sorrow,  or  burning  of  pride — 
They  come,  but  to  brush  o'er  its  young  gallant  swell, 
Like  bright  birds  over  ocean — but  never  to  dwell. 


MOVEMENTS  OF  TROOPS  AT  NIGHT. 

OBSERVED  ye  the  cloud  on  that  mountain's  dim 
80  heavily  hanging? — as  if  it  had  been          [green 
The  tent  of  the  Thunderer — the  chariot  of  one 
Who  dare  not  appear  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun  1 
'T  is  descending  to  earth !  and  some  horsemen  are  now, 
In  a  line  of  dark  mist,  coming  down  from  its  brow. 
'T  is  a  helmeted  band — from  the  hills  they  descend, 
Like  the  monarchs  of  storm,  when  the  forest  trees  bend. 
No  scimitars  swing  as  they  gallop  along ; 
No  clattering  hoof  falls  sudden  and  strong ; 
No  trumpet  is  fill'd,  and  no  bugle  is  blown ; 
No  banners  abroad  on  the  wind  are  thrown ; 
No  shoutings  are  heard,  and  no  cheerings  are  given ; 
No  waving  of  red  flowing  plumage  to  heaven ;  t 
No  flashing  of  blades,  and  no  loosening  of  reins ; 
No  neighing  of  steeds,  and  no  tossing  of  manes ; 
No  furniture  trailing,  or  warrior  helms  bowing, 
Or  crimson  and  gold-spotted  drapery  flowing ; 
But  they  speed,  like  coursers  whose  hoofs  are  shod 
With  a  silent  shoe,  from  the  loosen'd  sod ; 
Like  the  steeds  that  career  o'er  the  billowy  surf, 
Or  stretch  like  the  winds  o'er  the  untrodden  turf,  [ing, 
Where  the  willow  and  yew  in  their  darkness  are  weep- 
And  young,  gallant  hearts  are  in  sepulchres  sleeping; 
Like  the  squadrons,  that  on  the  pale  light  of  the  moon, 
While  the  night's  muffled  horn  plays  a  low  windy  tune, 
Are  seen  to  come  down  from  the  height  of  the  skies, 
By  the  warrior  that  on  the  red  battle-field  lies, 
And  wave  their  cloud-helmets,  and  charge  o'er  the  field, 
And  career  o'er  the  tracks  where  the  living  had  wheel'd, 
When  the  dying  half-raise  themselves  up  in  a  trance, 
And  gaze  on  the  show,  as  their  thin  banners  glance, 
And  wonder  to  see  the  dread  battle  renew'd,     [stood. 
On  the  turf  where  themselves  and  their  comrades  had 
Like  these  shadows,  in  swiftness  and  darkness  they 

ride, 

O'er  the  thunder-reft  mount — on  its  ruggedest  side ; 
From  the  precipice  top,  they  circle  and  leap, 
Like  the  warriors  of  air,  that  are  seen  in  our  sleep; 
Like  the  creatures  that  pass  where  ableeding  man  lies, 
Their  heads  muffled  up  to  their  white  filmy  eyes, 
With  gestures  more  threatening  and  fierce  till  he  dies: 
And  away  they  have  gone,  with  a  motionless  speed, 
Like  demons  abroad  on  some  terrible  deed. 
The  last  one  has  gone :  they  have  all  disappear'd ; 
Their  dull-echoed  tramping?  no  longer  are  heard ; 
For  still,  though  they  pass'd  like  no  steeds  of  the  earth, 
The  fall  of  their  tread  gave  some  hollow-sounds  birth ; 


Your  heart  would  lie  still  till  it  number'd  the  last ; 
And  your  breath  would  be  held  till  the  rear  horsemen 

pass'd, 

So  swiftly,  so  mutely,  PO  darkly  they  went, 
Like  the  spectres  of  air  to  the  sorcerer  sent,     [tent 
That  ye  felt  their  approach,  and  might  guess  their  in- 

Your  hero's  stern  bosom  will  oftentimes  quake, 
Your  gallant  young  warrior-plume  oftentimes  shake, 
Before  the  cool  marching  that  comes  in  the  night, 
Passing  by,  like  a  cloud  in  the  dim  troubled  light ; 
Subduing  the  heart  with  a  nameless  affright, 
When  that  would  swell  strongly,  and  this  would  ap- 
If  the  sound  of  one  trumpet  saluted  the  ear,    [pear, 
Like  some  scarlet-win g'd  bird,  that  is  nurs'd  in  the  day, 
When  she  shakes  her  red  plumage  in  wrath  o'er  her 
prey. 

For  be  they  the  horsemen  of  earth,  or  of  heaven, 
No  blast  that  the  trumpet  of  Slaughter  hath  given, 
No  roll  of  the  drum,  and  no  cry  of  the  fife, 
No  neighing  of  steeds  in  the  bloodiest  strife, 
Is  half  so  terrific  to  full  swelling  hearts, 
As  the  still,  pulseless  tramp  of  a  band  that  departs, 
With  echoless  armour,  with  motionless  plume, 
With  ensigns  all  furl'd,  in  the  trappings  of  gloom, 
Parading,  like  those  who  came  up  from  the  tomb, 
In  silence  and  darkness — determined  and  slow, 
And  dreadfully  calm,  as  the  murderer's  brow, 
When  his  dagger  is  forth ! — and  ye  see  not  the  blow, 
Till  the  gleam  of  the  blade  shows  y our  heart  in  its  flow! 

O,  say  what  ye  will !  the  dull  sound  that  awakes 
When  the  night  breeze  is  down,  and  the  chill  spirit 

aches 

With  its  measureless  thought,  is  more  dreadful  by  far, 
Than  the  burst  of  the  trump,  when  it  peals  for  the  war. 
It  is  the  cold  summons  that,  comes  from  the  ground, 
When  a  sepulchre  answers  your  light  youthful  bound, 
And  loud  joyous  laugh,  with  its  chill  fearful  sound, 
Compared  to  the  challenge  that  leaps  on  the  ear, 
When  the  banners  of  death  in  their  splendors  appear, 
And  the  free  golden  bugle  sings  freshly  and  clear ! — 
The  low,  sullen  moans,  that  so  feebly  awake, 
At  midnight,  when  one  is  alone,  on  some  lake, 
Compared  to  the  Thunderer's  voice,  when  it  rolls 
From  the  bosom  of  space  to  the  uttermost  poles ! — 
Like  something  that  stirs  in  the  weight  of  a  shroud, 
The  talking  of  those  who  go  by  in  a  cloud, 
To  the  cannon's  full  voice,  when  it  wanders  aloud ! — 
'Tis  the  light  that  is  seen  to  burst  under  the  wave, 
The  pale,  fitful  omen,  that  plays  o'er  a  grave, 
To  the  rushing  of  flame,  where  the  turf  is  all  red, 
And  farewells  are  discharged  o'era  young  soldier's  bed, 
To  the  lightnings  that  blaze  o'er  the  mariner's  way, 
When  the  storm  is  in  pomp,  and  the  ocean  in  spray! 


AN  INDIAN  APOLLO. 

NOT  like  the  airy  god  of  moulded  light, 
Just  stepping  from  his  chariot  on  the  sight ; 
Poising  his  beauties  on  a  rolling  cloud, 
With  outstretch'd  arm  and  bowstring  twanging  loud, 
And  arrows  singing  as  they  pierce  the  air ; 
With  tinkling  sandals,  and  with  flaming  hair ; 
As  if  he  paused  upon  his  bounding  way, 
And  loosen'd  his  fierce  arrows — all  in  play ; 
But  like  that  angry  god,  in  blazing  light 


172 


JOHN    NEAL. 


Bursting  from  space,  and  standing  in  his  might — 

Reveal'd  in  his  omnipotent  array, 

Apollo  of  the  skies,  and  deity  of  day, 

In  god-like  wrath  piercing  his  myriad-foe 

With  quenchless  shafts,  that  lighten  as  they  go! 

— Not  like  that  god,  when  up  in  air  he  springs, 

With  brightening  mantle  and  with  sunny  wings, 

When  heavenly  music  murmurs  from  his  strings — 

A  buoyant  vision — an  unbodied  dream 

Of  dainty  Poesy — and  boyishly  supreme ! 

— Not  the  thin  spirit  waked  by  young  Desire, 

Gazing  o'er  heaven  until  her  thoughts  take  fire, 

Panting  and  breathless ;  in  her  heart's  wild  trance, 

Bright,  shapeless  forms,  the  godlings  of  Romance ! 

— Not  that  Apollo — not  resembling  him 

Of  silver  bow  and  woman's  nerveless  limb — 

But  man — all  man  !  the  monarch  of  the  wild ! 

— Not  the  faint  spirit  that  corrupting  smiled 

On  soft,  lascivious  Greece,  but  Nature's  child, 

Arrested  in  the  chase,  with  piercing  eye 

Fix'd  in  its  airy  lightning  on  the  sky, 

Where  some  red  bird  goes  languid,  eddying,  drooping, 

Pierced  by  his  arrows  in  her  swrtest  stooping. 

Thus  springing  to  the  skies,  a  boy  will  stand 

With  arms  uplifted  and  unconscious  hand 

Tracing  his  arrow  in  its  loftiest  flight, 

And  watch  it  kindling,  as  it  cleaves  the  light 

Of  worlds  unseen  but  by  the  Indian's  sight — 

His  robe  and  hair  upon  the  wind,  at  length — 

A  creature  of  the  hills,  all  grace  and  strength, 

All  muscle  and  all  flame — his  eager  eye 

Fix'd  on  one  spot,  as  if  he  could  descry 

His  bleeding  victim  nestling  in  the  sky ! 

— Not  that  Apollo  ! — not  the  heavenly  one, 

Voluptuous  spirit  of  a  setting  sun — 

But  this,  the  offspring  of  young  Solitude, 

Child  of  the  holy  spot,  where  none  intrude 

But  genii  of  the  torrent,  cliff,  and  wood — 

Nurslings  of  cloud  and  storm,  the  desert's  fiery  brood. 


MORNING  AFTER  A  BATTLE. 

WHO  thinks  of  battle  now  1     The  stirring  sounds 
Spring  lightly  from  the  trumpet,  yet  who  bounds 
On  this  sad,  still,  and  melancholy  morn, 
As  he  was  wont  to  bound,  when  the  fresh  horn 
Came  dancing  on  the  winds,  and  peal'd  to  heaven, 
In  gone-by  hours,  before  the  battle  even  1 
The  very  horses  move  with  halting  pace ; 
No  more  they  heave  their  manes  with  fiery  grace, 
With  plunge,  and  reach,  and  step  that  leaves  no  trace; 
No  more  they  spurn  the  bit,  and  sudden  fling 
Their  light  hoofs  on  the  air.     The  bugles  sing, 
And  yet  the  meteor  mane  and  rolling  eye 
Lighten  no  longer  at  their  minstrelsy ; 
No  more  their  housings  blaze,  no  more  the  gold 
Or  purple  flashes  from  the  opening  fold ; 
No  rich-wrought  stars  are  glittering  in  their  pride 
Of  changing  hues ;  all,  all,  is  crimson-dyed. 
They  move  with  slow,  far  step;  they  hear  the  tread 
That  measures  out  the  tombing  of  the  dead  ; 
The  cannon  speaks,  but  now  no  longer  rolls 
In  heavy  thunders  to  the  answering  poles ; 


But  bursting  suddenly,  it  calls,  and  flies, 

At  breathless  intervals,  along  the  skies, 

As  if  some  viewless  sentinel  were  there 

Whose  challenge  peals  at  midnight  through  the  air. 

Each  sullen  steed  goes  on,  nor  heeds  its  roar, 

Nor  pauses  when  its  voice  is  heard  no  more ; 

But  snuffs  the  tainted  breeze,  and  lifts  his  head, 

And  slowly  wheeling,  with  a  cautious  tread, 

Shuns,  as  in  reverence,  the  mighty  dead ; 

Or,  rearing  suddenly,  with  flashing  eye, 

Where  some  young  war-horse  lies,  he  passes  by ; 

Then,  with  unequal  step,  he  smites  the  ground, 

Utters  a  startling  neigh,  and  gazes  round, 

And  wonders  that  he  hears  no  answering  sound. 

This,  while  his  rider  can  go  by  the  bier 

Of  slaughter'd  men,  and  never  drop  a  tear ; 

And  only,  when  he  meets  a  comrade  there, 

Stretch'd  calmly  out,  with  brow  and  bosom  bare, 

And  stiffen'd  hand  uplifted  hi  the  air — 

With  lip  still  curl'd,  and  open,  glassy  eye, 

Fix'd  on  the  pageant  that  is  passing  by — 

And  only  then — in  decency  will  ride 

Less  stately  ha  his  strength,  less  lordly  in  his  pride. 


MUSIC  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

THEIIE  are  harpsthatcomplain  to  the  presence  of  night, 
To  the  presence  of  night  alone — 
In  a  near  and  unchangeable  tone — 
Like  winds,  full  of  sound,  that  go  whispering  by, 
As  if  some  immortal  had  stoop'd  from  the  sky, 
And  breathed  out  a  blessing — and  flown ! 

Yes !  harps  that  complain  to  the  breezes  of  night, 

To  the  breezes  of  night  alone  ; 
Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  as  ruddy  and  bright 
The  sun  rolls  aloft  in  his  drapery  of  light, 

Like  a  conqueror,  shaking  his  brilliant  hair 

And  flourishing  robe,  on  the  edge  of  the  air ! 
Burning  crimson  and  gold 
On  the  clouds  that  unfold, 

Breaking  onward  in  flame,  while  an  ocean  divides 
On  his  right  and  his  left — -So  the  Thunderer  rides, 
When  he  cuts  a  bright  path  through  the  heaving  tides, 

Rolling  on,  and  erect,  hi  a  charioting  throne ! 

Yes !  strings  that  lie  still  in  the  gushing  of  day, 

That  awake,  all  alive,  to  the  breezes  of  night. 
There  are  hautboys  and  flutes  too,  for  ever  at  play, 
When  the  evening  is  near,  and  the  sun  is  away, 

Breathing  out  the  still  hymn  of  delight. 
These  strings  by  invisible  fingers  are  play'd — 

By  spirits,  unseen,  and  unknown, 
But  thick  as  the  stars,  all  this  music  is  made; 
And  these  flutes,  alone, 

In  one  sweet  dreamy  tone, 
Are  ever  blown, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 
The  live-long  night  ye  hear  the  sound, 
Like  distant  waters  flowing  round 
In  ringing  caves,  while  heaven  is  sweet 

With  crowding  tunes,  like  halls 

WThere  fountain-music  falls, 
And  rival  minstrels  meet. 


JOHN    NEAL. 


173 


NIGHT. 

Tis  dark  abroad.     The  majesty  of  Night 
Bows  down  superbly  from  her  utmost  height, 
Stretches  her  starless  plumes  across  the  world, 
And  all  the  banners  of  the  wind  are  furl'd. 
How  heavily  we  breathe  amid  such  gloom, 
As  if  we  slumber'd  in  creation's  tomb. 
It  is  the  noon  of  that  tremendous  hour 
When  life  is  helpless,  and  the  dead  have  power ; 
When  solitudes  are  peopled ;  when  the  sky 
Is  swept  by  shady  wings  that,  sailing  by, 
Proclaim  their  watch  is  set ;  when  hidden  rills 
Are  chirping  on  their  course,  and  all  the  hills 
Are  bright  with  armour ;  when  the  starry  vests, 
And  glittering  plumes,  and  fiery  twinkling  crests 
Of  moon-light  sentinels  are  sparkling  round, 
And  all  the  air  is  one  rich  floating  sound ; 
When  countless  voices,  in  the  day  unheard, 
Are  piping  from  their  haunts,  and  every  bird 
That  loves  the  leafy  wood  and  blooming  bower 
And  echoing  cave,  is  singing  to  her  flower; 
When  every  lovely,  every  lonely  place, 
Is  ringing  to  the  light  and  sandal'd  pace 
Of  twinkling  feet;  and  all  about,  the  flow 
Of  new-born  fountains,  murmuring  as  they  go ; 
When  watery  tunes  are  richest,  and  the  call 
Of  wandering  streamlets,  as  they  part  and  fall 
In  foaming  melody,  is  all  around, 
Like  fairy  harps  beneath  enchanted  ground- 
Sweet,  drowsy,  distant  music  !  like  the  breath 
Of  airy  flutes  that  blow  before  an  infant's  death. 

It  is  that  hour  when  listening  ones  will  weep 
And  know  not  why ;  when  we  would  gladly  sleep 
Our  last,  last  sleep,  and  feel  no  touch  of  fear, 
Unconscious  where  we  are,  or  what  is  near, 
Till  we  are  startled  by  a  falling  tear, 
That  unexpected  gather'd  in  our  eye, 
While  we  were  panting  for  yon  blessed  sky ; 
That  hour  of  gratitude,  of  whispering  prayer, 
When  we  can  hear  a  worship  in  the  air ; 
When  we  are  lifted  from  the  earth,  and  feel 
Light  fanning  wings  around  us  faintly  wheel, 
And  o'er  our  lids  and  brow  a  blessing  steal ; 
And  then,  as  if  our  sins  were  all  forgiven, 
And  all  our  tears  were  wiped,  and  we  in  heaven ! 


ONTARIO. 

No  sound  is  on  the  ear,  no  boatman's  oar 
Drops  its  dull  signal  to  the  watchful  shore ; 
But  all  is  listening,  as  it  were  to  hear 
Some  seraph  harper  stooping  from  her  sphere 
And  calling  on  the  desert  to  express 
Its  sense  of  Silence  in  her  loveliness. 
What  holy  dreaming  comes  in  nights  like  these, 
When,  like  yon  wave,  unruffled  by  a  breeze, 
The  mirrors  of  the  memory  all  are  spread 
And  fanning  pinions  sail  around  y  our  head ; 
When  all  that  man  may  love,  alive  or  dead, 
Come  murmuring  sweet,  unutterable  things, 
And  nestle  on  his  heart  with  their  young  wings, 
And  all  perchance  may  come,  that  he  may  fear, 
And  mutter  doubtful  curses  in  his  ear ; 
Hang  on  his  loaded  soul,  and  fill  his  brain 
With  indistinct  forebodings,  dim,  and  vain.... 


The  moon  goes  lightly  up  her  thronging  way, 
And  shadowy  things  are  brightening  into  day ; 
And  cliff  and  shrub  and  bank  and  tree  and  stone 
Now  move  upon  the  eye,  and  now  are  gone. 
A  dazzling  tapestry  is  hung  around, 
A  gorgeous  carpeting  bestrews  the  ground ; 
The  willows  glitter  in  the  passing  beam 
And  shake  their  tangling  lustres  o'er  the  stream ; 
And  all  the  full  rich  foliage  of  the  shore 
Seems  with  a  quick  enchantment  frosted  o'er, 
And  dances  at  the  faintest  breath  of  night, 
And  trembles  like  a  plume  of  spangles  in  the  light!.... 

This  dark  cool  wave  is  bluer  than  the  deep, 
Where  sailors,  children  of  the  tempest,  sleep; 
And  dropp'd  with  lights  as  pure,  as  still,  as  those 
The  wide-drawn  hangings  of  the  skies  disclose, 
Far  lovelier  than  the  dim  and  broken  ray, 
That  Ocean's  flashing  surges  send  astray.... 

This  is  the  mirror  of  dim  Solitude, 
On  which  unholy  tilings  may  ne'er  intrude ; 
That  frowns  and  ruffles  when  the  clouds  appear, 
Refusing  to  reflect  their  shapes  of  fear. 
Ontario's  deeps  are  spread  to  multiply 
But  sunshine,  stars,  the  moon,  and  clear-blue  sky. 

No  pirate  barque  was  ever  seen  to  ride, 
With  blood-red  streamer,  chasing  o'er  that  tide ; 
Till  late,  no  bugle  o'er  those  waters  sang 
With  aught  but  huntsman's  orisons,  that  rang 
Their  clear,  exulting,  bold,  triumphant  strain, 
Till  all  the  mountain  echoes  laugh'd  again ; 
Till  caverns,  depths,  and  hills,  would  all  reply, 
And  heaven's  blue  dome  ring  out  the  sprightly 
melody. 


TREES. 

THE  heave,  the  wave  and  bend 
Of  everlasting  trees,  whose  busy  leaves 
Rustle  their  songs  of  praise,  while  Ruin  weaves 
A  robe  of  verdure  for  their  yielding  bark — 
While  mossy  garlands,  full  and  rich  and  dark, 
Creep  slowly  round  them !    Monarchs  of  the  wood, 
Whose  mighty  sceptres  sway  the  mountain  brood — 
Whose  aged  bosoms,  in  their  last  decay, 
Shelter  the  wing'd  idolaters  of  Day — 
Who,  mid  the  desert  wild,  sublimely  stand, 
And  grapple  with  the  storm-god,  hand  to  hand, 
Then  drop  like  weary  pyramids  away, 
Stupendous  monuments  of  calm  decay  ! 


INVASION  OF  THE  SETTLER. 

WHERE  now  fresh  streamlets  answer  to  the  hues 
Of  passing  seraph-wings ;  and  fiery  dews 
Hang  thick  on  every  bush,  when  morning  wakes, 
Like  sprinkled  flame ;  and  all  the  green-wood  shakes 
With  liquid  jewelry,  that  Night  hath  flung 
Upon  her  favourite  tresses,  while  they  swung 
And  wanton'd  in  the  wind — henceforth  will  be 
No  lighted  dimness,  such  as  you  see, 
In  yonder  faint,  mysterious  scenery, 
Where  all  the  woods  keep  festival,  and  seem, 
Beneath  the  midnight  sky,  and  mellow  beam 
Of  yonder  breathing  light,  as  if  they  were 
Branches  and  leaves  of  unimbodicd  air. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 


[Born,  1795.    Died,  1820.] 


THE  author  of  the  "Culprit  Fay"  was  born  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  on  the  seventh  day  of  August, 
1795.  His  father  died  while  he  was  very  young, 
and  I  believe  left  his  family  in  possession  of  but 
little  property.  Young  DRAKE,  therefore,  expe- 
rienced some  difficulties  in  acquiring  his  education. 
He  entered  Columbia  College,  however,  at  an  early 
period,  and  passed  through  that  seminary  with  a 
reputation  for  scholarship,  taste,  and  admirable  so- 
cial qualities*  He  soon  after  made  choice  of  the 
medical  profession,  and  became  a  student,  first,  with 
Doctor  ROMAIJTE,  and  subsequently  with  Doctor 
POWELL,  both  of  whom  were  at  that  time  popular 
physicians  in  New  York. 

Soon  after  completing  his  professional  studies  he 
was  married  to  Miss  SARAH  ECKFORD,  a  daughter 
of  the  well-known  marine  architect,  HEXHY  ECK- 
FORD, through  whom  he  inherited  a  moderate  for- 
tune. His  health,  about  the  same  time,  began  to 
decline,  and  in  the  winter  of  1819  he  visited  New 
Orleans,  to  which  city  his  mother,  who  had  married 
a  second  husband,  had  previously  removed  with  his 
three  sisters.  He  had  anticipated  some  benefit  from 
the  sea-voyage,  and  the  mild  climate  of  Louisiana, 
but  was  disappointed,  and  in  the  spring  of  1820  he 
returned  to  New  York.  His  disease — consump- 
tion— was  now  too  deeply  seated  for  hope  of  resto- 
ration to  be  cherished,  and  he  gradually  withdrew 
himself  from  society,  and  sought  quiet  among  his 
books,  and  in  the  companionship  of  his  wife  and 
most  intimate  friends.  He  lingered  through  the 
summer,  and  died  near  the  close  of  September,  in 
the  twenty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

He  began  to  write  verses  when  very  young,  and 
was  a  contributor  to  several  gazettes  before  he  was 
sixteen  years  old.  He  permitted  none  but  his  most 
intimate  friends  to  know  his  signatures,  and  some- 
times kept  the  secrets  of  his  authorship  entirely  to 
himself.  The  first  four  of  the  once  celebrated 
series  of  humorous  and  satirical  odes,  known  as 
the  « Croaker  Pieces,"  were  written  by  him,  for 
the  New  York  "  Evening  Post,"  in  which  they 
appeared  between  the  tenth  and  the  twentieth  of 
March,  1819.  After  the  publication  of  the  fourth 
number,  DRAKE  made  HALLECK,  then  recently 
arrived  in  New  York,  a  partner,  and  the  remainder 
of  the  pieces  were  signed  "  Croaker  and  Co."  The 
last  one  written  by  DRAKE  was  "  The  American 
Flag,"  printed  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  May,  and 
the  last  of  the  series,  "  Curtain  Conversations," 
was  contributed  by  HALLECK,  on  the  twenty-fourth 
of  July.  These  pieces  related  to  persons,  events, 
and  scenes,  with  which  most  of  the  readers  in  New 
York  were  familiar,  and  as  they  were  distinguished 
alike  for  playful  humour,  and  an  easy  and  spirited 
diction,  they  became  very  popular,  and  many  efforts 
were  made  to  find  out  the  authors.  Both  DRAKE 
and  HALLECK  were  unknown  as  poets,  and,  as  they 


kept  the  secret  from  their  friends,  a  considerable 
period  elapsed  before  they  were  discovered. 

The  "Croakers"  are  now,  however,  well  nigh 
forgotten,  save  a  few  of  the  least  satirical  numbers, 
which  HALLECK  has  preserved  in  the  collections 
of  his  own  and  of  his  friend's  writings ;  and  the 
reputation  of  either  author  rests  on  more  elaborate 
and  ingenious  productions.  The  longest  poem  by 
DRAKE  is  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  a  story  exhibiting 
the  most  delicate  fancy,  and  much  artistic  skill, 
which  was  not  printed  until  several  years  after 
his  death.  It  was  composed  hastily  among  the 
highlands  of  the  Hudson,  in  the  summer  of  1819. 
The  author  was  walking  with  some  friends,  on  a 
warm,  moonlit  evening,  when  one  of  the  party 
remarked,  that  "it  would  be  difficult  to  write  a 
fairy  poem,  purely  imaginative,  without  the  aid  of 
human  characters."  When  the  friends  were  reas- 
sembled, two  or  three  days  afterwards,  "  The  Cul- 
prit Fay"  was  read  to  them,  nearly  as  it  is  printed 
in  this  volume. 

DRAKE  placed  a  very  modest  estimate  on  his 
own  productions,  and  it  is  believed  that  but  a  small 
portion  of  them  have  been  preserved/  When  on 
his  death-bed,  a  friend  inquired  of  him  what  dis- 
position he  would  have  made  with  his  poems? 
"  O,  burn  them,"  he  replied,  "  they  are  quite  value- 
less." Written  copies  of  a  number  of  them  were, 
however,  in  circulation,  and  some  had  been  in- 
correctly printed  in  the  periodicals ;  and,  for  this 
reason,  Commodore  DEKAI,  the  husband  of  the 
daughter  and  only  child  of  the  deceased  poet,  in 
1836  published  the  single  collection  of  them  which 
has  appeared.  It  includes,  beside  "The  Culprit 
Fay,"  eighteen  shorter  pieces,  some  of  which  are 
very  beautiful. 

DRAKE  was  unassuming  and  benevolent  in  his 
manners  and  his  feelings,  and  he  had  an  unfailing 
fountain  of  fine  humour,  which  made  him  one  of 
the  most  pleasant  of  companions.  HALLECK  closes 
a  tributary  poem  published  soon  after  his  death, 
in  the  « New  York  Review,"  with  the  following 
stanzas — 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine, — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow ; 
But  I've  in  vain  essay'd  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 

Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 
The  grief  is  fix'd  too  deeply 

That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 


175 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 


"My  visual  orbs  are  purged  from  film,  and,  lo! 

Instead  of  Anster's  turnip-bearing  vales 
I  see  old  fairy  land's  miraculous  show  ! 

Her  trees  of  tinsel  kiss'd  by  freakish  gales, 
Her  Ouphs  that,  cloak'd  in  leaf-gold,  skim  the  breeze, 

And  faiiies,  swarming " 

TENNANT'S  ANSTER  FAIR. 


'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night — 

The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright; 

Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 

But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless  sky, 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 

A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest, 

She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 

And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 

In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below ; 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 

By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 

And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 

Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly's  spark — 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 


The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnish'd  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below; 
The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid. 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  katy-did; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whip-poor-will, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  wo, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

in. 

'T  is  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell : 
The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 
He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain-oak, 
And  he  has  awaken'd  the  sentry  elve 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry ; 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell — 
('T  was  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell : — ) 
"  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ! 
Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way ! 
'Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy -day." 

IV. 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 
They  creep  from  the  mullen's  velvet  screen ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammocks 
And  rock'd  about  in  the  evening  breeze ;      [high, 


Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest — 
They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 

And,  pillow'd  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 
Had  slumber'd  there  till  the  charmed  hour ; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 

And  some  had  open'd  the  four-o'clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 
Above — below — on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  array'd 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride ! 


They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea, 

In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 

Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 

And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup; — 

A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 

For  an  Ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow ; 

He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade ; 

He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 

And  sunn'd  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 

Fann'd  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 

Play'd  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 

And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 

Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest. 

For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away : — 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  Fay. 


The  throne  was  rear'd  upon  the  grass, 
Of  spice-wood  and  of  sassafras ; 
On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy — 
And  o'er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  the  tulip's  crimson  drapery. 
The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone, 
The  prisoner  Fay  was  at  his  feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the  throne. 
He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air, 

He  look'd  around  and  calmly  spoke ; 
His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  his  voice  in  a  soften'd  accent  broke : 


"  Fairy !  Fairy !  list  and  mark : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain ; 
Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quench'd  and  dark, 

And  thy  wings  arc  dyed  with  a  deadly  stain — 
Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden's  eye, 
Thou  hast  scorn'd  our  dread  decree, 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high, 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 

Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 
Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love ; 
Fairy !  had  she  spot  or  taint, 
Bitter  had  been  thy  punishment. 


176 


JOSEPH  RODMAN   DRAKE. 


Tied  to  the  hornet's  shardy  wings; 

Toss'd  on  the  pricks  of  nettles'  stings; 

Or  seven  long  ages  dooin'd  to  dwell 

With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell ; 

Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 

Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede ; 

Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim, 

Your  jailer  a  spider  huge  and  grim, 

Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie, 

Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  murder'd  fly : 

These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 

Had  a  stain  been  found  on  the  earthly  fair. 

Now  list,  and  mark  our  mild  decree — 

Fairy,  this  your  doom  must  be : 


"Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand 

Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land ; 

Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 

Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moonshine, 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 

And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 

The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  arms 

And  dash  around,  with  roar  and  rave, 
And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits'  charms, 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might : 
If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 


"If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  whig  is  wash'd  away : 

But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye; 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quench'd  and  dark, 

Thou  must  reillume  its  spark. 

Mount  thy  steed  and  spur  him  high 

To  the  heaven's  blue  canopy ; 

And  when  thou  seest  a  shooting  star, 

Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far — 

The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 

Shall  light  the  elfin  lamp  again. 

Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  Fay ; 

Hence !  to  the  water-side,  away !" 


The  goblin  mark'd  his  monarch  well ; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bow'd  him  low, 
Then  pluck'd  a  crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turn'd  him  round  in  act  to  go. 
The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power, 
And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high, 

For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour. 
Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and  dern, 
Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake, 
Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake ; 

Now  o'er  the  violet's  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood ; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble-bush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 
He  has  leap'd  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the  brier, 
He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the  mire, 


Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew  weak, 
And  the  red  wax'd  fainter  in  his  cheek. 
He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright, 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward  track, 
But  there  came  a  spotted  toad  in  sight, 

And  he  laugh'd  as  he  jump'd  upon  her  back ; 
He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a  silkweed  twist, 

He  lash'd  her  sides  with  an  osier  thong ; 
And  now,  through  evening's  dewy  mist, 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain's  magic  verge  is  past, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reach'd  at  last 


Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 
Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream ; 
The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 

With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones ; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon's  leap, 
And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen — 
A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 
Spanning  the  wave  of  burnish'd  blue, 
And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river-dew. 

XIT. 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser  toad, 
Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 

And  close  to  the  river's  brink  he  strode ; 
He  sprnng  on  a  rock,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 

Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 
Then  toss'd  a  tiny  curve  in  ah-, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 


Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves, 

From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves, 

With  snail-plate  armour  snatch'd  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid  waste ; 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong, 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab  ; 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 

At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings ; 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 

And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 

The  footsteps  of  the  invading  Fay. 


Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 
His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are  strong, 
He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow's  wing, 
And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-bees  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 
But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide ; 


JOSEPH  RODMAN   DRAKE. 


177 


Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side ; 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fix'd  his  hold, 
The  quarl's  long  arms  are  round  him  roll'd, 
The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin, 
The  gritty  star  has  rubb'd  him  raw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant  claw ; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain, 
He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain  ; 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight, 
Fairy  !  naught  is  left  but  flight. 


He  turn'd  him  round,  and  fled  amain 

With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again, 

He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 

And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide ; 

The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 

And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 

But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 

To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 

They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise; 

They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes, 

And  they  stunn'd  his  ears  with  the  scallop  stroke, 

With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish  croak. 

O  !  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 

When  he  reach'd  the  foot  of  the  dogwood  tree. 

— Gash'd  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 

He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore ; 

He  bless'd  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 

And  he  bann'd  the  water  goblin's  spite, 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 

Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  Fairy  wight. 

XYT. 

Soon  he  gather'd  the  balsam  dew 

From  the  sorrel-leaf  and  the  henbane  bud ; 
Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanch'd  the  blood. 
The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low, 
It  cool'd  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow, 
And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 
As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  calamus  root ; 
And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore, 
As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 


Wrapp'd  in  musing  stands  the  sprite : 
'Tis  the  middle  wane  of  night; 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 
But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  dawning  mounts  her  bramy  car, 
And  rolls  her  chariot  wheels  of  light ; 
And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land; 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 


He  cast  a  sadden'd  look  around, 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 

When,  glittering  on  the  shadow'd  ground, 
He  saw  a  purple  muscle-shell ; 
23 


Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 
He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at  the  bow, 
And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand, 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted  land. 
She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure-boat 

As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 
For  she  glow'd  with  purple  paint  without, 

And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within ; 
A  sculler's  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 
An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle  blade ; 
Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome  leap, 
And  launched  afar  on  the  calm,  blue  deep. 


The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave ; 
They  had  no  power  above  the  wave, 
But  they  heaved  the  billow  bef6re  the  prow, 

And  they  dash'd  the  surge  against  her  side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and  blow, 

Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking  tide. 
She  wimpled  about  to  the  pale  moonbeam, 
Like  a  feather  that  floats  on  a  wind-toss'd  stream ; 
And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  uprear'd  his  island  back, 
And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would  float, 
And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat; 
But  he  bail'd  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 

And  he  kept  her  trimm'd  with  a  wary  tread, 
While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 

The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 


Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 

Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moonshine  lay, 

And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 

The  brown-back'd  sturgeon  slowly  swim : 

Around  him  were  the  goblin  train — 

But  he  scull' (I  with  all  his  might  and  main, 

And  follow'd  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 

Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head ; 

Then  he  dropp'd  his  paddle-blade, 

And  held  his  colen-goblet  up 

To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 


With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin, 

Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 
And,  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 
But  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 
It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight 

To  see  the  puny  goblin  there ; 
He  seem'd  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 

Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

xxir. 

A  moment,  and  its  lustre  fell ; 
But  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue, 


178 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE. 


He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 

A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew — 

Joy  to  thee,  Fay !  thy  task  is  done, 

Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  geui  is  won — 

Cheerly  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 

And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore. 


He  turns,  and,  lo !  on  cither  side 

The  ripples  on  his  path  divide ; 

And  the  track  o'er  which  his  boat  must  pass 

Is  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  polish'd  glass. 

Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 

With  snowy  arms  half-swelling  out, 
While  on  the  gloss'd  and  gleamy  wave 

Their  sea-green  ringlets  loosely  float; 
They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song; 

They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
And  gently  urge  her  course  along, 

Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand ; 

And,  as  he  lightly  leap'd  to  land, 
They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow, 

Then  gayly  kiss'd  each  little  hand, 
And  dropp'd  in  the  crystal  deep  below. 


A  moment  stay'd  the  fairy  there ; 

He  kiss'd  the  beach  and  breathed  a  prayer ; 

Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 

And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew ; 

As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  rise, 

And  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyes, 

Till,  lessening  far,  through  ether  driven, 

It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven ; 

As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale, 

The  lance-fly  spreads  his  silken  sail, 

And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and  bright, 

Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night ; 

So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  Fay — 

So  vanish'd,  far  in  heaven  away  ! 

Up,  Fairy !  quit  thy  chick-weed  bower, 
The  cricket  has  call'd  the  second  hour, 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streaking  of  the  skies — 
Up  !  thy  charmed  armour  don, 
Thou 'It  need  it  ere  the  night  be  gone. 


He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down: 

The  corslet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 

Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest ; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies ; 

His 'shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandish'd  bright, 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 

Swift  he  bestrode  his  fire-fly  steed; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent  grass  blue; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  flew, 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 


The  moth-fly,  as  he  shot  in  air, 

Crept  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there ; 

The  katy-did  forgot  its  lay, 

The  prowling  gnat  fled  fast  away, 

The  fell  mosqueto  chcck'd  his  drone 

And  folded  his  wings  till  the  Fay  was  gone, 

And  the  wily  beetle  dropp'd  his  head, 

And  fell  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  dead ; 

They  crouch'd  them  close  in  the  darksome  shade, 

They  quaked  all  o'er  with  awe  and  fear, 
For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 

And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  the  elfin  spear; 
Many  a  time,  on  a  summer's  night, 
When   the   sky  was  clear  and    the    moon  was 

bright, 

They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted  ground 
By  the  yelp  and  bay  of  the  fairy  hound; 

They  had  heard  the  tiny  bugle-horn, 
They  had  heard  the  twang  of  the  maize-silk  string, 

When  the  vine-twig  bows  were  tightly  drawn, 

And  the  needle-shaft  through  air  was  borne, 
Feather'd  with  down  of  the  hum-bird's  wing. 
And  now  they  deem'd  the  courier  ouphe, 

Some  hunter-sprite  of  the  elfin  ground ; 
And  they  watch'd  till  they  saw  him  mount  the 
roof 

That  canopies  the  world  around ; 
Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair, 
And  freak'd  about  in  the  midnight  air. 


Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 

His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 

And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind, 

He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind ; 

He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 

Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past. 

But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their  work, 
And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast, 

He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle  murk, 
He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges  fast; 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and  shade, 
He  lashes  his  steed  and  spurs  amain, 
For  shadowy  hands  have  twitch'd  the  rein, 

And  flame-shot  tongues  around  him  play'd, 
And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a  fell  malignity, 
And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 


His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 
The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 
His  eyes  are  Llurr'd  with  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  his  ears  are  stunn'd  with  the  thunder's  blare, 
But  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he  drew, 

He  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind, 
Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through, 

And  gash'd  their  shadowy  limbs  of  wind ; 
Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew, 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  •  ies, 
For  he"  has  gain'd  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him  lies. 


JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 


179 


Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift, 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 
Fleet  as  the  swallow  cuts  the  drift, 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 
The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 
The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot 
'     On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 
0 !  it  was  sweet,  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even, 
To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night, 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven ! 
But  the  Elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 
Till  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  milky-way, 
Then  he  clieck'd  his  courser's  foot, 
And  watch'd  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet-shoot. 


Sudden  along  the  snowy  tide 

That  sweli'd  to  meet  their  footsteps'  fall, 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide, 

Attired  in  sunset's  crimson  pall ; 
Around  the  Fay  they  weave  the  dance, 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  plain, 
And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance, 

And  one  upholds  his  bridle-rein  ; 
"With  warblings  wild  they  lead  him  on 

To  where,  through  clouds  of  amber  seen, 
Studded  with  stars,  resplendent  shone 

The  palace  of  the  sylphid  queen. 
Its  spiral  columns,  gleaming  bright, 
Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light ; 
Its  curtain's  light  and  lovely  flush 
Was  of  the  morning's  rosy  blush, 
And  the  ceiling  fair  that  rose  aboon 
The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 


But,  O!  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 

Beneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright; 
She  seem'd  to  the  entranced  Fay 

The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light; 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  roll'd 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar; 
'T  was  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 

And  button'd  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 

That  veils  the  vestal  planet's  hue; 
Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 
And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it  gleam 
Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 

xxxir. 

She  raised  hor  eyes  to  the  wondering  sprite, 

And  they  leap'd  with  smiles,  for  well  I  ween 
Never  before  in  the  bowers  of  light 

Had  the  form  of  an  earthly  Fay  been  seen. 
Long  she  look'd  in  his  tiny  fare ; 

Long  with  his  butterfly  cloak  she  play'd; 
She  smooth'd  his  wings  of  azure  lace, 

And  handled  the  tassel  of  his  blade ; 


And  as  he  told  in  accents  low 

The  story  of  his  love  and  wo, 

She. felt  new  pains  in  her  bosom  rise, 

And  the  tear-drop  started  in  her  eyes. 

And  "  0,  sweet  spirit  of  earth,"  she  cried, 

"  Return  no  more  to  your  woodland  height, 
But  ever  here  with  me  abide 

In  the  land  of  everlasting  light ! 
Within  the  fleecy  drift  we  '11  lie, 

We'll  hang  upon  the  rainbow's  rim; 
And  all  the  jewels  of  the  sky 

Around  thy  brow  shall  brightly  beam ! 
And  thou  shall  bathe  thee  in  the  stream 

That  rolls  its  whitening  foam  aboon, 
And  ride  upon  the  lightning's  gleam, 

And  dance  upon  the  orbed  moon ! 
WTe  '11  sit  within  the  Pleiad  ring, 

We'll  rest  on  Orion's  starry  belt, 
And  I  will  bid  my  sylphs  to  sing 

The  song  that  makes  the  dew-mist  melt; 
Their  harps  are  of  the  umber  shade, 

That  hides  the  blush  of  waking  day, 
And  every  gleamy  string  is  made 

Of  silvery  moonshine's  lengthen'd  ray; 
And  thou  shall  pillow  on  my  breast, 

While  heavenly  breathings  float  around, 
And,  with  the  sylphs  of  ether  blest, 

Forget  the  joys  of  fairy  ground." 

XXXIII. 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see 

And  the  elfin's  heart  beat  fitfully ; 

But  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair, 

The  earthly  form  imprinted  there; 

Naught  he  saw  in  the  heavens  above 

Was  half  so  dear  as  his  mortal  love, 

For  he  thought  upon  her  looks  so  meek, 

And  he  thought  of  the  light  flush  on  her  cheek ; 

Never  again  might  he  bask  and  lie 

On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye, 

But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see, 

To  clasp  her  in  his  revery, 

To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 

Was  worth  all  heaven,  and  earth  beside. 

XXXIV. 

"  Lady,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  sworn  to-night, 

On  the  word  of  a  fairy-knight, 

To  do  my  sentence-task  aright; 

My  honour  scarce  is  free  from  stain, 

I  may  nol  soil  ils  snows  again  ; 

Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  wo, 

Its  mandate  must  be  answer'd  now." 

Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a  sigh, 

The  tear  was  in  her  drooping  eye ; 

But  she  led  him  to  the  palace  gate, 

And  call'd  the  sylphs  who  hover'd  there, 
And  bade  them  fly  and  bring  him  straight 

Of  clouds  condensed  a  sable  car. 
With  chann  and  spell  she  bless'd  it  there, 
From  all  the  fiends  of  upper  air ; 
Then  round  him  cast  the  shadowy  shroud, 
And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud  ; 
And  press'd  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  sky, 


180 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE. 


For  by  its  wane  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a  star  would  fall  to-night. 


Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Northward  away,  he  speeds  him  fast, 
And  his  courser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till  the  hoof-strokes  fall  like  pattering  rain. 
The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 
Each  flickering  star  behind  him  lies, 
And  he  has  reach'd  the  northern  plain, 
And  back'd  his  fire-fly  steed  again, 
Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 

But  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale; 
And  now  'tis  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now  'tis  deadly  pale; 
And  now  'tis  wrapp'd  in  sulphur-smoke, 

And  qucnch'd  is  its  rayless  beam, 
And  now  with  a  rattling  thunder-stroke 

It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 
As  swift  as  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 

That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high, 
The  star-shot  flew  o'er  the  welkin  blue, 

As  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 
As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  trail  behind 

The  Elfin  gallops  along, 
The  fiends  of  the  clouds  are  bellowing  loud, 

But  the  sylphid  charm  is  strong; 
He  gallops  unhurt  in  the  shower  of  fire, 

While  the  cloud-fiends  fly  from  the  blaze; 
He  watches  each  flake  till  its  sparks  expire, 

And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 
But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning's  speed, 

And  caught  a  glimmering  spark ; 
Then  wheel'd  around  to  the  fairy  ground, 

And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 


Ouphe  and  Goblin !  Imp  and  Sprite!  . 

Elf  of  eve !  and  starry  Fay ! 
Ye  that  love  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Hither — hither  wend  your  way ; 
Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 

With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre, 
Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 
Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea; 
Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 
He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 

And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face ; 


The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 
The  owlet's  eyos  our  lanterns  be ; 

Thus  we  sing,  and  dance,  and  play, 
Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

But,  hark !  from  tower  on  tree-top  high, 

The  sentry-elf  his  call  has  made  :  ' 
A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  f-ky, 

Shapes  of  moonlight!  flil  and  fade! 
The  hill-tops  gleam  in  mojning's  spring, 
The  sky-lark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 
The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 
The  cock  has  crow'd,  and  the  Fays  are  gone. 


BRONX. 


I  sat  me  down  upon  a  green  bank-side, 

Skirting  the  smooth  ed'jjp  of  a  gentle  river, 

Whose  waters  seem'd  unwillingly  to  glide, 

Like  parting  friends, who  linger  while  they  sever; 

Enforced  to  go,  yet  seeming  still  unready, 

Backward  they  wind  their  way  in  many  a  wistful 
eddy. 

Gray  o'er  my  head  the  yellow-vested  willow 
Ruffled  its  hoary  top  in  the  fresh  breezes, 

Glancing  in  light,  like  spray  on  a  green  billow, 
Or  the  fine  frostwork  which  young  winter  freezes ; 

When  first  his  power  in  infant  pastime  trying, 

Congeals  sad  autumn's  tears  on  the  dead  branches 
lying. 

From  rocks  around  hung  the  loose  ivy  dangling, 
And  in  the  clefts  sumach  of  liveliest  green. 

Bright  ising-stars  the  little  beech  was  spangling, 
The  gold-cup  sorrel  from  his  gauzy  screen 

Shone  like  a  fairy  crown,  enchased  and  beaded, 

Left  on  some  morn,  when  light  flash'd  in  their  eyes 
unheeded. 

The  humbird  shook  his  sun-touch'd  wings  around, 
The  bluefinch  caroll'd  in  the  still  retreat ; 

The  antic  squirrel  capcr'd  on  the  ground 
Where  lichens  made  a  carpet  for  his  feet ; 

Through  the  transparent  w^wes,  the  ruddy  minkle 

Shot  up  in  glimmering  sparks  his  red  fin's  tiny 
twinkle. 

There  were  dark  cedars,  with  loose,  mossy  tresses, 
Whitc-powder'd   dog    trees,    and   stiff  hollies 

flaunting 
Gaudy  as  rustics  in  their  May-day  dresses, 

Blue  pelloret  from  purple  leaves  upslanting 
A  modest  gaze,  like  eyes  of  a  young  maiden 
Shining  beneath  dropp'd  lids  the  evening  of  her 
wedding. 

The  breeze  fresh  springing  from  the  lips  of  morn, 

Kissing  the  leaves,  and  sighing  so  to  lose  'em, 
The  winding  of  the  merry  locust's  horn, 

The  glad  spring  gushing  from  the  rock's  bare 

bosom : 
Sweet  sights,  sweet  sounds,  all  sights,  all  sounds 

excelling, 

0 !  'twas  a  ravishing  spot,  fonn'd  for  a   poet's 
dwelling. 


JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 


181 


And  did  I  leave  thy  loveliness,  to  stand 

Again  in  the  dull  world  of  earthly  blindness] 
Pain'd  with  the  pressure  of  unfriendly  hands, 

Sick  of  smooth  looks,  agued  with  icy  kindness  1 
Left  I  for  this  thy  shades,  where  none  intrude, 
To  prison  wandering  thought  and  mar  sweet  soli- 
tude! 
^Yet  I  will  look  upon  thy  face  again, 

My  own  romantic  Bronx,  and  it  will  be 
A  face  more  pleasant  than  the  face  of  men. 

Thy  waves  are  old  companions,  I  shall  see 
A  well-remember' d  form  in  each  old  tree, 
And  hear  a  voice  long  loved  in  thy  wild  minstrelsy. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurl' d  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white, 

With  strcakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 

She  call'd  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

i  IT. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

in. 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimm'd  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreathes  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

v. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valour  given ; 
The  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 


TO  SARAH. 


ONE  happy  year  has  fled,  SALL, 

Since  you  were  all  my  own ; 
The  leaves  have  felt  the  autumn  blight, 

The  wintry  storm  has  blown. 
We  heeded  not  the  cold  blast, 

Nor  the  winter's  icy  air ; 
For  we  found  our  climate  in  the  heart, 

And  it  was  summer  there. 


The  summer  sun  is  bright,  SALL, 

The  skies  are  pure  in  hue ; 
But  clouds  will  sometimes  sadden  them, 

And  dim  their  lovely  blue ; 
And  clouds  may  come  to  us,  SALL, 

But  sure  they  will  not  stay ; 
For  there 's  a  spell  in  fond  hearts 

To  chase  their  gloom  away. 

in. 

In  sickness  and  in  sorrow 

Thine  eyes  were  on  me  still, 
And  there  was  comfort  in  each  glance 

To  charm  the  sense  of  ill ; 
And  were  they  absent  now,  SALL, 

I  'd  seek  my  bed  of  pain, 
And  bless  each  pang  that  gave  me  back 

Those  looks  of  love  again. 


0,  pleasant  is  the  welcome  kiss, 

When  day's  dull  round  is  o'er, 
And  sweet  the  music  of  the  step 

That  meets  me  at  the  door. 
Though  worldly  rures  may  visit  us, 

I  reck  not  when  they  fall, 
While  I  have  thy  kind  lips,  my  SALL, 

To  smile  away  them  all. 
Q 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


[Born  about  1795.    Died,  1845.] 


WE  have  in  America  few  women  who  devote 
their  lives  to  literature,  and  produce  artistic  works. 
There  are  many  who  write  "  fugitive  pieces,"  cal- 
culated to  give  no  offence,  rather  than  to  excite 
admiration,  or  provoke  criticism.  Commonplace 
sentiments  are  smoothly  versified ;  but  the  scru- 
pulous nicety  of  the  public  in  regard  to  decorum, 
or  the  modesty  of  authors,  prevents  the  sincere, 
bold,  and  natural  expression  of  strong  emotion. 
Prudery  and  affectation  are  everywhere  offensive ; 
but  in  poetry  they  are  unpardonable. 

Mrs.  BROOKS — better  known  as  Maria  del  Occi- 
dente — is  not  of  this  class.  She  is  the  poet  of 
passion  ;  her  writings  are  distinguished  by  a  fear- 
lessness of  thought  and  expression ;  she  gives  the 
heart  its  ti  ic  voice.  In  an  age  which  allows  but 
little  room  for  the  development  of  character,  and 
which  would  make  men  and  women  after  conven- 
tional patterns,  she  has  manifested  individualism 
in  her  life,  and  originality  in  her  works.  She  was 
born  in  Medford,  near  Boston,  about  the  year 
1795.  Her  maiden  name  was  Go  WAX.  She  very 
early  manifested  a  love  for  literature  and  the  fine 
arts.  Before  she  was  nine  years  old,  it  is  said, 
she  had  committed  to  memory  many  passages  by 
SHAKSPEARE,  POPE,  MILTON,  and  other  great 
authors ;  and  at  twelve  she  was  a  proficient  in 
painting  and  music.  At  the  early  age  of  fourteen, 
she  was  betrothed,  and  as  soon  as  her  education 
was  finished,  married,  to  Mr.  B  HOOKS,  a  merchant  of 
Boston.  The  first  few  years  of  her  womanhood  were 
passed  in  affluence ;  but  by  some  disasters  at  sea 
the  wealth  of  her  husband  was  lost,  and  in  the 
period  which  followed,  poetry  was  resorted  to  for 
amusement  and  consolation.  She  wrote  at  nineteen 
a  metrical  romance,  in  seven  cantos,  but  it  was 
never  published.  In  1820,  a  small  volume  of  her 
writings,  entitled  "Judith,  Esther,  and  other  Poems, 
by  a  Lover  of  the  Fine  Arts,"  appeared,  after 
having  been  submitted  to  some  of  her  friends,  who 
were  professors  in  Harvard  University,  by  whom 
a  favourable  judgment  of  its  merits  was  expressed. 
It  contained  many  creditable  passages,  arid  was 
praised  in  some  of  the  critical  journals  of  this 
country  and  England.  The  following  lines  are 
descriptive  of  one  of  the  characters : 

With  even  step,  in  mourning  garb  array'd, 
Fair  JUDITH  walk'd,  and  grandeur  mnrk'd  her  air; 

Though  humble  dust,  in  pious  sprinklings  laid,- 
Soil'd  the  dark  tresses  of  her  copious  hair. 

The  next  stanza  alludes  to  her  son  : 

Softly  supine  his  rosy  limbs  reposed, 
His  locks  curl'd  high,  leaving  the  forehead  bare  ; 

\nd  o'er  his  eyes  the  light  lids  gently  closed, 
As  they  had  fear'd  to  hide  the  brilliance  there. 

The  second  poem  in  this  volume  was  founded 
on  the  book  of  Esther.  The  following  verses  de- 


scribe the  preparations  of  the  heroine  for  appear- 
ing before  the  king. 

"  Take  ye,  my  maids',  this  mournful  garb  away  ; 

Bring  all  my  glowing  gems  and  garments  fair ; 
A  nation's  fate  impending  hangs  to-day 

But  on  my  beauty  and  your  duteous  care." 

Prompt  to  obey,  her  ivory  form  they  lave ; 

Some  comb  and  braid  her  hair  of  wavy  gold ; 
Some  softly  wipe  away  the  limpid  wave 

That  o'er  her  dimply  limbs  in  drops  of  fragrance  roll'd. 

Refresh'd  and  faultless  from  their  hands  she  came, 
Like  form  celestial  clad  in  raiment  bright ; 

O'er  all  her  garb  rich  India's  treasures  flame, 
In  mingling  beams  of  rainbow  colour'd  light. 

Graceful  she  enter'd  the  forbidden  court, 
Her  bosom  throbbing  with  her  purpose  high; 

Slow  were  her  steps,  and  unassumed  her  port, 
While  hope  just  tremblud  in  her  azure  eye. 

Light  on  the  marble  fell  her  ermine  tread, 
And  when  the  king  reclined  in  musing  mood, 

Lifts  at  the  gentle  sound  his  stately  head, 
Low  at  his  feet  the  sweet  intruder  stood. 

Soon  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  in  1821, 
Mrs.  BROOKS  became  the  possessor  of  some  proper- 
ty in  the  island  of  Cuba;  and  since  that  time  she 
has  not  resided  permanently  in  this  country. 

"  Zophiel,  or  the  Bride  of  Seven,  by  Maria  del 
Occidente,"  was  published  in  London,  in  1833. 
The  first  canto  had  been  printed,  with  a  few  mis- 
cellaneous pieces,  at  Boston,  in  1825,  but  the  poem 
was  not  completed  until  1831,  when  the  last  notes 
to  it  were  written,  in  Paris.  At  the  time  of  its 
publication,  Mrs.  BHOOKS  was  the  guest  of  RO- 
BERT SOUTHET,  who  corrected  the  proof-sheets 
as  it  passed  through  the  press,  and  who,  in  "  The 
Doctor,"*  and  other  works,  has  alluded  to  it  as  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  productions  of  female  ge- 
nius. The  germ  of  the  story  is  in  the  sixth,  seventh, 
and  eighth  chapters  of  the  apocryphal  book  of 
TOBIT;  but  in  endeavouring  to  give  authority  for 
the  incidents  of  the  poem,  the  author  has  not 
referred  to  the  sacred  writings.  By  the  fathers  of 
the  Greek  and  Roman  churches,  it  was  supposed 
that  demons  or  fallen  angels,  in  an  early  age,  had 
wandered  about  the  earth,  formed  attachments  to 
beautiful  mortals,  and  caused  themselves,  at  times, 
to  be  worshipped  as  divinities.  ZOPHIEL,  an  out- 
cast angel,  is  enamoured  of  EGLA,  the  apocryphal 
SAHA  ;  and  while,  in  her  bridal  chamber,  she  is 


*  MAHIA  DEL  OCCIDENTE — otherwise,  we  believe,  Mrs. 
BROOKS — is  styled  in  "The  Doctor."  &c.  "the  most  im- 
passioned and  most  imaginative  of  all  poetesses."  And 
without  taking  into  account  qitasilam  ardentiora  scattered 
here  and  there  throughout  her  singular  poem,  there  is  un- 
doubtedly ground  for  the  first  clause,  and,  with  the  more 
accurate  substitution  of  "fanciful"  for  "imaginative" 
for  the  whole  of  the  eulogy.  It  is  altogether  an  extraor- 
dinary performance. — London  Quarterly  Jtevieir. 

182 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


183 


waiting  for  MF.LES,  the  first  of  seven  who  seek  her 
hand,  he  appears  before  her  and  declares  his  passion : 

Then  lowly  bending  with  seraphic  grace, 

The  vase  he  proffer'd  full ;  and  not  a  gem 
Drawn  forth  successive  from  its  sparkling  place, 

But  put  to  shame  the  Persian  diadem  ; 
While  lie,  ''Nay,  let  me  o'er  thy  white  arms  bind 

These  orient  pearls,  less  smooth;  EGLA,  for  thee, 
My  thrilling  substance  pain'd  by  storm  and  wind, 

I  sought  them  in  the  caverns  of  the  sea. 
Look!  here's  a  ruby;  drinking  solar  rays, 

I  saw  it  redden  on  a  mountain-tip; 
Now  on  thy  snowy  bosom  let  it  biaze ; 

'Twill  blush  still  deeper  to  behold  thy  lip. 
Here  's  for  thy  hair  a  garland ;  every  flower 

That  spreads  its  blossoms,  water'd  by  the  tear 
Of  the  sad  slave  in  Babylonian  bower, 

Might  see  its  fraf  bright  hues  perpetuate  here. 
For  morn's  light  hjil,  this  changeful  amethyst; 

A  sapphire  fur  the  violet's  tender  blue ; 
Large  opals,  for  the  queen-rose  zephyr-kist; 

And  here  are  emeralds  of  every  hue, 

For  folded  bud  and  leaflet  dropp'd  with  dew. 
And  here  's  a  diamond,  cull'd  from  Indian  mine, 

To  gift  a  haughty  queen ;  it  might  not  be  ; 
I  knew  a  worthier  brow,  sister  divine, 

And  brought  the  gem  ;  for  well  I  duem  for  thee 
Thff  ".rrh-chemic  sun  in  earth's  dark  bosom  wrought 

To  prison  thus  a  ray,  that  when  dull  night 
Frowns  o'er  her  realms,  and  nature's  all  seems  naught, 

She  whom  he  grieves  to  leave  may  still  behold  his  light." 

Thus  spoke  he  on,  while  still  the  wondering  maid 

Gazed  as  a  youthful  artist ;  rapturously 
Each  perfect,  smooth,  harmonious  limb  survey'd, 

Insatiate  still  her  beauty-loving  eye. 
For  ZOPHIEL  wore  a  mortal  form  ;  and  blent 

In  mortal  form,  when  perfect,  Nature  shows 
Her  all  that's  fair  enhanced  ;  fire,  firmament, 
,  Ocean,  earth,  flowers,  and  gems, — all  there  disclose 
Their  charms  epitomised  :  the  heavenly  power 

To  lavish  beauty,  in  this  last  work,  crown'd  : 
And  EGLA,  form'd  of  fibres  such  as  dower 

Those  who  most  feel,  forgot  all  else  around. 
He  saw,  and  softening  every  wily  word, 

Spoke  in  more  melting  music  to  her  soul ; 
And  o'er  her  sense,  as  when  the  fond  night-bird 

Woos  the  full  rose,  o'erpowering  fragrance  stole  ; 
Or  when  the  lilies,  sleepier  perfume,  move, 

Disturbed  by  two  young  sister  fawns,  that  play 
Among  their  graceful  stalks  at  morn,  and  love 

From  their  white  cells  to  lap  the  dew  away. 
She  strove  to  speak,  but  'twas  in  murmurs  low; 

While  o'er  her  cheek,  his  potent  spell  confessing, 
Deeper  diffused  the  warm  carnation  glow 

Still  dewy-wet  with  tears,  her  inmost  soul  confessing. 
As  the  lilhe  reptile  in  some  lonely  grove, 

With  fix'd  bright  eye  of  fasciiiating  flame, 
Lures  on  by  slow  degrees  the  plaining  dove, 

.So  nearer,  nearer  still  the  bride  and  spirit  came. 
Success  seem'd  sure  ;  but  in  the  secret  height 

And  pride  of  transport,  as  he  braved  the  power 
Which  battled  him,  at  morn,  an  evil  light 

•Shot  from  his  eyes,  with  guilt  and  treachery  fraught. 

Nature  upon  her  children  oft  bestows 

The  quirk,  untaught  perception  ;  and  while  Art 
O'ertnsks  himself  with  guile,  loves  to  disclose 

Tho  dark  thought  in  the  eye,  to  warn  the  o'er-trusting 
Or  haply,  'twas  some  airy  guardian  foil'd  [heart; 

The  sprite.      What  miri'd  emotions  shook  his  breast, 
When  her  fair  hand,  ere  he  could  clasp,  recoil'd ! 

The  spell  was  broke,  and  doubts  and  terrors  prest 
Her  sore.    While  ZOPHIGL  :  "  MELES'  step  I  heard — 

He's  a  betrayer: — wilt  receive  him  still V 
The  rosy  blood  driven  to  her  heart  by  fe-ir, 

She  said,  in  accents  faint  but  firm,  "  I  will." 


The  spirit  heard  ;  and  all  again  was  dark, 

Save,  as  before,  the  melancholy  flame 
Of  the  full  moon  ;  and  faint,  unfrequent  spark, 

Which  from  the  perfume's  burning  embers  came, 
That  stood  in  vases  round  the  room  disposed. 

Shuddering  and  trembling  to  her  couch  she  crept ; 
Soft  oped  the  door,  and  quick  again  was  closed, 

And  through  the  pale,  gray  moonlight  MELES  slept. 
But  ere  he  yet,  with  haste,  could  throw  aside 

His  broider'd  belt  and  sandals— dread  to  tell, 
Eager  he  sprang — he  sought  to  clasp  his  bride — 

He  stopp'd  ; — a  groan  was  heard — he  gasp'd  and  fell 
Low  by  the  couch  of  her  who  widow'd  lay, 

Her  ivory  hands,  convulsive,  clasp'd  in  prayer, 
But  lacking  power  to  move;  and  when  'twas  day, 

A  cold,  black  corpse  was  all  of  MELES  there. 

Four  other  lovers,  in  succession,  seek  the  cham- 
ber of  EGLA,  and  perish.  The  fifth,  ALTHEETOH, 
a  page  of  the  King  of  Medea,  unterrified  by  the 
fate  of  others,  approaches  her. 

Touching  his  golden  harp  to  prelude  sweet, 

Enter'd  the  youth,  so  pensive,  pale,  and  fair; 
Advanced  respectful  to  the  virgin's  feet, 

And,  lowly  bending  down,  made  tuneful  parlance  there. 
Like  perfume,  soft  his  gentle  accents  rose, 

And  sweetly  thrill'd  the  gilded  roof  along ; 
His  warm,  devoted  soul  no  terror  knows, 

And  truth  and  love  lend  fervour  to  his  song. 
She  hides  her  face  upon  her  couch,  that  there 

She  may  not  see  him  die.     No  groan, — she  springs 
Frantic  between  a  hope-beam  and  despair, 

And  twines  her  long  hair  round  him  as  he  sings. 
Then  thus:  "O!  being,  who  unseen  but  near, 

Art  hovering  now,  behold  and  pity  me ! 
For  love,  hope,  beauty,  music, — all  that 's  dear, 

Look,  look  on  me,  and  spare  my  agony ! 
"  Spirit!  in  mercy  make  not  me  the  cause, 

The  hateful  cause  of  this  kind  being's  death! 
In  pity  kill  me  first !    He  lives — he  draws — 

Thou  wilt  not  blast? — he  draws  his  harmless  breath!" 
Still  lives  ALTHEETOR;  still  unguarded  strays 

One  hand  o'er  his  fallen  lyre;  but  all  his  soul 
Is  lost — given  up.    He  fain  would  turn  to  gaze, 

But  cannot  turn,  so  twined.    Now  all  that  stole 
Through  every  vein,  and  thrill'd  each  separate  nerve, 

Himself  could  not  have  told, — all  wound  and  clasp'd 
In  her  white  arms  and  hair.    Ah!  can  they  serve 

To  save  him  7     "  What  a  sea  of  sweets  I"  he  gasp'd, 
But  't  was  delight :  sound,  fragrance,  all  were  breathing. 

Still  swell'd  the  transport:  "  Let  me  look  and  thank:" 
He  sighed,  (celestial  smiles  his  lip  enwreathing) — 

"  I  die — but  ask  no  more,"  he  said,  and  sank ; 
Still  by  her  arms  supported— lower— lower 

As  by  soft  sleep  oppress'd  ;  so  calm,  so  fair, 
He  rested  on  the  purple  tap'stried  floor ; 

It  seem'd  an  angel  lay  reposing  there. 

He  died  of  love ;  or  the  o'erperfect  joy 

Of  being  pitied — pray'd  for — press'd  by  thee. 
O!  for  the  fate  of  that  devoted  boy 

I  'd  sell  iny  birthright  to  Eternity. 
I  'm  not  the  cause  of  this  thy  last  distress. 

Nay!  look  upon  thy  spirit  ere  he  flies  ! 
Look  on  me  once,  and  learn  to  hate  me  less! 

He  said  ;  and  tears  fell  fast  from  his  immortal  eyes. 

Resolving  that  no  mortal  shall  wed  her,  ZOPHIEL 
finally  resolves  to  preserve  EGLA,  for  his  own  so- 
ciety in  perpetual  youth  and  beauty ;  and  with  this 
intention  he  seeks  PHAERIOX,  one  of  the  gentlest 
of  the  fallen  spirits,  made  up  of  tenderness  and 
love,  and  persuades  him  to  lead  the  way  to  the 
palace  of  the  gnomes,  under  the  sea,  where  TA- 
HATIITAM  keeps  the  elixir  of  life.  This  episode, 


184 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


which  forms  the  third  canto  of  the  poem,  I  have 
quoted.  A  drop  of  the  elixir  is  obtained,  and  lost 
on  the  return  of  the  spirits  to  the  upper  air,  in  a 
tempest  raised  by  LUCIFER.  Finally,  HELOW,  who 
weds  EGIA,  puts  ZOI>HIEL  to  flight,  and  in  the 
deserts  of  Ethiopia,  the  fallen  angel  is  visited  by 
RAPHAEL,  who  gives  him  hopes  of  restoration  to 
his  original  rank  in  Heaven. 

In  1842  Mrs.  BROOKS  had  printed  for  private 
circulation  a  little  romance  entitled  "  Idomen,  or 
the  Valley  of  Yumuri,"  and  she  subsequently  pub- 
lished several  short  poems  in  a  magazine  of  which 
the  writer  of  this  was  editor. 

After  her  return  from  Europe  she  resided  some 
time  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Military  Academy  at 
West  Point,  where  one  of  her  sons,  now  in  the 
army,  was  educated.  In  the  autumn  of  1842 


she  left  New  York  for  her  estate  in  the  island  of 
Cuba,  where  she  died  suddenly  near  the  close 
of  1845. 

Mrs.  BHOOKS  was  the  only  American  poet  of  her 
sex  whose  mind  was  thoroughly  educated.  She  was 
familiar  with  the  literature  of  Greece,  Rome,  and 
the  oriental  nations,  and  with  the  languages  and 
letters  of  southern  Europe.  Learning,  brilliant 
imagination,  and  masculine  boldness  of  thought 
and  diction,  are  characteristics  of  her  works.  In 
some  of  her  descriptions  she  was,  perhaps,  too  mi- 
nute ;  and  at  times,  by  her  efforts  to  condense,  she 
became  obscure.  The  stanza  of  «  Zophiel"  will 
probably  never  be  very  popular ;  and  though  the 
poem  may,  to  use  the  language  of  Mr.  SOTJTHEY, 
have  a  permanent  place  in  the  literature  of  our 
language,  it  will  never  be  generally  admired. ' 


PALACE  OF  GNOMES.* 

'T  is  now  the  hour  of  mirth,  the  hour  of  love, 

The  hour  of  melancholy :  night,  as  vain 
Of  her  full  beauty,  seems  to  pause  above, 

That  all  may  look  upon  her  ere  it  wane. 
The  heavenly  angel  watch'd  his  subject  star, 

O'er  all  that's  good  and  fair  benignly  smiling ; 
The  sighs  of  wounded  love  he  hears,  from  far, 

Weeps  that  he  cannot  heal,  and  wafts  a  hope 

beguiling. 
The  nether  earth  looks  beauteous  as  a  gem ; 

High  o'er  her  groves  in  floods  of  moonlight  laving, 
The  towering  palm  displays  his  silver  stem, 

The  while  his  plumy  leaves  scarce  in  the  breeze 

are  waving. 
The  nightingale  among  his  roses  sleeps ; 

The  soft-eyed  doe  in  thicket  deep  is  sleeping ; 
The  dark-green  myrrh  her  tears  of  fragrance  weeps, 

And  every  odorous  spike  in  limpid  dew  is  steeping. 
Proud,  prickly  cerea,  now  thy  blossom  'scapes 

Its  cell ;  brief  cup  of  light ;  and  seems  to  say, 
"  I  am  not  for  gross  mortals :  blood  of  grapes — 
And  sleep  for  them.  Come,  spirits,  while  ye  may !" 

A  silent  stream  winds  darkly  through  the  shade, 

And  slowly  gains  the  Tigris,  where  't  is  lost ; 
By  a  forgotten  prince,  of  old,  't  was  made, 

And  in  its  course  full  many  a  fragment  cross'd 
Of  marble,  fairly  carved ;  and  by  its  side 

Her  golden  dust  the  flaunting  lotos  threw 
O'er  her  white  sisters,  throned  upon  the  tide, 

And  queen  of  every  flower  that  loves  perpetual 

dew. 
Gold-sprinkling  lotos,  theme  of  many  a  song, 

By  slender  Indian  warbled  to  his  fair  ! 
Still  tastes  the  stream  thy  rosy  kiss,  though  long 

Has  been  but  dust  the  hand  that  placed  thee 

there. 
The  little  temple  where  its  relics  rest 

Long  since  has  fallen ;  its  broken  columns  lie 
Beneath  the  lucid  wave,  and  give  its  breast 

A  whiten'd  glimmer  as  'tis  stealing  by. 

*  The  third  canto  of  Zophiel. 


Here,  cerea,  too,  thy  clasping  mazes  twine 
The  only  pillar  time  has  left  erect ; 

Thy  serpent  arms  embrace  it,  as  't  were  thine, 
And  roughly  mock  the  beam  it  should  reflect. 

An  ancient  prince,  in  happy  madness  blest, 

Was  wont  to  wander  to  this  spot,  and  deem'd 
A  water-nymph  came  to  him,  and  caress' d, 

And  loved  him  well ;  haply  he  only  dream'd  ; 
But  on  the  spot  a  little  dome  arose, 

And  flowers  were  set,  that  still  in  wildness  bloom; 
And  the  cold  ashes  that  were  him,  repose,  , 

Carefully  shrined  in  this  lone  ivory  tomb. 
It  is  a  place  so  strangely  wild  and  sweet, 

That  spirits  love  to  come ;  and  now,  upon 
A  moonlight  fragment,  ZOPHIEI.  chose  his  seat, 

In  converse  with  the  soft  PHRAERIO;*  ; 
Who  on  the  moss  beside  him  lies  reclining, 

O'erstrewn  with  leaves,  from  full-blown  roses 

shaken, 
By  nightingales,  that  on  their  branches  twining, 

The  live-long  night  to  love  and  music  waken. 
PHRAERIOJT,  gentle  sprite  !  nor  force  nor  fire 

He  had  to  wake  in  others  doubt  or  fear : 
He  'd  hear  a  tale  of  bliss,  and  not  aspire 

To  taste  himself:  'twas  meet  for  his  compeer. 
No  soul-creative  in  this  being  born, 

Its  restless,  daring,  fond  aspirings  hid  : 
Within  the  vortex  of  rebellion  drawn, 

He  join'd  the  shining  ranks  as  others  did. 
Success  but  little  had  advanced ;  defeat 

He  thought  so  little,  scarce  to  him  were  worse ; 
And,  as  he  held  in  heaven  inferior  seat, 

Less  was  his  bliss,  and  lighter  was  his  curse. 
He  form'd  no  plans  for  happiness :  content 

To  curl  the  tendril,  fold  the  bud ;  his  pain 
So  light,  he  scarcely  felt  his  banishment. 

ZopmEr.,  perchance,  had  held  him  in  disdain; 
But,  form'd  for  friendship,  from  his  o'erfraught  soul 

'T  was  such  relief  his  burning  thoughts  to  pour 
In  other  ears,  that  oft  the  strong  control 

Of  pride  he  felt  them  burst,  and  could  restrain 

no  more. 
ZOPHIEL  was  soft,  but  yet  all  flame ;  by  turns 

Love,  grief,  remorse,  shame,  pity,  jealousy, 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


185 


Each  boundless  in  his  breast,  impels  or  burns  : 

His  joy  was  bliss,  his  pain  was  agony. 
And  mild  PHRAERIOX  was  of  heaven,  and  there 

Nothing  imperfect  in  its  kind  can  be  : 
There  every  form  is  fresh,  soft,  bright,  and  fair, 

Yet  differing  each,  with  that  variety, 
Not  least  of  miracles,  which  here  we  trace : 

And  wonder  and  admire  the  cause  that  form'd 
So  like,  and  yet  so  different,  every  face, 

Though  of  the  self-same  clay,  by  the  same  pro- 
cess warm'd. 
«  Order  is  heaven's  first  law."     But  that  obey'd, 

The  planets  fix'd,  the  Eternal  mind  at  leisure, 
A  vast  profusion  spread  o'er  all  it  made, 

As  if  in  endless  change  were   found  eternal 

pleasure. 
Harmless  PHRAERIOX,  form'd  to  dwell  on  high, 

Retain'd  the  looks  that  had  been  his  above ; 
And  his  harmonious  lip,  and  sweet,  blue  eye, 

Soothed  the  fallen  seraph's  heart,  and  changed 

his  scorn  to  love ; 
Who,  when  he  saw  him  in  some  garden  pleasant, 

Happy,  because  too  little  thought  had  he 
To  place  in  contrast  past  delight  with  present, 

Had  given  his  soul  of  fire  for  that  inanity. 
But,  0  !  in  him  the  Eternal  had  infused 

The  restless  soul  that  doth  itself  devour, 
Unless  it  can  create ;  and  fallen,  misused, 

But  forms  the  vast  design  to  mourn  the  feeble 

power. 
In  plenitude  of  love,  the  Power  benign 

Nearer  itself  some  beings  fain  would  lift ; 
To  share  its  joys,  assist  its  vast  design 

With  high  intelligence ;  O,  dangerous  gift ! 
Superior  passion,  knowledge,  force,  and  fire, 

The  glorious  creatures  took;  but  each  the  slave 
Of  his  own  strength,  soon  burn'd  with  wild  desire, 

And  basely  turn'd  it  'gainst  the  hand  that  gave. 

But  ZOIMUEL,  fallen  sufferer,  now  no  more 

Thought  of  the  past;  the  aspiring  voice  was  mute, 
That  urged  him  on  to  meet  his  doom  before, 

And  all  dissolved  to  love  each  varied  attribute. 
"Come,  my  PHHAEUIOX,  give  me  an  embrace," 

He  said.     "  I  hope  a  respite  of  repose, 
Like  that  respiring  from  thy  sunny  face ; 

Even  the  peace  thy  guileless  bosom  knows. 
Rememberest  thou  that  cave  of  Tigris,  where 

We  went  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  meteor  light, 
And  the  fair  creature,  on  the  damp  rock,  there 

Shivering  and  trembling  so  ]     Ah !  well  she 

might ! 
False  were  my  words,  infernal  my  intent, 

Then,  as  I  knelt  before  her  feet,  and  sued ; 
Yet  still  she  blooms,  uninjured,  innocent, 

Though  now,  for  seven  long  months,  by  ZOPHIEL 

watch' d  and  woo'd. 
Gentle  PiinAEHioy,  'tis  for  her  I  crave 

Assistance:  what  I  could  have  blighted  then, 
'T  is  now  my  only  care  to  guard  and  save ; 

Companion,  then,  my  airy  flight  again. 
Conduct  me  to  those  hoards  of  sweets  and  dews, 

Treasured  in  haunts  to  all  but  thee  unknown, 
For  favourite  sprites :  teach  me  their  power  and  use, 

And  whatsoe'er  thou  wilt  of  ZopHiEL.be  it  done! 
24 


Throughout  fair  Ecbatane  the  deeds  I  've  wrought 

Have  cast  such  dread,  that,  of  all  SARIJIVS'  train, 
I  doubt  if  there  be  one,  from  tent  or  court, 

Who'll  try  what  'tis  to  thwart  a  spirit's  love 

again. 
My  EG  LA,  left  in  her  acacia  grove, 

Has  learnt  to  lay  aside  that  piteous  fear 
That  sorrow'd  thee ;  and  I  but  live  to  prove 

A  love  for  her  as  harmless  as  sincere. 
Inspirer  of  the  arts  of  Greece,  I  charm 

Her  ears  with  songs  she  never  heard  before ; 
And  many  an  hour  of  thoughtfulness  disarm 

With  stories  cull'd  from  that  vague,  wondrous 

lore, 
But  seldom  told  to  mortals : — arts  on  gems 

Inscribed  that  still  exist ;  but  hidden  so 
From  fear  of  those  who  told  that  diadems 

Have  pass'd  from  brows  that  vainly  ached  to 

know: 
Nor  glimpse  had  mortal,  save  that  those  fair  things 

Loved,  ages  past,  like  her  I  now  adore, 
Caught  from  their  angels  some  low  whisperings, 

Then  told  of  them  to  such  as  dared  not  tell  them 

more; 
But  toil'd  in  lonely  nooks,  far  from  the  eye 

Of  shuddering,  longing  men ;  then,  buried  deep, 
Till  distant  ages  bade  their  secrets  lie, 

In  hopes  that  time  might  tell  what  their  dread 

oaths  must  keep. 
EGLA  looks  on  me  doubtful,  but  amused ; 

Admires,  but,  trembling,  dares  not  bid  me  stay; 
Yet,  hour  by  hour,  her  timid  heart,  more  used, 

Grows  to  my  sight  and  words ;  and  when  a  day 
I  leave  her,  for  my  needful  cares,  at  leisure, 

To  muse  upon  and  feel  her  lonely  state ; 
At  my  returning,  though  restrain'd  her  pleasure, 

There  needs  no  spirit's  eye  to  see  she  does  not 

hate. 
Oft  have  I  look'd  in  mortal  hearts,  to  know 

How  love,  by  slow  advances,  knows  to  twine 
Each  fibre  with  his  wreaths ;  then  overthrow 

At  once  each  stern  resolve.  The  maiden 's  mine ! 
Yet  I  have  never  press'd  her  ermine  hand, 

Nor  touch'd  the  living  coral  of  her  lip ; 
Though,  listening  to  its  tones,  so  sweet,  so  bland, 

I've  thought — 0,  impious  thought! — who  form'd 

might  sip ! 
Most  impious  thought !    Soul,  I  would  rein  thee  in, 

E'en  as  the  quick-eyed  Parthian  quells  his  steeds ; 
But  thou  wilt  start,  and  rise,  and  plunge  in  sin, 

Till  gratitude  weeps  out,  and  wounded  reason 

bleeds ! 
Soul,  what  a  mystery  thou  art !  not  one 

Admires,  or  loves,  or  worships  virtue  more 
Than  I ;  but  passion  hurls  me  on,  till  torn 

By  keen  remorse,  I  cool,  to  curse  me  and  deplore. 
But  to  my  theme.     Now,  in  the  stilly  night, 

I  hover  o'er  her  fragrant  couch,  and  sprinkle 
Sweet  dews  about  her,  as  she  slumbers  light, 

Dews  sought,  with  toil,  beneath  the  pale  star's 

twinkle, 
From  plants  of  secret  virtue.     All  for  lust 

Too  high  and  pure  my  bliss ;  her  gentle  breath 
I  hear,  inhale,  then  weep ;   (for,  O,  she  must : 

That  form  is  mortal,  and  must  sleep  in  death.) 
Q2 


186 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


And  oft,  when  nature  pants,  and  the  thick  air, 

Charged  with  foul  particles,  weighs  sluggish  o'er, 
I  breathe  them  all ;  that  deep  disgust  I  bear, 

To  leave  a  fluid  pure  and  sane  for  her. 
How  dear  is  this  employ !  how  innocent ! 

My  soul's  wild  elements  forbear  their  strife ; 
While,  on  these  harmless  cares,  pleased  and  intent, 

I  hope  to  save  her  beauty  and  her  life, 
For  many  a  rapturous  year.     But  mortal  ne'er 

Shall  hold  her  to  his  heart ;  to  me  confined, 
Her  soul  must  glow ;  nor  ever  shall  she  bear 

That  mortal  fruit  for  which  her  form 's  design'd. 
No  grosser  blood,  commingling  with  her  own, 

Shall  ever  make  her  mother.     O,  that  mild, 
Sad  glance  I  love — that  lip — that  melting  tone, 

Shall  ne'er  be  given  to  any  mortal's  child. 
But  only  for  her  spirit  shall  she  live : 

Unsoil'd  by  earth,  fresh,  chaste,  and  innocent ! 
And  all  a  spirit  dares  or  can  I'll  give ; 

And  sure  I  thus  can  make  her  far  more  blest, 
Framed  as  she  is,  than  mortal  love  could  do; 

For  more  than  mortal 's  to  this  creature  given, 
She's  spirit  more  than  half;  her  beauty's  hue 

Is  of  the  sky,  and  speaks  my  native  heaven. 
B  ut  the  night  wanes ;  while  all  is  bright  above," 

He  said,  and  round  PHHAERIOX,  nearer  drawn, 
One  beauteous  arm  he  flung,  "  first  to  my  love ; 

We  '11  see  her  safe ;  then  to  our  task  till  dawn." 

'T  is  often  thus  with  spirits :  when  retired 

Afar  from  haunts  of  men ;  so  they  delight 
To  move  in  their  own  beauteous  forms  attired ; 

Though  like  thin  shades,  or  air,  they  mock  dull 

mortals'  sight. 
Well  pleased,  PHRAERIOX  answer'd  that  embrace; 

All  balmy  he  with  thousand  breathing  sweets, 
From  thousand  dewy  flowers.  "But,  to  what  place," 

He  said,  "will  ZOPHIEI.  go?  who  danger  greets 
As  if 'twere  peace.  The  palace  of  the  gnome,* 

TAHATHYAH,  for  our  purpose  most  were  meet; 
But  then,  the  wave,  so  cold  and  fierce,  the  gloom,. 
The  whirlpools,  rocks,  that  guard  that  deep  retreat. 
Yet,  there  are  fountains,  which  no  sunny  ray 

E'er  danced  upon,  and  drops  come  there  at  last, 
Which,  for  whole  ages,  filtering  all  the  way, 

Through  all  the  veins  of  earth,  in  winding  maze 

have  past. 

These  take  from  mortal  beauty  every  stain, 
And  smooth  the  unseemly  lines  of  age  and  pain, 

With  every  wondrous  efficacy  rife ; 
Nay,  once  a  spirit  whisper'd  of  a  draught, 
Of  which  a  drop,  by  any  mortal  quaff'd, 

Would   save,  for  terms  of  years,   his  feeble, 
flickering  life." 

"  A  spirit  told  thee  it  would  save  from  death 
The  being  who  should  taste  that  drop.    Is 't  so  ? 

0  !  dear  PHRAF.RIOX,  for  another  breath 

We  have  not  time !  come,  follow  me !  we  'II  go 
And  take  one  look,  then  guide  me  to  the  track 
Of  the  gnome's  palace ;  there  is  not  a  blast 

*  In  respect  to  the  birth  of  TAHATHYAM  and  his  court, 

1  have  followed  the  opinion  of  TERTULLIAN  and  others. 
The  beings,  however,  which  are  described  in  the  text, 
can  only  be  called  gnomes,  from  their  residence  in  the 
earth,  and  their  knowledge  of  mineralogy  and  gems. 


To  stir  the  sea-flower !  we  will  go  and  back 
Ere  morn, — nay,  come  ! — the  night  is  wasting 
fast." 

"My  friend,  O,  ZOPHIEL  !  only  once  I  went, 

Then,  though  bold  ANTHEOJJ  bore  me,  such  the 

pain, 
I  came  back  to  the  air  so  rack'd  and  spent, 

That  for  a  whole  sweet  moon  I  had  no  joy  again. 
What  sayst  thou,  back  at  morn  ? — the  night,  a  day, 

And  half  the  night  that  follows  it,  alas  ! 
Were  time  too  little  for  that  fearful  way ; 

And  then  such  depths,  such  caverns  we  must 

pass" — 
"Nothing,  beloved  PHRAERIOX,  I  know  how 

To  brave  such  risks ;  and  first  the  path  will  break, 
As  oft  I've  done  in  water  depths ;  and  thou 

Needst  only  follow  through  the  way  I  make." 

The  soft  flower-spirit  shudder'd,  look'd  on  high, 

And  from  his  bolder  brother  would  have  fled  ; 
But  then  the  anger  kindling  in  that  eye 

He  could  not  bear.     So  to  fair  EGLA'S  bed 
Follow'd  and  look'd ;  then  shuddering  all  with  dread, 

To  wondrous  realms,  unknown  to  men,  he  led ; 
Continuing  long  in  sunset  course  his  flight, 

Until  for  flowery  Sicily  he  bent ; 
Then,  where  Italia  smiled  upon  the  night, 

Between  their  nearest  shores  chose  midway  his 

descent.* 
The  sea  was  calm,  and  the  reflected  moon 

Still  trembled  on  its  surface ;  not  a  breath 
Curl'd  the  broad  mirror.  Night  had  pass'd  her  noon; 

How  soft  the  air!  how  cold  the  depths  beneath! 
The  spirits  hover  o'er  that  surface  smooth, 

ZOPHIEL'S   white    arm    around    PHHAEHIOX'S 

twined, 
In  fond  caress,  his  tender  cares  to  soothe, 

While  cither's  nearer  wing  the  other's  cross'd 

behind. 
Well  pleased,  PHRAERIO^  half  forgot  his  dread, 

And  first,  with  foot  as  white  as  lotos  leaf, 
The  sleepy  surface  of  the  waves  essayed  ; 

But  then  his  smile  of  love  gave  place  to  drops 

of  grief. 
How  could  he  for  that  fluid,  dense  and  chill, 

Change  the  sweet  floods  of  air  they  floated  on  ? 
E'en  at  the  touch  his  shrinking  fibres  thrill ; 

But  ardent  ZOPHIEL,  panting,  hurries  on; 
And  (catching  his  mild  brother's  tears,  with  lip 

That  whisper'd  courage  'twixteach  glowing  kiss,) 
Persuades  to  plunge :  limbs,  wings,  and  locks  they 
dip; 

Whate'er  the  other's  pains,  the  lover  felt  but  bliss. 
Quickly  he  draws  PIIKAF.RIOX  on,  his  toil 

Even  lighter  than  he  hoped :  some  power  benign 
Seems  to  restrain  the  surges,  while  they  boil 

Mid  crags  and  caverns,  as  of  his  design 
Respectful.    That  black,  bitter  element, 

As  if  obedient  to  his  wish,  gave  way ; 
So,  comforting  PURAERIOX,  on  he  went,        [day, 

And  a  high,  craggy  arch  they  reach  at  dawn  of 

*  Not  far  from  the  scene  of  Vulcan's  labours  ;  yet  the 
regions  sought  by  these  spirits  must  have  been  very 
much  deeper. 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


187 


Upon  the  upper  world ;  and  forced  them  through 

That  arch,  the  thick,  cold  floods,  with  such  a  roar, 
That  the  bold  sprite  receded ;  and  would  view 

The  cave  before  he  ventured  to  explore. 
Then,  fearful  lest  his  frighted  guide  might  part 

And  not  be  miss'd,  amid  such  strife  and  din, 
He  strain'd  him  closer  to  his  burning  heart, 

And,  trusting  to  his  strength,  rush'd  fiercely  in. 

On,  on,  for  many  a  weary  mile,  they  fare ; 

Till  thinner  grew  the  floods,  long,  dark,  and  dense, 
From  nearness  to  earth's  core ;  and  now,  a  glare 

Of  grateful  light  relieved  their  piercing  sense ; 
As  when,  above,  the  sun  his  genial  streams 

Of  warmth  and  light  darts  mingling  with  the 

waves, 
Whole  fathoms  down;  while,  amorous  of  his  beams, 

Each  scaly  monstrous  thing  leaps  from  its  slimy 
And  now,  PHRAEHIOJT,  with  a  tender  cry,   [caves. 

Far  sweeter  than  the  land-bird's  note,  afar 
Heard  through  the  azure  arches  of  the  sky, 

By  the  long-baffled,  storm-worn  mariner: 
"Hold,  ZOPHIEL!  rest  thee  now:  our  task  is  done, 
TAHATHTAM'S  realms  alone  can  give  this  light ! 
0  !  though  'tis  not  the  life-awakening  sun, 

How  sweet  to  see  it  break  upon  such  fearful 
night !" 

Clear  grew  the  wave,  and  thin;  a  substance  white, 

The  wide-expanding  cavern  floors  and  flanks ; 
Could  one  have  look'd  from  high  how  fair  the  sight! 

Like  these,  the  dolphin,  on  Bahaman  banks, 
Cleaves  the  warm  fluid,  in  his  rainbow  tints, 

While  even  his  shad«w  on  the  sands  below 
Is  seen ;  as  through  the  wave  he  glides,  and  glints, 

Where  lies  the  polish'd  shell,  and  branching 

corals  grow. 
No  massive  gate  impedes ;  the  wave,  in  vain, 

Might  strive  against  the  air  to  break  or  fall ; 
And,  at  the  portal  of  that  strange  domain, 

A  clear,  bright  curtain  seem'd,  or  crystal  wall. 
The  spirits  pass  its  bounds,  but  would  not  far 

Tread  its  slant  pavement,  like  unbidden  guest ; 
The  while,  on  either  side,  a  bower  of  spar 

Gave  invitation  for  a  moment's  rest 
And,  deep  in  either  bower,  a  little  throne 

Look'd  so  fantastic,  it  were  hard  to  know 
If  busy  nature  fashion'd  it  alone, 

Or  found  some  curious  artist  here  below. 

Soon  spoke  PHHAERION:  "Come,  TAHATHTAM, 
come, 

Thou  know'st  me  well !  I  saw  thee  once  to  love ; 
And  bring  a  guest  to  view  thy  sparkling  dome 

Who  comes  full  fraught  with  tidings  from  above." 
Those  gentle  tones,  angelically  clear, 

Past  from  his  lips,  in  mazy  depths  retreating, 
(As  if  that  bower  had  been  the  cavern's  ear,) 

Full  many  a  stadia  far ;  and  kept  repeating, 
As  through  the  perforated  rock  they  pass, 

Echo  to  echo  guiding  them ;  their  tone 
(As  just  from  the  sweet  spirit's  lip)  at  last 

TAHATHTAM  heard;  where,  on  a  glittering  throne 
He  solitary  sat.     'Twas  many  a  year 

Ere  such  delightful,  grateful  sound  had  blest 
His  pleasured  sense ;  and  with  a  starting  tear, 

Half  joy,  half  grief,  he  rose  to  greet  his  guest. 


First  sending  through  the  rock  an  answering  strain 

To  give  both  spirits  welcome,  where  they  wait, 
And  bid  them  haste ;  for  he  might  strive  in  vain 

Half-mortal  as  he  was,  to  reach  that  gate 
For  many  a  day.     But  in  the  bower  they  hear 

His  bidding ;  and,  from  cumbrous  matter  free, 
Arose ;  and  to  his  princely  home  came  near 

With  such  spiritual  strange  velocity, 
They  met  him,  just  as  by  his  palace  door 

The  gnome  appear'd,  with  all  his  banJ,  elate 
In  the  display  of  his  resplendent  store, 

To  such  as  knew  his  father's  high  estate. 
His  sire,  a  seraph,  framed  to  dwell  above, 

Had  lightly  left  his  pure  and  blissful  home 
To  taste  the  blandishments  of  mortal  love ; 

And  from  that  lowly  union  sprang  the  gnome, 
TAHATHTAM,  first  of  his  compeers,  and  best, 

He  look'd  like  heaven,  fair  semi-earthly  thing ! 
The  rest  were  born  of  many  a  maid  carest 

After  his  birth,  and  chose  him  for  their  king. 
He  sat  upon  a  car,  (and  the  large  pearl 

Once  cradled  in  it  glimmer'd,  now,  without) 
Bound  midway  on  two  serpents'  backs,  that  curl 

In  silent  swiftness  as  he  glides  about. 
A  shell,  'twas  first  in  liquid  amber  wet; 

Then  ere  the  fragrant  cement  harden'd  round, 
All  o'er  with  large  and  precious  stones  'twas  set 

By  skilful  TSATAVKST,*  or  made  or  found. 
The  reins  seem'd  pliant  crystal  (but  their  strength 

Had  match'd  his  earthly  mother's  silken  band  ;)•{• 
And,  fleck'd  with  rubies,  flow'd  in  ample  length, 

Like  sparkles  o'er  TA  H  ATHT  AM'S  beauteous  hand. 
The  reptiles,  in  their  fearful  beauty,  drew 

As  if  from  love,  like  steeds  of  Araby ; 
Like  blood  of  lady's  lip  their  scarlet  hue ; 

Their  scales  so  bright  and  sleek,  'twas  pleasure 

but  to  see. 
With  open  mouths,  as  proud  to  show  the  bit, 

They  raise  their  heads,  and  arch  their  necks — 

(with  eye 
As  bright  as  if  with  meteor  fire  'twere  lit;) 

And  dart  then:  barbed  tongues,  'twixt  fangs  of 

ivory. 
These,  when  the  quick-advancing  sprites  they  saw 

Furl  their  swift  wings,  and  tread  with  angel  grace 
The  smooth  fair  pavement,  check'd  their  speed  in 
awe, 

And  glided  far  aside  as  if  to  give  them  space. 

TAHATHTAM,  lighted  with  a  pleasing  pride, 

And  in  like  guise,  to  meet  the  strangers  bent 
His  courteous  steps ;  the  while  on  either  side 

Fierce  AISHALAT  and  PSHAAMATIM  went. 
Bright  RAMAOTJR  follow'd  on,  in  order  meet; 

Then  NAHALCOUL  and  ZOTZARAVEX,  best 
Beloved,  save  ROUAMASAK  of  perfume  sweet; 

Then  TAIHAZAK  and  MAHMORAK;  the  rest 
A  crowd  of  various  use  and  properties, 

Arranged  to  meet  their  monarch's  wishes,  vie 
In  seemly  show  to  please  the  stranger's  eyes, 

And  show  what  could  be  wrought  without  or 
soil  or  sky. 

*  TSAVAVEN  signifies  tint-gem. 

t  It  has  been  said  that  an  art  once  existed  of  composing 
a  substance  which,  together  with  a  perfect  pliancy,  had 
the  colour  and  transparency  of  glass  or  crystal. 


188 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


And  ZUFIIIEL,  though  a  spirit,  ne'er  had  seen 

The  like  before ;  and,  for  he  had  to  ask 
A  boon,  almost  as  dear  as  heaven,  his  mien 

Was  softness  all;  but  'twas  a  painful  task 
To  his  impatience  thus  the  time  to  wait 

Due  to  such  welcome :  all  his  soul  possest 
With  thoughts  of  her  he'd  left  in  lonely  state, 

Unguarded,  how  he  burnt  to  proffer  his  request ! 
The  fond  PHHAERION  look'd  on  him,  and  knew 

How  much  it  pain'd  him  here  below  to  stay ; 
1  So  towards  the  princely  gnome  he  gently  drew 

To  tell  what  purpose  brought  them  down  from 

day; 
And  said,  "  0 !  king,  this  humble  offering  take ; 

How  hard  the  task  to  bring  I  need  not  tell ; 
Receive  the  poor,  poor  gift,  for  friendship's  sake !" 

TAIIATHYAIH  took  a  yellow  asphodel, 
A  deep-blue  lotus,  and  a  full  moss-rose, 

And  then  spoke  out,  "  My  TAIHALAK,  come 

hither,  [glows ; 

Look  at  these  flowers,  cropt  where  the  sun-beam 

Crust  them  with  diamond,  never  let  them  wither!" 

Then,  soon,  PHRAERIOX  :  «  Monarch,  if 't  is  truth, 

Thou  hast  (and  that  'tis  false  sweet  powers  for- 

fend!) 
A  draught  whose  power  perpetuates  life  and  youth, 

Wilt  thou  bestow  one  drop  upon  my  friend  1" 
Then  ZOPHIEI  could  no  more  withhold,  but  knelt 

And  said,  "O  !  sovereign!  happier  far  than  I ! 
Born  as  thou  wert,  and  in  earth's  entrails  pent, 

Though  once  I  shared  thy  father's  bliss  on  high. 
One  only  draught !  and  if  its  power  I  prove, 

By  thy  sweet  mother,  to  an  angel  dear, 
Whate'er  thou  wilt,  of  all  the  world  above, 

Down  to  these  nether  realms  I'll  bring  thee 

every  year. 
Thy  tributary  slave,  I'll  scorn  the  pain, 

Though  storms  and  rocks  my  feeling  substance 
TAHATHYAM,  let  me  not  implore  in  vain,     [tear ! 

Give  me  the  draught,  and  save  me  from  despair !" 

TAHATHYAM  paused ;  as  if  the  bold  request 

He  liked  not  to  refuse,  nor  wish'd  to  grant ; 
Then,  (after  much  revolving  in  his  breast,) 

"  What  of  this  cup  can  an  immortal  want  1 
My  angel  sire,  for  many  a  year,  endured 

The  vilest  toils,  deep  hidden  in  the  ground, 
To  mix  this  drink ;  nor  was 't  at  last  procured 

Till  all  he  fear'd  had  happ'd :  Death's  sleep  pro- 
found 
Seized  my  fair  mother.     I  had  shared  her  doom  : 

Mortal,  like  her  he  held  than  heaven  more  dear ; 
But,  by  his  chymic  arts,  he  robb'd  the  tomb 

And  fixed  my  solitary  being  here ; 
As  if  to  hide  from  the  Life-giver's  eye, 

Of  his  presumptuous  task,  untried  before 
The  prized  success,  bidding  the  secret  lie 

For  ever  here ;  I  never  saw  him  more, 
When  this  was  done.     Yet  what  avails  to  live, 

From  age  to  age,  thus  hidden  'neath  the  wave  ? 
Nor  life  nor  being  have  I  power  to  give, 

And  here,  alas !  are  no  more  lives  to  save ! 
For  my  loved  father's  sight  in  vain  I  pine ! 

Where  is  the  bright  CEPHHOJTIEL  ]  Spirit,tell 


But  how  lie  fares,  and  what  thou  ask'st  is  thine !" 

Fair  hope  from  ZOPHTEL'S  look  that  moment  fell. 
The  anxious  gnome  observed ;  and  soon  bethought 

How  far  his  exile  limited  his  will ; 
And  half  divining  why  he  so  besought 

Gift,  worthless,  save  to  man,  continued  still 
His  speech : — "  Thou  askest  much :  should  I  impart, 

Spirit,  to  thee,  what  my  great  father  fain 
Would  hide  from  Heaven  1  and  what  with  all  his  art 

Even  the  second  power  desires  in  vain  1 
All  long  but  cannot  touch :  a  sword  of  flame 

Guards  the  life-fruit  once  seen.    Yet,  spirit,  know 
There  is  a  service, — do  what  I  shall  name, 

And  let  the  danger  threaten, — I  '11  bestow. 
But  first  partake  our  humble  banquet,  spread 

Within  these  rude  walls,  and  repose  awhile;" — 
He  said,  and  to  the  sparry  portal  led 

And  usher'd  his  fair  guest  with  hospitable  smile. 

High  towered  the  palace  and  its  massive  pile, 

Made  dubious  as  if  of  nature  or  of  art, 
So  wild  and  so  uncouth ;  yet,  all  the  while, 

Shaped  to  strange  grace  in  every  varying  part. 
And  groves  adorn'd  it,  green  in  hue,  arid  bright, 

As  icicles  about  a  laurel-tree  ; 
And  danced  about  their  twigs  a  wonderous  light ; 

Whence  came  that  light  so  far  beneath  the  sea  1 
ZOPHIEL  looked  up  to  know,  and  to  his  view 

The  vault  scarce  seem'd  less  vast  than  that  of 
No  rocky  roof  was  seen;  a  tender  blue          [day; 

Appear'd,  as  of  the  sky,  and  clouds  about  it  play : 
And,  in  the  midst,  an  orb  looked  as  'twere  meant 

To  shame  the  sun,  it  mimick'd  him  so  well. 
But  ah !  no  quickening,  grateful  warmth  it  sent ; 

Cold  as  the  rock  beneath,  the  paly  radiance  fell. 
Within,  from  thousand  lamps  the  lustre  strays, 

Reflected  back  from  gems  about  the  wall ; 
And  from  twelve  dolphin  shapes  a  fountain  plays, 

Just  in  the  centre  of  a  spacious  hall ; 
But  whether  in  the  sunbeam  form'd  to  sport, 

These  shapes  once  lived  in  supleness  and  pride, 
And  then,  to  decorate  this  wonderous  court, 

Were  stolen  from  the  waves  and  petrified ; 
Or,  moulded  by  some  imitative  gnome, 

And  scaled  all  o'er  with  gems,  they  were  but  stone, 
Casting  their  showers  and  rainbows  'neath  thedome, 

To  man  or  angel's  eye  might  not  be  known. 
No  snowy  fleece  in  these  sad  realms  was  found, 

Nor  silken  ball  by  maiden  loved  so  well ; 
But  ranged  in  lightest  garniture  around, 

In  seemly  folds,  a  shining  tapestry  fell. 
And  fibres  of  asbestos,  bleached  in  fire,     [fleck'd, 

And  all  with  pearls  and  sparkling  gems  o'er- 
Of  that  strange  court  composed  the  rich  attire, 

And  such  the  cold,  fair  form  of  sad  TAHATHYAM 
deck'd. 

Of  marble  white  the  table  they  surround, 

And  reddest  coral  deck'd  each  curious  couch, 
Which  softly  yielding  to  their  forms  was  found, 

And  of  a  surface  smooth  and  wooing  to  the  touch. 
Of  sunny  gold  and  silver,  like  the  moon, 

Here  was  no  lack ;  but  if  the  veins  of  earth, 
Torn  open  by  man's  weaker  race,  so  soon 

Supplied  the  alluring  hoard,  or  here  had  birth 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


189 


That  baffling1,  maddening,  fascinating  art, 

Half-told  l>y  sprite  most  mischievous,  that  he 
Might  laugh  to  see  men  toil,  then  not  impart, 

The  guests  left  uninquired ; — 'tis  still  a  mystery. 
Here  were  no  flowers,  but  a  sweet  odour  breathed, 

Of  amber  pure ;  a  glistening  coronal, 
Of  various-coloured  gems,  each  brow  enwreathed, 

In  form  of  garland,  for  the  festival. 
All  that  the  shell  contains  most  delicate, 

Of  vivid  colours,  ranged  and  drest  with  care, 
Was  spread  for  food,  and  still  was  in  the  state 

Of  its  first  freshness: — if  such  creatures,  rare 
Among  cold  rock.s,  so  far  from  upper  air, 

By  force  of  art,  might  live  and  propagate, 
Or  were  in  hoards  preserved,  the  muse  cannot  de- 
clare. 

But  here,  so  low  from  the  life-wakening  sun, 

However  humble,  life  was  sought  in  vain  ; 
But  when  by  chance,  or  gift,  or  peril  won, 

'T  was  prized  and  guarded  well  in  this  domain. 
Four  dusky  spirits,  by  a  secret  art 

Taught  by  a  father,  thoughtful  of  his  wants, 
TAHATIIYAM  kept,  for  menial  toil  apart, 

But  only  deep  in  sea  were  their  permitted  haunts. 
The  banquet-cups,  of  many  a  hue  and  shape, 

Boss'd  o'er  with  gems,  were  beautiful  to  view; 
But,  for  the  madness  of  the  vaunted  grape, 

Their  only  draught  was  a  pure  limpid  dew, 
To  spirits  sweet ;  but  these  half-mortal  lips 

Long'd  for  the  streams  that  once  on  earth  they 

quaffed ; 
And,  half  in  shame,  TAHATHYAM  coldly  sips 

And  craves  excuses  for  the  temperate  draught. 
« Man  tastes,"  he  said,  "  the  grape's  sweet  blood 
that  streams  [he 

To  steep  his  heart  when  pain'd;  when  sorrowing 
In  wild  delirium  drowns  the  sense,  and  dreams 

Of  bliss  arise,  to  cheat  his  misery." 
Nor  with  their  dews  were  any  mingling  sweets 

Save  those,  to  mortal  lip,  of  poison  fell ; 
No  murmuring  bee  was  heard  in  these  retreats, 

The  mineral  clod  alone  supplied  the  hydromel. 

The  spirits,  while  they  sat  in  social  guise, 

Pledging  each  goblet  with  an  answering  kiss, 
Mark'd  many  a  gnome  conceal  his  bursting  sighs ; 

And  thought  death  happier  than  a  life  like  this. 
But  they  had  music;  at  one  ample  side 

Of  the  vast  arena  of  that  sparkling  hall, 
Fringed  round  with  gems,  that  all  the  rest  outvied ; 

In  form  of  canopy,  was  seen  to  fall 
The  stony  tapestry,  over  what,  at  first, 

An  altar  to  some  deity  appear'd ; 
But  it  had  cost  full  many  a  year  to  adjust 

The  limpid  crystal  tubes  that  'neath  uprear'd 
Their  different  lucid  lengths ;  and  so  complete 

Their  wondrous  rangcmcnt,  that  a  tuneful  gnome 
Drew  from  them  sounds  more  varied,  clear,  and 
sweet, 

Than  ever  yet  had  rung  in  any  earthly  dome. 
Loud,  shrilly,  liquid,  soft ;  at  that  quick  touch 

Such  modulation  woo'd  his  angel  ears 
That  ZOPHIEL  wonder'd,  started  from  his  couch 

And  thought  upon  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


TAHATHYAM  mark'd ;  and  casting  down  the  board 

A  wistful  glance  to  one  who  shared  his  cheer, 
"My  RAGASYCHEON,"*  said  he;  at  his  word 

A  gnome  arose,  and  knew  what  strain  he  fain 

would  hear. 
More  like  the  dawn  of  youth  in  form  and  face, 

And  than  his  many  pheres  more  lightly  dress'd, 
Yet  unsurpass'd  in  beauty  and  in  grace, 

Silken-haired  RAGASYCUEOX  soon  express'd 
The  feelings  rising  at  his  master's  heart ; 

Choosing  such  tones  as  when  the  breezes  sigh 
Through  some  lone  portico ;  or  far  apart, 

From  ruder  sounds  of  mirth  in  the  deep  forest  die. 
Preluding'  low,  in  notes  that  faint  and  tremble, 

Swelling,  awakening,  dying,  plaining  deep, 
While  such  sensations  in  the  soul  assemble, 

As  make  it  pleasure  to  the  eyes  to  weep. 
Is  there  a  heart  that  ever  loved  in  vain,         [dear, 

Though  years  have  thrown  their  veil  o'er  all  most 
That  lives  not  each  sensation  o'er  again      [here  ? 

In  sympathy  with  sounds  like  those  that  mingle 
Still  the  fair  gnome's  light  hands  the  chime  prolong ; 

And  while  his  utmost  art  the  strain  employs, 
CEPHROXIEL'S  softened  son  in  gushing  song 

Pour'd  forth  his  sad,  deep  sense  of  long  departed 


O,  my  PHROXEMA  !  how  thy  yellow  hair 
Was  fragrant,  when,  by  looks  alone  carest, 

I  felt  it,  wafted  by  the  pitying  air, 

Float  o'er  my  lips  and  touch  my  fervid  breast ! 

How  my  least  word  lent  colour  to  thy  cheek ! 

And  how  thy  gentle  form  would  heave  and  swell, 
As  if  the  love  thy  heart  contained  would  break 

That  warm,  pure  shrine,  where  nature  bade  it 
dwell. 

We  parted ;  years  are  past,  and  ihou  art  dead ! 

Never,  PHROJTEMA,  shall  I  see  thee  more ! 
One  little  ringlet  of  thy  graceful  head 

Lies  next  my  heart ;  't  is  all  I  may  adore. 

Torn  from  thy  sight,  to  save  a  life  of  gloom, 
Hopes  unaccomplish'd,warmest  wishes  cross'd — 

How  can  I  longer  bear  my  weary  doom  1 
Alas !  what  have  I  gain'd  for  all  I  lost  1 

The  music  ceased ;  and  from  TAHATHYAM  pass'd 

The  mournful  extasy  that  lent  it  zest ; 
But  tears  adown  his  paly  cheek  fell  fast, 

And  sprinkled  the  asbestos  o'er  his  breast. 
Then  thus:  "If  but  a  being  half  so  dear 

Gould  to  these  realms  be  brought,  the  slow  dis- 
Of  my  long  solitude  were  less  severe,  [tress 

And  I  might  learn  to  bear  my  weariness. 
There 's  a  nepenthic   draught,  which    the  warm 
breath 

Of  mortals,  when  they  quaff,  keeps  in  suspense ; 
Giving  the  pale  similitude  of  death, 

While  thus  chain'd  up  the  quick  perceptive  sense. 
Haply  'twere  possible.  But  to  the  shrine, 

Where  like  a  god  I  guard  CEPUROJ«-IEI.'S  gift!" 

*  This  name  is  compounded  of  a  Hebraic  and  a  Greek 
word,  and  signifies  to  move  or  affect  the  soul. 


190 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


Soon  through  the  rock  they  wind ;   the  draught 
divine 

Was  hidden  by  a  veil  tho  king  alone  might  lift. 
CEPHRONJEL'S  son,  with  half-averted  face 

And  faltering  hand,  that  curtain  drew  and  show'd, 
Of  solid  diamond  formed,  a  lucid  vase ; 

And  warm  within  the  pure  elixir  glow'd ; 
Bright  red,  like  flame  and  blood,  (could  they  so 
meet,) 

Ascending,  sparkling,  dancing,  whirling,  ever 
In  quick  perpetual  movement ;  and  of  heat 

So  high,  the  rock  was  warm  beneath  their  feet, 
(Yet  heat  in  its  intensencss  hurtful  never,) 
Even  to  the  entrance  of  the  long  arcade 

Which  led  to  that  deep  shrine,  in  the  rock's 

breast 
As  far  as  if  the  half-angel  were  afraid 

To  know  the  secret  he  himself  possessed. 
TAHATHYAM  filled  a  slip  of  spar  with  dread, 

As  if  stood  by  and  frown'd  some  power  divine ; 
Then  trembling,  as  he  turn'd  to  ZOPHIEL,  said, 

"  But  for  one  service  shall  thou  call  it  thine. 
Bring  me  a  wife ;  as  I  have  named  the  way; 

(I  will  not  risk  destruction  save  for  love!) 
Fair-haired  and  beauteous  like  my  mother;  say — 

Plight  me  this  pact ;  so  shall  thou  bear  above, 
For  thine  own  purpose,  what  has  here  been  kept 

Since  bloom'd  the  second  age,  to  angels  dear. 
Bursting  from  earth's  dark  womb,  the  fierce  wave 
swept 

Off  every  form  that  lived  and  loved,  while  here, 
Deep  hidden  here,  I  still  lived  on  and  wept." 
Then,  ZOPHIEL,  pitying  his  emotion:  "So 

I  promise ;  nay,  unhappy  prince,  I  swear 
By  what  I  dare  not  utler ;  I  will  go 

And  search ;  and  one  of  all  Ihe  loveliest  bear 
Away,  the  while  she  sleeps,  to  be  thy  wife : 

Give  her  nepenthic  drink,  and  through  the  wave 
Brave  hell's  worst  pains  to  guard  her  gentle  life. 

Monarch !  't  is  said ;  now,  give  me  what  I  crave ! 
TAHATHYAM:  EVANATH,*  son  of  a  sire 

Who  knew  how  love  burns  in  a  breast  divine, 
If  this  thy  gift  sustain — one  vital  fire, 

Sigh  not  for  things  of  earth,  for  all  earth's  best 

are  thine." 
He  took  the  spar:  the  high-wrought  hopes  of  both 

Forbad  delay.     So  to  the  palace  back 
They  came;  TAHATHYAM  fainlly  pressed ;  nor  loth 

Saw  his  fair  guests  depart  to  wend  their  watery 
track. 

THE    STORM/f 

OVER  that  coast  whither  wrong'd  DIDO  fled 

From  brother's  murderous  hand,  low  vapours 

brood. 
But  all  is  hush'd ;  and  reigns  a  calm  as  dread 

As  that  fell  Roman's  who,  like  wolf  pursued,^ 
In  aftertimes  upon  a  fragment  sate 

Of  ruin'd  CARTHAGE,  his  fierce  eye  at  rest, 
While  hungry,  cold,  and  spent,  he  mock'd  at  fate, 

And  fed  on  the  revenge  deep  smouldering  in 
his  breast. 


*  From  eva,  life  ;  and  nnthnn,  to  give, 
t  The  fourth  canto  of  Zopliiel. 
JCAius  MARIUS. 


But  now  that  city's  turrets  frown  on  high ; 

And  from  her  distant  streets  is  heard  the  shriek 
Of  frantic  mothers,  utter'd  as  they  fly 

From  where  with  children's  blood  their  guilty 

altars  reek. 
But  far,  far  off,  upon  the  sea's  expanse, 

The  very  silence  has  a  shriek  of  fear; 
And,  'cross  the  sight,  thick  shadows  seem  to  glance ; 

And  sounds  like  laughter  ring,  yet  leave  the  ear 
In  racking  doubt  if  it  has  heard  such  peal, 

Or  if  't  was  but  affrighted  fancy  spoke : 
Past  that  suspense,  and  lesser  pain  to  feel, 

As  giant  rends  his  chains  the  bursting  teinpest 
Alas !  for  the  poor  pilot  at  his  prow,  [woke. 

Far  from  the  haven !     Will  his  Neptune  save  ? 
The  muse  no  longer  hears  his  frantic  vow, 

But  follows  her  fair  sprites  still  deep  beneath 
the  wave. 

Soon  through  the  cavern,  the  receding  light 

Refused  its  beam;  ZOPHIEL,  with  toil  severe, 
But  bliss  in  view,  through  the  thrice  murky  night, 

Sped  swiftly  on.     A  treasure  now  more  dear 
He  had  to  guard,  than  boldest  hope  had  dared 

To  breathe  for  years ;  but  rougher  grew  the  way ; 
And  soft  PHRAERIOX,  shrinking  back  and  scared 

At  every  whirling  depth,  wept  for  his  flowers  and 

day. 
Shiver'd,  and  pain'd,  and  shrieking,  as  the  waves 

Wildly  impel  them  'gainst  the  jutting  rocks ; 
Not  all  the  care  and  strength  of  ZOPHIEL  saves 

His  tender  guide  from  half  the  wildering  shocks 
He  bore.    The  calm,  which  favour'd  their  descent, 

And  bade  them  look  upon  their  task  as  o'er, 
Was  past ;  and  now  the  inmost  earth  seem'd  rent 

With  such  fierce  storms  as  never  raged  before. 
Of  a  long  mortal  life  had  the  whole  pain 

Essenced  in  one  consummate  pang,  been  borne, 
Known,  and  survived ;  it  still  would  be  in  vain 

To  try  to  paint  the  pains  felt  by  these  sprites  for- 
lorn. 
The  power  that  made,  intending  them  for  bliss, 

And  gave  their  thrilling  organs  but  to  bless, 
Had  they  been  form'd  for  such  a  world  as  this, 

Had  kindly  dull'd  their  powers  and  made  their 
tortures  less. 

The  precious  drop  closed  in  its  hollow  spar, 

Between  his  lips  ZOPHIEL  in  triumph  bore. 
Now,  earth  and  sea  seem  shaken  !    Dash'd  afar 

He  feels  it  part; — 'tis  dropt; — the  waters  roar. 
He  sees  it  in  a  sable  vortex  whirling, 

Form'd  by  a  cavern  vast,  that  'neath  the  sea, 
Sucks  the  fierce  torrent  in ;  and  madly  furling  [he 

His  wings  would  plunge ;  one  moment  more  and 
Suck'd  down,  in  earth's  dark  womb  must  wait 
eternity. 

"Pursue  no  farther!  stop!  alas!  forme, 

If  not  thyself!"     PHRAERION'S  shrieks  accost 

Him  thus  "Who,  ZOPHIEL,  shall  protect  for  thee 
The  maid  thou  lovestl     Hear!  stop!  or  all  are 
lost." 

The  verge,  the  verge  is  near.     Must  such  a  state, 
Seraph,  be  thine?     No!  sank  the  spar  within, 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


191 


But  the  shrill  warning  reach'd  him  through  the  din 
Of  waves :  back,  back,  he  struggles,  ere  too  late, 
And  the  whole  horror  of  the  avoided  fate 

Shot  through  his  soul.     The  wages  of  his  sin 
He  felt,  for  once,  were  light,  and  clasp'd  his 
shrieking  mate, 

Who  thus  entreats,  "Up!  to  earth's  pleasant  fields! 
O,  ZOIMIIKL,  all  this  torture's  for  thy  pleasure  !" 

Twined  in  his  arms,  the  baffled  seraph  yields, 
And  flies  the  hungry  depth  that  gorged  his  dear- 
est treasure. 

What    added    torment  —  gain'd;    then   snatch'd 
away — 

Presa'd  to  his  heart — and  then,  to  feel  it  riven 
From  heart  and  hand,  while  bearing  it  to  day 

With  joy  complete  as  if  recall'd  to  heaven ! 
That  which,  to  own  was  perfect  transport,  lost ; 

Yet  still,  (to  urge  a  dangerous  course  contending 
And  the  fierce  passions  which  his  bosom  crost 

For  pity,  or  some  other  hope,  suspending ;) 
Resisting  all,  he  forced  a  desperat%way; 

His  gentle  phere  with  plaints  no  longer  vain, 
Clung  closer  to  his  neck;  nor  ceased  to  pray 

To  be  restored  to  sun  and  flowers  again. 
Thus  all  entwined  they  rose  again  to  air, 

Near  Lybia's  coast.  Black  clouds,in  mass  deform, 
Were  frowning ;  yet  a  moment's  calm  was  there, 

As  it  had  stopp'd  to  breathe  a  while  the  storm. 
Their  white  feet  press'd  the  desert  sod ;  they  shook 

From  their  bright  locks  the  briny  drops ;  nor  stay 'd 
ZOPHIEL  on  ills,  present  or  past,  to  look ; 

For,  weary  as  he  was,  his  lonely  maid 
Came  to  his  ardent  soul  in  all  her  charms ; 

Unguarded  she,  what  being  might  molest 
Even  now?    his   chill'd  and  wounded  substance 
warms 

But  at  the  thought ;  the  while  he  thus  addrest 
The  shivering  sprite  of  flowers :  "  We  must  not  stay ; 

All  is  but  desolation  here,  and  gloom: 
Up !  let  us  through  the  air,  nor  more  delay ; 
Nay,  droop  not  now;  a  little  more  essay, 

I  '11  bear  thee  forward  to  thy  bower  of  bloom, 
And  on  thy  roses  lay  thee  down  to  rest. 

Come  through  the  desert !  banquet  on  thy  store 
Of  dews  and  sweets.  Come,  warm  thee  at  my  breast ! 

On !  through  the  air,  nor  think  of  danger  more, 
As  grateful  for  the  service  thou  hast  done 

I  live,  though  lost  the  object  of  our  task, 
As  if  were  still  possess'd  the  treasure  won ; 

And  all  thou  wouldst  of  ZOPHIEL,  freely  ask. 
The  gnome,  the  secret  path,  the  draught  divine 

I  know:  TAIIATHTAM  sighs,  beneath  the  wave, 
For  mortal  bride ;  valour  and  skill  are  mine ; 

He  may  again  bestow  what  once  he  gave." 

Thus,  ZOPHIEL,  renovated,  though  the  air 

Was  thick  and  dull,  with  just  enough  of  hope 
To  save  him  from  the  stupor  of  despair, 

Too  much  disdain'd  the  pains  he  felt,  to  droop. 
But  soft  PHHAEKIOV,  smarting  from  his  toil, 

To  buffet  not  a  tempest  was  in  plight ; 
And  ERLA'S  lover  saw  him  shrink,  recoil, 

And  beg  some  nearer  shelter  for  the  night ; 

For  now  the  tempest,  bursting  in  its  might, 


Raged  fiercely  round,  and  made  him  fain  to  rest 

In  cave  or  tomb.  But  ZOFHIEL  gently  caught  him, 
Sustain'd  him  firmly  at  his  fearless  breast, 

And  twixt  Euphrates  and  the  Tigris  brought  him. 
Then  paused  a  moment  o'er  a  desert  drear, 

Until  the  thunder-clouds  around  him  burst ; 
His  flights  renew'd,  and  wish'd  for  Media  near ; 

But  stronger  grows  the  gale :  what  sprites  accurst 
Ride  on  the  tempest  ?     Warring  elements 

Might  not  alone  such  ardent  course  impede ; 
The  wretched  spirit  from  his  speed  relents 

With  sense  like  mortal  bosom,  when  they  bleed. 
Loud  and  more  loud  the  blast;  in  mingled  gyre, 

Flew  leaves  and  stones ;  and  with  a  deafening 

crash 
Fell  the  uprooted  trees ;  heaven  seem'd  on  fire — 

Not,  as  'tis  wont,  with  intermitting  flash, 
But,  like  an  ocean  all  of  liquid  flame, 

The  whole  broad  arch  gave  one  continuous  glare, 

While  through  the  red  light  from  their  prowlings 

came,  [lair. 

The  frighted  beasts,  and  ran,  but  could  not  find  a 

"Rest,ZopHiEt, rest!"  PHRAEUIOX  cries:  "the surge 

Was  lesser  pain ;  I  cannot  bear  it  more ! 
Beaten  in  seas  so  long  we  but  emerge 

To  meet  a  fiercer  conflict  on  the  shore !" 
Then  ZOPHIEL  :  "There's  a  little  grot  on  high, 

The  wild  doves  nestle  there :  it  is  secure ; 
To  Ectabane,  but  for  an  hour,  I  '11  fly, 

And  come  for  thee  at  morn :  no- more  endure. 
Nay — wilt  not  leave  me  1  then  I  '11  bear  thee  through 

As  lately  through  the  whirling  floods  I  bore." 
Still  closer  clinging,  to  his  bosom  grew 

The  tender  sprite ;  "  then  bear — I  can  no  more." 
He  said,  and  came  a  shock,  as  if  the  earth 

Crash'd  'gainst   some  other  planet;    shivered 

brands  [birth !) 

Whirl  round  their  heads ;  and  (shame  upon  their 

Both  sprites  lay  mazed  and  prostrate  on  the  sands. 

The  delicate  PHRAEHION  sought  a  cave 

Low  browed ;  and  crouching  down  mid  trailing 

snakes, 
And  slimy  worms,  (things  that  would  hide  to  save 

Their  loathsome  lives,)  hearkens  the  roar  and 

quakes. 
But  ZOPHIEL,  stung  with  shame,  and  in  a  mood 

Too  fierce  for  fear,  uprose ;  yet  ere  for  flight 
Served  his  torn  wings  a  form  before  him  stood 

In  gloomy  majesty.     Like  starless  night 
A  sable  mantle  fell  in  cloudy  fold 

From  its  stupendous  breast ;  and  as  it  trod 
The  pale  and  lurid  light,  at  distance  rolled 

Before  its  princely  feet  receding  on  the  sod. 
'T  was  still  as  death ;  save  that  the  thunder  spoke 

In  mutterings  low  and  far ;  a  look  severe 
Seemed  as  preluding  speech ;  but  ZOPHIEL  broke 

The  silence  first :  "  Why,  spirit,  art  thou  here  1" 
It  waved  its  hand,  and  instantaneous  came 

A  hissing  bolt  with  new  impetus  back  , 
Darts  round  a  group  of  verdant  palms  the  flame ; 

That  being  pointed  to  them,  blasted  black. 
«  0  !  source  of  all  my  guilt !  at  such  an  hour," 

(The  mortal-lover  said,)  "  thine  answer  there 


192 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


I  need  not  read  :  too  well  I  know  thy  power 

In  all  I've  felt  and  feel.     But  has  despair, 
Or  grief,  or  torment,  e'er  made  ZOPIUEL  bow  7 

Declare  me  that,  nor  spend  thine  arts  in  vain 
To  torture  more :  if,  like  a  miscreant,  now 

I  bend  to  thee,  'tis  not  for  dread  of  pain ; 
That  I  can  bear :  yet,  bid  thy  legions  cease 

Their  strife.     O  !  spare  me  this  resistance  rude 
But  for  an  hour !  let  me  but  on  in  peace ; 

So  shall  I  taste  the  joy  of  gratitude, 
Even  to  thee." — «  The  joy  1"  then  first  with  scorn 

Replied  that  sombre  being :  "  dream'st  thou  still 
Of  joy  1  a  thing  accursed,  demean'd,  forlorn, 

As  thou  art  1    Is 't  for  joy  thou  mock'st  my  will  ? 
Canst  thou  taste  pleasure  1   banish'd,  crush'd,  de- 
based."— 

"  I  can,  betrayer !  dost  thou  envy  me  7 
But  leave  me  to  my  wrongs,  and  I  can  taste 

Ev'n  yet  of  heaven,  spite  of  my  fall  and  thee. 
But  that  affects  not  thee:  thine  insults  spare 

But  for  an  hour ;  leave  me  to  go  at  will 
Only  till  morn,  and  I  will  back  and  bear 

Whate'er  thou  wilt.  What  dost  obstruct  me  still  ? 
Thine  armies  dim,  and  shrouded  in  the  storm 

Then  I  must  meet ;  and  weary  thus,  and  torn, 
Essay  the  force  of  an  immortal  arm. 

Lone  as  I  am,  until  another  morn 
Shall  shame  both  them  and  thee  to  thine  abode. 

There,  on  the  steam  of  human  heart-blood  spilt 
By  priest  or  murderer,  make  repast ;  or  brood 

Over  the  vile  creations  of  thy  guilt, 
Waste  thy  life-giving  power  on  reptiles  foul ; 

Slow,  slimy  worms,  and  poisonous  snakes ;  then 

watch, 
Like  the  poor  brutes  that,  here,  for  hunger  prowl, 

To  mar  the  beauty  that  thou  canst  not  match?" 
Thus  he :  the  other  folded  o'er  its  breast 

Its  arms,  and  stood  as  cold  and  firm  the  while, 
As  if  no  passion  stirr'd ;  save  that  express'd 

Its  pale,  pale  lip,  a  faint,  ferocious  smile. 

While,  blent  with  winds,  ten  thousand  agents  wage 

Anew  the  strife,  and  ZOPHIEL,  fain  to  fly, 
But  foil'd,  gave  up  to  unavailing  rage, 

And  strove,  and  toil'd,  and  strove,  but  could  not 

mount  on  high. 
Then  thus  the  torturer :  "  Hie  thee  to  the  bed 

Of  her  thou  lov'st ;  pursue  thy  dear  design ; 
Go  dew  the  golden  ringlets  of  her  head ! 

Thou  wait'st  not,  sure,  for  any  power  of  mine. 
Yet  better  were  the  duties,  spirit  dull, 

Of  thine  allegiance !     Win  her  o'er  to  me, 
Take  all  thou  canst, — a  pleasure  brief  but  full, 

Vain  dreamer,  if  not  mine,  she 's  lost  to  thee." 
«  Wilt  thou  then  hurt  her  7    Why  am  I  detain'd  7 

O,  strength !  once  serving  'gainst  the  powers 

above,  [strain'd 

Where  art  thou  now  7"     Thus  ZOPHIEL  ;  and  he 

His  wounded  wings  to  mount,but  could  not  move. 
Then  thus  the  scorner :  «  Nay,  be  calm  !  F 11  still 

The  storm  for  thee :  hear !  it  recedes — 't  is  ended. 
Yet,  if  thou  dream'st  success  awaits  thee,  ill 

Dost  thpu  conceive  of  boundless  power  offended. 
ZOPHIEL,  bland  sprite,  sublime  intelligence, 

Once  chosen  for  my  friend  and  worthy  me ; 


Not  so  wouldst  thou  have  labour'd  to  be  hence, 

Had  my  emprise  been  crowned  with  victory. 
When  I  was  bright  in  heaven,  thy  seraph  eyes 

Sought  only  mine.     But  he  who  every  power 
Beside,  while  hope  allured  him,  could  depise, 

Changed  and  forsook  me,  in  misfortune's  hour." 
"  Changed  and  forsook  thee  7  this  from  thee  to  me  7 

Once  noble  spirit !     O  !  had  not  too  much 
My  o'erfond  heart  adored  thy  fallacy,     [proach ;" 

I  had  not,  now,  been  here  to  bear  thy  keen  re- 
ZOPHIEL  replied :  «  Fallen,  wretched,  nnd  debased, 

E'en  to  thy  scornful  word's  extent,  my  doom 
Too  well  I  know,  and  for  what  cause  displaced  ; 

But  not  from  thee  should  the  remembrance  come. 
Forsook  thee  in  misfortune  7  at  thy  side 

I  closer  fought  as  peril  thicken'd  round, 
Watched  o'er  thee  fallen :  the  light  of  heaven  denied, 

But  proved  my  love  more  fervent  and  profound. 
Prone  as  thou  wert,  had  I  been  mortal-borne, 

And  own'd  as  many  lives  as  leaves  there  be, 
From  all  Hyrcania  by  his  tempest  torn 

I  had  lost  than,  one  by  one,  and  given  the  last 

for  thee. 
Pain  had  a  joy,  for  suffering  could  but  wring 

Love  from  my  soul,  to  gild  the  murky  air 
Of  our  first  rude  retreat ;  while  I,  fond  thing ! 

Still  thought  thee  true  and  smiled  upon  despair 
O  !  had  thy  plighted  pact  of  faith  been  kept, 

Still  unaccomplish'd  were  the  curse  of  sin ; 
Mid  all  the  woes  thy  ruin'd  followers  wept, 

Had  friendship  lingered,  hell  could  not  have  been. 
But  when,  to  make  me  thy  first  minister 

Came  the  proposal ;  when  the  purpose  burst 
Forth  from  thy  heart's  black  den  disclosed  and  bare, 

Then  first  I  felt  alone,  and  knew  myself  accurs'd. 
Though  the  first  seraph  form'd,  how  could  I  tell 

The  ways  of  guile  7     What  marvel  I  believed, 
When  cold  ambition  mimick'd  love  so  well, 

That  half  the  sons  of  heaven  looked  on  deceived? 
.Ambition  thine;  to  me  the  Eternal  gave 

So  much  of  love  his  kind  design  was  cross'd  : 
Held  to  thy  heart  I  thought  thee  good  as  brave, 

Nor  realized  my  guilt  till  all  was  lost. 
Now,  writhing  at  my  utmost  need,  how  vain 

Are  ZOPHIEL'S  tears  and  prayers !  Alas !  hea- 
ven-born, 
Of  all  heaven's  virtues,  doth  not  one  remain  7 

Pity  me  once,  and  let  me  now  begone !" 
"  Go  !"  said  the  cold  detainer,  with  a  smile 

That  heighten'd  cruelty:  "yet  know,  from  me, 
Thy  foolish  hopes  but  lure  thee  on  awhile 

To  wake  thy  sense  to  keener  misery." 
"  0 !  skill'd  to  torment!  spare  me!  spare  me  now!" 

Chill'd  by  a  dread  foreboding,  ZOPHIEL  said: 
"But  little  time  doth  waning  night  allow." 

He  knelt;  he  wept;  calm  grew  the  winds;  he  fled. 

The  clouds  disperse ;  his  he^enly  voice  he  sent 

In  whispers  through  the  caves;  PHIIAEIUOX  there 
In  covert  loathed,  to  that  low  music  lent 

His  soft,  quick  ear,  and  sprang  to  join  his  phere. 
Soon  through  the  desert,  on  their  airy  way, 

Mantled  in  dewy  mists  the  spirits  press'd, 
And  reached  fair  Media  ere  the  twilight  gray 

Recall'd  the  rose's  lover  to  his  nest. 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


193 


But  on  the  Tigris'  winding  banks,  though  night 

Still  lingers  round,  two  early  mortals  greet 
The  first  faint  gleam  with  prayer ;  and  bathed  and 
dight 

As  travellers  came  forth.    The  morn  rose  sweet. 
And  rushing  by  them  as  the  spirits  past, 

In  tinted  vapours  while  the  pale  star  sets ; 
The  younger  asked,  "  Whence  are  these  odours  cast, 

The  breeze  has  waked  from  beds  of  violets  !" 


SONG.* 

DAT,  in  melting  purple  dying, 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing, 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying, 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing, 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness. 

Thou,  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou  'rt  true,  and  I  '11  believe  thee ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 
Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure: 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure ; 
Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling, 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling: 

Gifts  and  gold  are  nought  to  me, 
I  would  only  look  on  thee ! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 

Rapture  in  participation, 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still !    Ah !  come  and  bless  me  ! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee; 

Once,  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee: 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee ; 
In  a  look  if  death  there  be, 
Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee ! 


THE  MOON  OF  FLOWERS. 


0,  MOOK  of  flowers !  sweet  moon  of  flowers  !-(• 
Why  dost  thou  mind  me  of  the  hours 
Which  flew  so  softly  on  that  night, 
When  last  I  saw  and  felt  thy  light  ] 

O,  moon  of  flowers !  thou  moon  of  flowers ! 
Would  thou  couldst  give  me  back  those  hours, 
Since  which  a  dull,  cold  year  has  fled, 
Or  show  me  those  with  whom  they  sped ! 

0,  moon  of  flowers !  0,  moon  of  flowers ! 
In  scenes  afar  were  past  those  hours, 
Which  still  with  fond  regret  I  see, 
And  wish  my  heart  could  change  like  thee ! 

*  From  "Zophiel." 

t  The  savages  of  the  northern  part  of  America  some- 
times count  by  moons.    May  is  called  by  them  the  moon 
of  flowers,  and  October  the  moon  of  falling  leaves. 
25 


MORNING. 

How  beauteous  art  thou,  O  thou  morning  sun ! — 
The  old  man,  feebly  tottering  forth,  admires 

As  much  thy  beauty,  now  life's  dream  is  done, 
As  when  he  moved  exulting  in  his  fires. 

The  infant  strains  his  little  arms  to  catch 
The  rays  that  glance  about  his  silken  hair ; 

And  Luxury  hangs  her  amber  lamps,  to  match 
Thy  face,  when  turn'd  away  from  bower  and 
palace  fair. 

Sweet  to  the  lip  the  draught,  the  blushing  fruit ; 

Music  and  perfumes  mingle  with  the  soul ; 
How  thrills  the  kiss,  when  feeling's  voice  is  mute ! 

And  light  and  beauty's  tints  enhance  the  whole. 

Yet  each  keen  sense  were  dulness  but  for  thee : 
Thy  ray  to  joy,  love,  virtue,  genius  warms ; 

Thou  never  weariest ;  no  inconstancy 

But  comes  to  pay  new  homage  to  thy  charms. 

How  many  lips  have  sung  thy  praise,  how  long ! 

Yet,  when  his  slumbering  harp  he  feels  thee  woo, 
The  pleasured  bard  pours  forth  another  song, 

And  finds  in  thee,  like  love,  a  theme  forever  new. 

Thy  dark-eyed  daughters  come  in  beauty  forth, 
In  thy  near  realms ;  and,  like  their  snow-wreaths 
fair, 

The  bright-hair'd  youths  and  maidens  of  the  north 
Smile  in  thy  colours  when  thou  art  not  there. 

'T  is  there  thou  bidst  a  deeper  ardour  glow, 
And  higher,  purer  reveries  completest ; 

As  drops  that  farthest  from  the  ocean  flow, 

Refining  all  the  way,  from  springs  the  sweetest. 

Haply,  sometimes,  spent  with  the  sleepless  night, 
Some  wretch,  impassion'd,  from  sweet  morning's 

breath, 

Turns  his  hot  brow,  and  sickens  at  thy  light ; 
But  Nature,  ever  kind,  soon  heals  or  gives  him 
death. 

THE  SOUL'S  SEARCH  FOR  LOVE. 

THE  bard  has  sung,  GOD  never  form'd  a  soul 
Without  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to  meet 

Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown  the  whole 
Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly,  most  com- 
plete ! 

But  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that  hate 
To  look  on  happiness ;  these  hurt,  impede,  [fate, 

And,  leagued  with  time,  space,  circumstance,  and 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  pine  and  pant 
and  bleed. 

And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying, 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 

Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream ; 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring, 

Love's  pure,congenial  spring  unfound,unquaff'd, 
Suffers,  recoils,  then,  thirsty  and  despairing 
Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest 
draught. 

R 


194 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


EGLA  BEFORE  THE  KING. 

WITH  unassured  yet  graceful  step  advancing, 
The  light  vermilion  of  her  cheek  more  warm 

For  doubtful  modesty ;  while  all  were  glancing 
Over  the  strange  attire  that  well  became  such  form. 

To  lend  her  space  the  admiring  band  gave  way ; 

The  sandals  on  her  silvery  feet  were  blue ; 
Of  saffron  tint  her  robe,  as  when  young  day 

Spreads  softly  o'er  the  heavens,  and  tints  the 
trembling  dew. 

Light  was  that  robe,  as  mist ;  and  not  a  gem 

Or  ornament  impedes  its  wavy  fold, 
Long  and  profuse ;  save  that,  above  its  hem, 
'Twas  broideredwith  pomegranate-wreath,  in  gold. 

And,  by  a  silken  cincture,  broad  and  blue 
In  shapely  guise  about  the  waste  confined, 

Blent  with  the  curls  that,  of  a  lighter  hue, 
Half  floated,  waving  in  their  length  behind ; 
The  other  half,  in  braided  tresses  twined, 

Was  decked  with  rose  of  pearls,  and  sapphires 
azure  too. 

Arranged  with  curious  skill  to  imitate 
The  sweet  acacia's  blossoms  ;  just  as  live 

And  droop  those  tender  flowers  in  natural  state ; 
And  so  the  trembling  gems  seemed  sensitive  ; 

And  pendant,  sometimes  touch  her  neck ;  and  there 
Seem'd  shrinking  from  its  softness  as  alive. 

And  round  her  arms  flower-white  and  round  and 

fair, 
Slight  bandelets  were  twined  of  colours  five ; 

Like  little  rainbows  seemly  on  those  arms : 
None  of  that  court  had  seen  the  like  before ; 

Soft,  fragrant,  bright, — so  much  like  heaven  her 
It  scarce  could  seem  idolatry  t'  adore,     [charms, 

He  who  beheld  her  hand  forgot  her  face ; 

Yet  in  that  face  was  all  beside  forgot ; 
And  he,  who,  as  she  went,  beheld  her  pace, 

And  locks  profuse,  had  said, "  nay,  turn  thee  not." 


ZAMBIA  DISCOVERED  BY  THE  SEA. 

PALLID  and  worn,  but  beautiful  and  young,  [trace ; 

Though  mark'd  her  charms  by  wildest  passion's 
Her  long  round  arms  over  a  fragment  flung, 

From  pillow  all  too  rude  protect  a  face, 

Whose  dark  and  high  arch'd  brows  gave  to  the 
thought 

To  deem  what  radiance  once  they  tower'd  above ; 
But  all  its  proudly  beauteous  outlines  taught 

That  anger,  there,  had  shared  the  throne  of  love. 

Rich  are  her  robes,  but  torn,  and  soil'd;  and  gleams 
Above  her  belt  a  dagger  set  with  gems. 

Her   long   thick  hair,  'scaped  from  its  braiding, 

streams 
Black  as  a  serpent,  to  her  garments'  hems. 

Black  as  a  serpent ; — daughters  of  the  woods, 
You  see  him  mid  Mcchaceba's  roses ;  while 

Your  light  canoes  upon  the  vernal  floods, 
Are  thrown  to  bear  you  to  some  floating  isle  : 


Where  sleeping  bisons  sail  upon  the  tide ; — 
There,  while  thro'  golden  blossom'd  nenuphar, 

Your  arrows  pierce  some  tall  flamingo's  side, 
He  rears  his  white-ringed  neck  and  watches  you 
from  far. 

Her  sandall'd  feet  were  Bcarr'd,  and  drops  of  blood 
Still  rested  fresh  on  them,  by  tooth  of  thorn 

Express'd;  and  let  day's  eye  look  where  it  would, 
'T  were  hard  to  find  such  beauty  so  forlorn. 

Near  on  the  moss  lay  one  who  seem'd  her  guide ; 

A  mule  among  the  herbs  his  pittance  took ; 
A  little  slave  of  Ethiope,  at  her  side,  [look. 

Sat  watching  o'er  them  all  with  many  a  sorrowing 


HOPE. 

YET,  though  't  was  sad  to  see  her  so  deceived, 
I  could  but  bless  the  tears  her  cheek  was  drinking; 

For  pity  framed  the  falsehood  hope  believed, 
And  so  by  this  slight  reed  her  soul  was  saved 
from  sinking. 

But  as  the  date-tree  sees  her  blossoms  die, 
And  blasted  on  the  earth  her  fruit's  soft  germ, 

Unless  her  vegetable  love  come  nigh, 

With  .genial  power,  while  yet  endures  her  term ; 

So  poor  Zatnci'a's  hopes,  like  date-buds,  down 
Must  fall  to  earth  unblest  and  immature: 

Alas !  unless  her  Melcs  come  to  crown 

With  fruit,  hope's  blossoms  cannot  long  endure ! 

VIRTUE. 

VIIITUE!  how  many  as  a  lowly  thing, 

Born  of  weak  folly,  scorn  thee !  but  thy  name 

Alone  they  know; — upon  thy  soaring  wing 
They'd  fear  to  mount ;  nor  could  thy  sacred  flame 

Burn  in  their  baser  hearts:  the  biting  thorn, 
The  flinty  crag,  flowers  hiding,  strew  thy  field  ; 

Yet  blest  is  he  whose  daring  bides  the  scorn 

Of  the  frail  easy  herd,  and  buckles  on  thy  shield. 

Who  says  thy  ways  arc  bliss,  trolls  but  a  lay 
To  lure  the  infant:  if  thy  paths,  to  view, 

Were  always  pleasant,  crime's  worst  sons  would  lay 
Their  daggers  at  thy  feet,  and,  from  mere  sloth, 
pursue. 

SUBSIDING  EXCITEMENT. 

As  the  vexed  Caspian,  though  its  rage  be  past, 
And  the  blue  smiling  heavens  swell  o'er  in  peace, 

Shook  to  the  centre  by  the  recent  blast,-      [cease; 
Heaves  on  tumultuous  still,  and  hath  not  power  to 

So  still  each  little  pulse  was  seen  to  throb, 

Though  passion  and  its  pain  were  lulled  to  rest; 

And  ever  and  anon  a  piteous  sob 

Shook  the  pure  arch  expansive  o'er  her  breast.* 

*  Every  one  must  have  observed  this  effect  in  little 
children,  who  for  several  hours  after  they  have  cried 
themselves  to  sleep,  and  sometimes,  even,  when  a  smile 
is  on  their  lips,  are  heard  from  time  to  time  to  sob. 


JAMES    GATES    PERCIVAL. 


[Born,  1795.] 


Mn.  PEHCIVAL  was  born  in  Berlin,  near  Hart- 
ford, in  Connecticut,  on  the  fifteenth  of  September, 
1795.  His  father,  an  intelligent  physician,  died 
in  1807,  and  he  was  committed  to  the  care  of  a 
guardian.  His  instruction  continued  to  be  care- 
fully attended  to,  however,  and  when  fifteen  years 
of  age  he  entered  Yale  College.  The  condition 
of  his  health,  which  had  been  impaired  by  too  close 
application  to  study,  rendered  necessary  a  tempo- 
rary removal  from  New  Haven,  but  after  an  ab- 
sence of  about  a  year  he  returned,  and  in  1815 
graduated  with  the  reputation  of  being  the  first 
scholar  of  his  class.  He  subsequently  entered  the 
Yale  Medical  School,  and  in  1820  received  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Medicine. 

He  began  to  write  verses  at  an  early  age,  and 
in  his  fourteenth  year  is  said  to  have  produced  a 
satire  in  aim  and  execution  not  unlike  Mr.  BHT- 
AXT'S  "  Embargo."  In  the  last  year  of  his  col- 
lege life  he  composed  a  dramatic  piece  to  be  spoken 
by  some  of  the  students  at  the  annual  commence- 
ment, which  was  afterwards  enlarged  and  printed 
under  the  title  of  «  Zamor,  a  Tragedy."  He  did 
not  appear  as  an  author  before  the  public,  how- 
ever, until  1821,  when  he  published  at  New  Haven, 
with  some  minor  poems,  the  first  part  of  his  "  Pro- 
metheus," which  attracted  considerable  attention, 
and  was  favourably  noticed  in  an  article  by  Mr. 
EDWARD  EVERETT,  in  the  North  American  Re- 
view. 

In  1822  he  published  two  volumes  of  miscella- 
neous poems  and  prose  writings  under  the  title  of 
"  Clio,"  the  first  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
and  the  second  at  New  Haven.  They  contain 
"Consumption,"  "The  Coral  Grove,"  and  other 
pieces  which  have  been  regarded  as  among  the  finest 
of  his  works.  In  the  same  year  they  were  followed 
by  an  oration,  previously  delivered  before  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Yale  College,  "  On  Some  of 
the  Moral  and  Political  truths  Derivable  from  His- 
tory," and  the  second  part  of  "  Prometheus."  The 
whole  of  this  poem  contains  nearly  four  hundred 
stanzas  in  the  Spenserian  measure.  An  edition  of 
his  principal  poetical  writings,  embracing  a  few 
original  pieces,  appeared  soon  after  in  New  York 
and  was  reprinted  in  London. 

In  1824  Ur.  PEHCIYAT.  was  appointed  an  assist- 
ant-surgeon in  the  army,  and  stationed  at  West 
Point  with  orders  to  act  as  Professor  of  Chemistry 
in  the  Military  Academy.  He  had  supposed  that 
the  duties  of  the  office  were  so  light  as  to  allow 
him  abundant  leisure  for  the  pursuit  of  his  favourite 
studies,  and  when  undeceived  by  the  experience  of 
a  few  months,  he  resigned  his  commission  and  went 
to  Boston,  where  he  passed  in  various  literary  avo- 
cations the  greater  portion  of  the  year  1825.  In 
this  period  he  wrote  his  poem  on  the  mind,  in  which 


he  intimates  that  its  highest  office  is  the  creation 
of  beauty,  and  that  there  are  certain  unchanging 
principles  of  taste,  to  which  all  works  of  art,  all 
"linked  sounds  of  most  elaborate  music,"  must  be 
conformable,  to  give  more  than  a  feeble  and  tran- 
sient pleasure. 

Early  in  1827  he  published  in  New  York  the 
third  volume  of  "  Clio,"  and  was  afterwards  engaged 
nearly  two  years  in  superintending  the  printing  of 
the  first  quarto  edition  of  Dr.  WEBSTER'S  Ameri- 
can Dictionary,  a  service  for  which  he  was  emi- 
nently qualified  by  an  extensive  and  critical  ac- 
quaintance with  ancient  and  modern  languages. 
His  next  work  was  a  new  translation  of  MALTE- 
Bnus's  Geography,  from  the  French,  which  was 
not  completed  until  1 843. 

From  his  boyhood  Dr.  PF.HCIVAI  has  been  an 
earnest  and  constant  student,  and  there  are  few 
branches  of  learning  with  which  he  is  not  familiar. 
Perhaps  there  is  not  in  the  country  a  man  of  more 
thorough  and  comprehensive  scholarship.  In  1 835 
he  was  employed  by  the  government  of  Connecti- 
cut to  make  a  geological  survey  of  that  state,  which 
he  had  already  very  carefully  explored  on  his  own 
account.  His  Report  on  the  subject,  which  is  very 
able  and  elaborate,  was  printed  in  an  octavo  volume 
of  nearly  five  hundred  pages,  in  1842.  While  en- 
gaged in  these  duties  he  published  poetical  trans- 
lations from  the  Polish,  Russian,  Servian,  Bohe- 
mian, German,  Dutch,  Danish,  Swedish,  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese  languages,  and  wrote  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  «  The  Dream  of  Day  and  other 
Poems,"  which  appeared  at  New  Haven  hi  1843. 
This  is  his  last  volume ;  it  embraces  more  than 
one  hundred  and  fifty  varieties  of  measure,  and 
its  contents  generally  show  his  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  the  poetical  art,  which  hi  his  preface 
he  observes,  "  requires  a  mastery  of  the  riches 
and  niceties  of  a  language ;  a  full  knowledge  of 
the  science  of  versification,  not  only  in  its  own  pe- 
culiar principles  of  rhythm  and  melody,  but  in  its 
relation  to  elocution  and  music,  with  that  delicate 
natural  perception  and  that  facile  execution  which 
render  the  composition  of  verse  hardly  less  easy 
than  that  of  prose ;  a  deep  and  quick  insight  into 
the  nature  of  man,  in  all  his  varied  faculties,  in- 
tellectual and  emotive ;  a  clear  and  full  perception 
of  the  power  and  beauty  of  nature,  and  of  all  its 
various  harmonies  with  our  own  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings ;  and,  to  gain  a  high  rank  in  the  present  age, 
wide  and  exact  attainments  in  literature  and  art  in 
general.  Nor  is  the  possession  of  such  faculties 
and  attainments  all  that  is  necessary  ;  but  such  a 
sustained  and  self-collected  state  of  mind  as  gives 
one  the  mastery  of  his  genius,  and  at  the  same  time 
presents  to  him  the  ideal  as  an  immediate  reality, 
not  as  a  remote  conception." 

105    x 


196 


JAMES    G.   PERCIVAL. 


There  are  few  men  who  possess  these  high  quali- 
ties in  a  more  eminent  degree  than  PERCIYAL  ; 
but  with  the  natural  qualities  of  a  great  poet,  and 
his  comprehensive  and  thorough  learning,  he 
lacks  the  executive  skill,  or  declines  the  labour, 
without  which  few  authors  gain  immortality.  He 
has  considerable  imagination,  remarkable  com- 
mand of  language,  and  writes  with  a  facility  rarely 
equalled ;  but  when  his  thoughts  are  once  committed 
to  the  page,  he  shrinks  from  the  labour  of  revising, 


correcting,  and  condensing.  He  remarks  in  one 
of  his  prefaces,  that  his  verse  is  "  very  far  from 
bearing  the  marks  of  the  file  and  the  burnisher," 
uiid  that  he  likes  to  see  "poetry  in  the  full  ebulli- 
tion of  feeling  and  fancy,  foaming  up  with  the 
spirit  of  life,  and  glowing  with  the  rainbows  of  a 
glad  inspiration."  If  by  this  he  means  that  a  poet 
should  reject  the  slow  and  laborious  process  by 
which  a  polished  excellence  is  attained,  very  few  who 
have  acquired  good  reputations  will  agree  with  him. 


CONCLUSION  OF  THE  DREAM  OF  A 
DAY. 


A  SPIRIT  stood  before  me,  half  unseen, 
Majestic  and  severe ;  yet  o'er  him  play'd 

A  genial  light — subdued  though  high  his  mien, 
As  by  a  strong  collected  spirit  sway'd — 

In  even  balance  justly  poised  between      [stay'd — 
Each  wild  extreme,  proud  strength  by  feeling 

Dwelling  in  upper  realms  serenely  bright, 

Lifted  above  the  shadowy  sphere  of  night 

He  stood  before  me,  and  I  heard  a  tone, 
Such  as  from  mortal  lips  had  never  flow'd, 

Soft  yet  commanding,  gentle  yet  alone, 

It  bow'd  the  listener's  heart — anon  it  glow'd 

Intensely  fervent,  then  like  wood-notes  thrown 
On  the  chance  winds,  in  airy  lightness  rode — 

Now  swell'd  like  ocean  surge,  now  pausing  fell 

Like  the  last  murmur  of  a  muffled  bell. 

"  Lone  pilgrim  through  life's  gloom,"  thus  spake 
the  shade, 

"  Hold  on  with  steady  will  along  thy  way  : 
Thou,  by  a  kindly  favouring  hand  wert  made — 

Hard  though  thy  lot,  yet  thine  what  can  repay 
Long  years  of  bitter  toil — the  holy  aid 

Of  spirit  aye  is  thine,  be  that  thy  stay : 
Thine  to  behold  the  true,  to  feel  the  pure, 
To  know  the  good  and  lovely — these  endure. 

Hold  on — thou  hast  in  thee  thy  best  reward ; 

Poor  are  the  largest  stores  of  sordid  gain, 
If  from  the  heaven  of  thought  thy  soul  is  barr'd, 

If  the  high  spirit's  bliss  is  sought  in  vain : 
Think  not  thy  lonely  lot  is  cold  or  hard, 

The  world  has  never  bound  thee  with  its  chain ; 
Free  as  the  birds  of  heaven  thy  heart  can  soar, 
Thou  canst  create  new  worlds — what  wouldst  thou 
morel 

The  future  age  will  know  thee — yea,  even  now 
Hearts  beat  and  tremble  at  thy  bidding,  tears 

Flow  as  thou  movest  thy  wand,  thy  word  can  bow 
Even  ruder  natures,  the  dull  soul  uprears 

As  thou  thy  trumpet  blast  attunest — thou 
Speakest,  and  each  remotest  valley  hears : 

Thou  hast  the  gift  of  song — a  wealth  is  thine, 

Richer  than  all  the  treasures  of  the  mine. 

Hold  on,  glad  spirits  company  thy  path — 

They  minister  to  thee,  though  all  unseen : 
Even  when  the  tempest  lifts  its  voice  in  wrath, 


Thou  joyest  in  its  strength ;  the  orient  sheen 
Gladdens  thee  with  its  beauty ;  winter  hath 

A  holy  charm  that  soothes  thee,  like  the  green 
Of  infant  May — all  nature  is  thy  friend, 
All  seasons  to  thy  life  enchantment  lend. 

Man,  too,  thou  know'st  and  feelest — all  the  springs 
That  wake  his  smile  and  tear,  his  joy  and  sorrow, 

All  that  uplifts  him  on  emotion's  wings, 

Each  longing  for  a  fair  and  blest  to-morrow, 

Each  tone  that  soothes  or  saddens,  all  that  rings 
Joyously  to  him,  thou  canst  fitly  borrow 

From  thy  own  breast,  and  blend  it  in  a  strain, 

To  which  each  human  heart  beats  back  again. 

Thine  the  unfettcr'd  thought,  alone  controll'd 
By  nature's  truth ;  thine  the  wide-seeing  eye, 

Catching  the  delicate  shades,  yet  apt  to  hold 
The  whole  in  its  embrace — before  it  lie 

Pictured  in  fairest  light,  as  chart  unroll'd, 
Fields  of  the  present  and  of  destiny  : 

The  voice  of  truth  amid  the  senseless  throng 

May  now  be  lost;  'tis  heard  and  felt  ere  long. 

Hold  on — live  for  the  world — live  for  all  time — 
Rise  in  thy  conscious  power,  but  gently  bear 

Thy  form  among  thy  fellows ;  sternly  climb 

The  spirit's  alpine  peaks ;  mid  snow  towers  there 

Nurse  the  pure  thought,  but  yet  accordant  chime 
With  lowlier  hearts  in  valleys  green  and  fair, — 

Sustain  thyself — yield  to  no  meaner  hand, 

Even  though  he  rule  awhile  thy  own  dear  land. 

Brief  is  his  power,  oblivion  waits  the  churl 
Bound  to  his  own  poor  self;  his  form  decays, 

But  sooner  fades  his  name.     Thou  shall  unfurl 
Thy  standard  to  the  winds  of  future  days — 

Well  mayest  thou  in  thy  soul  defiance  hurl 
On  such  who  would  subdue  thee ;  thou  shalt  raise 

Thy  name,  when  they  are  dust,  and  nothing  more  : 

Hold  on — in  earnest  hope  still  look  before. 

Nerved  to  a  stern  resolve,  fulfil  thy  lot — 
Reveal  the  secrets  nature  has  unveil'd  thee ; 

All  higher  gifts  by  toil  intense  are  bought — 
Has  thy  firm  will  in  action  ever  fail'd  thee? 

Only  on  distant  summits  fame  is  sought — 

Sorrow  and  gloom  thy  nature  has  entail'd  thee, 

But  bright  thy  present  joys,  and  brighter  far 

The  hope  that  draws  thee  like  a  heavenly  star." 

The  voice  was  still — its  tone  in  distance  dying 
Breathed  in  my  ear,  like  harp  faint  heard  at  even, 


JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL. 


197 


Soft  as  the  autumn  wind  through  sere  leaves  s  ighing 
When  flaky  clouds  athwart  the  moon  are-  driven 

Far  through  the  viewless  gloom  the  spirit  flying, 
Wing'd  his  high  passage  to  his  native  heaven, 

But  o'er  me  still  he  seem'd  in  kindness  bending, 

Fresh  hope  and  firmer  purpose  to  me  lending. 


THE  POET. 

DEEP  sunk  in  thought,  he  sat  beside  the  river — 
Its  wave  in  liquid  lapses  glided  by, 
Nor  watch'd,  in  crystal  depth,  his  vacant  eye 

The  willow's  high  o'er- arching  foliage  quiver. 

From  dream  to  shadowy  dream  returning  ever, 
He  sat,  like  statue,  on  the  grassy  verge ; 
His  thoughts,  a  phantom  train,  in  airy  surge 

Stream'd  visionary  onward,  pausing  never. 

As  autumn  wind,  in  mountain  forest  weaving 
Its  wondrous  tapestry  of  leaf  and  bower, 
O'ermastering  the  night's  resplendent  flower 

With  tints,  like  hues  of  heaven,  the  eye  deceiving — 
So,  lost  in  labyrinthine  maze,  he  wove 
A  wreath  of  flowers ;  the  golden  thread  was  love. 


NIGHT. 


A.y[  I  not  all  alone  1 — The  world  is  still 

In  passionless  slumber — not  a  tree  but  feels 
The  far-pervading  hush,  and  softer  steals 

The  misty  river  by. — Yon  broad  bare  hill 
Looks  coldly  up  to  heaven,  and  all  the  stars 
Seem  eyes  deep  fix'd  in  silence,  as  if  bound 
By  some  unearthly  spell — no  other  sound 
But  the  owl's  unfrcquent  moan. — Their  airy  cars 

The  winds  have  station'd  on  the  mountain  peaks. 

Am  I  not  all  alone  ? — A  spirit  speaks 

From  the  abyss  of  night,  "  Not  all  alone — 

Nature  is  round  thee  with  her  banded  powers, 

And  ancient  genius  haunts  thee  in  these  hours — 
Mind  and  its  kingdom  now  are  all  thy  own." 


CHORIAMBIC  MELODY. 

BEAR  me  afar   o'er  the  wave,  far  to  the   sacred 

islands, 
Where  ever  bright  blossoms  the  plain,  where  no 

cloud  hangs  on  the  highlands — 
There  be  my  heart  ever  at  rest,  stirr'd  by  no  wild 

emotion : 
There  on  the  earth  only  repose,  halcyon  calm  on  the 


Lay  me  along,  pillow'd  on  flowers,  where  steals  in 

silence  for  ever 
Over  its  sands,  still  as  at  noon,  far  the  oblivious 

river. 
Scarce  through  the  grass  whispers  it  by;  deep  in 

its  wave  you  may  number 
Pebble  and  shell,  and  image  of  flower,  folded  and 

bent  in  slumber. 


Spirit  of  life !  rather  aloft,  where  on  the  crest  of 

the  mountain, 
Clear  blow  the  winds,  fresh  from  the  north,  sparkles 

and  dashes  the  fountain, 
Lead  me  along,  hot  in  the  chase,  still  'mid  the  storm 

high  glowing — 
Only  we  live — only,  when  life,  like  the  wild  torrent, 

is  flowing. 


SAPPHO. 

SHE  stands  in  act  to  fall — her  garland  torn, 
Its  wither'd  rose-leaves  round  the  rock  are  blowing; 
Loose  to  the  winds  her  locks  dishevell'd  flowing 

Tell  of  the  many  sorrows  she  has  borne. 

Her  eye,  up-turn'd  to  heaven,  has  lost  its  flre — 
One  hand  is  press'd  to  feel  her  bosom's  beating, 
And  mark  her  lingering  pulses  back  retreating — 

The  other  wanders  o'er  her  silent  lyre. 

Clear  rolls  the  midway  sun — she  knows  it  not ; 
Vainly  the  winds  waft  by  the  flower's  perfume ; 
To  her  the  sky  is  hung  in  deepest  gloom — 

She  only  feels  the  noon-beam  burning  hot. 

What  to  the  broken  heart  the  dancing  waves, 
The  air  all  kindling — what  a  sounding  name  1 
0  !  what  a  inockery,  to  dream  of  fame — 

It  only  lures  us  on  to  make  us  slaves. 

And  Love — O !  what  art  thou  with  all  thy  light ! 
Ineffable  joy  is  round  thee,  till  we  know, 

Thou  art  but  as  a  vision  of  the  night — 
And  then  the  bursting  heart,  how  deep  its  wo. 

«  They  tell  me  I  shall  live — my  name  shall  rise, 
When  nature  falls — O  !  blest  illusion,  stay — " 
A  moment  hopes  and  joys  around  her  play; 

Then  darkness  hides  her — faint  she  sinks  and  dies. 


THE  FESTIVE  EVENING. 

CHEERFUL  glows  the  festive  chamber; 

In  the  circle  pleasure  smiles : 
Mounts  the  flame,  like  wreaths  of  amber ; 

Bright  as  love,  its  warmth  beguiles. 
Glad  the  heart  with  joy  is  lighted  ; 
Hand  with  hand,  in  faith,  is  plighted, 

As  around  the  goblet  flows. 
Fill — fill — fill,  and  quaff  the  liquid  rose  ! 
Bright  it  glows — 

O  !  how  bright  the  bosom  glows. 

Pure  as  light,  our  social  meeting : 

Here  no  passion  dares  invade. 
Joys  we  know,  not  light  and  fleeting  : 

Flowers  we  twine,  that  never  fade. 
Ours  are  links,  not  time  can  sever: 
Brighter  still  they  glow  for  ever — 

Glow  in  yon  eternal  day. 
No — no — no,  ye  will  not  pass  away — 
Ye  will  stay — 

Social  joys,  for  ever  stay  ! 

R2 


193 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


THE  SUN. 


of  light  and  energy  !  thy  way 
Is  through  the  unknown  void  ;  thou  hast  thy 

throne, 

Morning,  and  evening,  and  at  noon  of  day, 
Far  in  the  blue,  untended  and  alone  : 
Ere  the  first-waken'd  airs  of  earth  had  blown, 
On  thou  didst  march,  triumphant  in  thy  light  ; 
Then  thou  didst  send  thy  glance,  which  still 

hath  flown 

Wide  through  the  never-ending  worlds  of  night, 
And  yet  thy  full  orb  burns  with  flash  as  keen  and 
bright. 

We  call  thee  Lord  of  Day,  and  thou  dost  give 

To  earth  the  fire  that  animates  her  crust, 
And  wakens  all  the  forms  that  move  and  live, 

From  the  fine,  viewless  mould  which  lurks  in 
dust, 

To  him  who  looks  to  heaven,  and  on  his  bust 
Bears  stamp'd  the  seal  of  Gon,  who  gathers  there 

Lines  of  deep  thought,  high  feeling,  daring  trust 
In  his  own  center'd  powers,  who  aims  to  share 
In  all  his  soul  can  frame  of  wide,  and  great,  and  fair. 

Thy  path  is  high  in  heaven  ;  we  cannot  gaze 
On  the  intense  of  light  that  girds  thy  car; 

There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays, 
Which  bears  thy  pure  divinity  afar, 
To  mingle  with  the  equal  light  of  star,  — 

For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art  in  the  whole 
One  of  the  sparks  of  night  that  fire  the  air, 

And,  as  around  thy  centre  planets  roll, 

So  thou,  too,  hast  thy  path  around  the  central  soul. 

I  am  no  fond  idolater  to  thee, 

One  of  the  countless  multitude,  who  burn, 
As  lamps,  around  the  one  Eternity, 

In  whose  contending  forces  systems  turn 

Their  circles  round  that  seat  of  life,  the  urn 
Where  all  must  sleep,  if  matter  ever  dies  : 

Sight  fails  me  here,  but  fancy  can  discern 
With  the  wide  glance  of  her  all-seeing  eyes, 
Where,  in  the  heart  of  worlds,  the  ruling  Spirit  lies. 

And  thou,  too,  hast  thy  world,  and  unto  thee 
We  are  as  nothing;  thou  goest  forth  alone, 
And  movest  through  the  wide,  aerial  sea, 
Glad  as  a  conqueror  resting  on  his  throne 
From  a  new  victory,  where  he  late  had  shown 
Wider  his  power  to  nations  ;  so  thy  light 
Comes  with  new  pomp,  as  if  thy  strength  had 

grown 

With  each  revolving  day,  or  thou,  at  night, 
Had  lit  again  thy  fires,  and  thus  renew'd  thy  might. 

Age  o'er  thee  has  no  power  :  thou  bring'st  the  same 
Light  to  renew  the  morning,  as  when  first, 

If  not  eternal,  thou,  with  front  of  flame, 
On  the  dark  face  of  earth  in  glory  burst, 
And  warm'  d  the  seas,  and  in  their  bosom  nursed 

The  earliest  things  of  life,  the  worm  and  shell  ; 
Till,   through   the   sinking  ocean,   mountains 
pierced, 

And  then  came  forth  the  land  whereon  we  dwell, 

Rear'd,  like  a  magic  fane,  above  the  watery  swell. 


And  there  thy  searching  heat  awoke  the  seeds 
Of  all  that  gives  a  charm  to  earth,  and  lends 
An  energy  to  nature ;  all  that  feeds 

On  the  rich  mould,  and  then,  in  bearing,  bends 
Its  fruits  again  to  earth,  wherein  it  blends 
The  last  and  first  of  life ;  of  all  who  bear 

Their  forms  in  motion,  where  the  spirit  tends, 
Instinctive,  in  their  common  good  to  share, 
Which  lies  in  things  that  breathe,  or  late  were 
living  there. 

They  live  in  thee :  without  thee,  all  were  dead 
And  dark ;  no  beam  had  lighted  on  the  waste, 

But  one  eternal  night  around  had  spread 
Funereal  gloom,  and  coldly  thus  defaced 
This  Eden,  which  thy  fairy  hand  hath  graced 

With  such  uncounted  beauty ;  all  that  blows 
In  the  fresh  air  of  spring,  and,  growing,  braced 

Its  form  to  manhood,  when  it  stands  and  glows 

In  the  full-temper'd  beam,  that  gladdens  as  it  goes. 

Thou  lookest  on  the  earth,  and  then  it  smiles ; 

Thy  light  is  hid,  and  all  things  droop  and  mourn ; 
Laughs  the  wide  sea  around  her  budding  isles, 
When  through  their  heaven  thy  changing  car  is 

borne; 
Thou  wheel'st  away  thy  flight,  the  woods  are 

shorn 
Of  all  their  waving  locks,  and  storms  awake ; 

All,  that  was  once  so  beautiful,  is  torn 
By  the  wild  winds  which  plough  the  lonely  lake, 
And,  in  their  maddening  rush,  the  crested  moun- 
tains shake. 

The  earth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of  snow; 

Life  lingers,  and  would  die,  but  thy  return 
Gives  to  their  gladden'd  hearts  an  overflow 

Of  all  the  power  that  brooded  in  the  urn 

Of  their  chill'd  frames,  and  then  they  proudly 

spurn 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and  give  to  air 

Hues,  fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty,  till  they  burn, 
When,  on  a  dewy  morn,  thou  dartest  there 
Rich  waves  of  gold  to  wreathe  with  fairer  light  the 
fair. 

The  vales  are  thine ;  and  when  the  touch  of  spring 
Thrills  them,  and  gives  them  gladness,  in  thy  light 

They  glitter,  as  the  glancing  swallow's  wing 
Dashes  the  water  in  his  winding  flight, 
And  leaves  behind  a  wave  that  crinkles  bright, 

And  widens  outward  to  the  pebbled  shore. — 
The  vales  are  thine ;  and  when  they  wake  from 
night, 

The  dews  that  bend  the  grass-tips,  twinkling  o'er 

Their  soft  and  oozy  beds,  look  upward,  and  adore. 

The  hills  are  thine:  they  catch  thy  newest  beam, 
And  gladden  in  thy  parting,  where  the  wood 

Flames  out  in  every  leaf,  and  drinks  the  stream, 
That  flows  from  out  thy  fulness,  as  a  flood 
Bursts  from  an  unknown  land,  and  rolls  the  food 

Of  nations  in  its  waters :  so  thy  rays 

Flow  and  give  brighter  tints  than  ever  bud, 

When  a  clear  sheet  of  ice  reflects  a  blaze 

Of  many  twinkling  gems,  as  every  gloss'd  bough 
plays. 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


199 


Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they  purely  lift 

Snows  that  have  never  wasted,  in  a  sky 
Which  hath  no  stain ;  below,  the  storm  may  drift 

Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by; 

Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie, 
Dazzling,  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glance  looks  there ; 

And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die, 
Girt  round  them,  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear, 
Into  the  high,  dark  vault,  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 

The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their  magic  hues 
Are  pencill'd  by  thee ;  when  thou  bendest  low, 

Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand  imbues 
Their  waving  fold  with  such  a  perfect  glow 
Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures  throw 

Shame  on  the  proudest  art ;  the  tender  stain 
Hung  round  the  verge  of  heaven,  that  as  a  bow 

Girds  the  wide  world,  and  in  their  blended  chain 

All  tints  to  the  deep  gold  that  flashes  in  thy  train  : 

These  are  thy  trophies,  and  thou  bend'st  thy  arch, 
The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold  twine, 

Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on  its  march, 
And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light  combine, 
And  form  with  perfect  curve  a  lifted  line, 

Striding  the  earth  and  air;  man  looks,  and  tells 
How  peace  and  mercy  in  its  beauty  shine, 

And  how  the  heavenly  messenger  impels 

Her  glad  wings  on  the  path,  that  thus  in  ether 
swells. 

The  ocean  is  thy  vassal ;  thou  dost  sway 

His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they  go 
Where  thou,  in  heaven,  dost  guide  them  on  their 

way, 

Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow ; 
Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they  glow; 
They  take  them  wings,  and  spring  aloft  in  air, 
And  change  to  clouds,  and  then,  dissolving, 

throw 

Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and,  rushing,  tear 
The  mountain  and  the  vale,  as  proudly  on  they 
bear. 

I,  too,  have  been  upon  thy  rolling  breast, 
Widest  of  waters ;     I  have  seen  thee  lie 

Calm,  as  an  infant  pillow'd  in  its  rest 
On  a  fond  mother's  bosom,  when  the  sky, 
Not  smoother,  gave  the  deep  its  azure  dye, 

Till  a  new  heaven  was  arch'd  and  glass'd  below; 
And  then  the  clouds,  that,  gay  in  sunset,  fly, 

Cast  on  it  such  a  stain,  it  kindled  so, 

As  in  the  cheek  of  youth  the  living  roses  grow. 

I,  too,  have  seen  thee  on  thy  surging  path, 

When  the  night-tempest  met  thee:  thou  didst 
dash 

Thy  white  arms  high  in  heaven,  as  if  in  wrath, 
Threatening  the  angry  sky ;  thy  waves  did  lash 
The  labouring  vessel,  and  with  deadening  crash 

Rush  madly  forth  to  scourge  its  groaning  sides ; 
Onward  thy  billows  came,  to  meet  and  clash 

In  a  wild  warfare,  till  the  lifted  tides 

Mingled  their  yesty  tops,  where  the  dark  storm- 
cloud  rides. 

In  thee,  first  light,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles. 
When  the  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell, 


That  rolls,  in  glittering  green,  around  the  isles, 
Where  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwell; 
O  !  with  a  joy  no  gifted  tongue  can  tell, 

I  hurry  o'er  the  waters,  when  the  sail 

Swells  tensely,  and  the  light  keel  glances  well 

Over  the  curling  billow,  and  the  gale 

Comes  off  the  spicy  groves  to  tell  its  winning  tale. 

The  soul  is  thine :  of  old  thou  wert  the  power 

Who  gave  the  poet  life ;  and  I  in  thee 
Feel  my  heart  gladden  at  the  holy  hour 

When  thou  art  sinking  in  the  silent  sea; 

Or  when  I  climb  the  height,  and  wander  free 
In  thy  meridian  glory,  for  the  air 

Sparkles  and  burns  in  thy  intensity, 
I  feel  thy  light  within  me,  and  I  share 
In  the  full  glow  of  soul  thy  spirit  kindles  there. 


CONSUMPTION. 

THERE  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 
When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  away, 
When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone, 
And  the  tint  that  glow'd,  and  the  eye  that  shone, 
And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 
And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower 
That  ever  in  Paestum's*  garden  blew, 
Or  ever  was  steep'd  in  fragrant  dew, 
When  all  that  was  bright  and  fair  is  fled, 
But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

O !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  wither'd  rose; 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallow'd  rays; 
And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 
Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye, 
Like  a  cloud  whereon  the  queen  of  night 
Has  pour'd  her  softest  tint  of  light ; 
And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue, 
Where  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 
The  snow  of  her  pale  and  tender  cheek ; 
And  there  are  tones  that  sweetly  speak 
Of  a  spirit  who  longs  for  a  purer  day, 
And  is  ready  to  wing  her  flight  away. 

In  the  flush  of  youth,  and  the  spring  of  feeling, 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealiag 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path. 
And  all  the  endearments  that  pleasure  hath 
Are  pour'd  from  her  full,  o'erflowing  horn, 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn, 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song 
The  maiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 
And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound ; 
Where  a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit, 
With  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit, 
And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core, 
And  the  heart  in  its  fulness  flowing  o'er 
With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repress'd, 
For  short  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast : 

*  Biferique  rosaria  Psesti.—  Virg. 


200 


JAMES    G.   PERCIVAL. 


In  this  enliven'd  and  gladsome  hour 

The  spirit  may  burn  with  a  brighter  power ; 

But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day, 

When  the  heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining, 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper,  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath, 
When  it  comes  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose : 
And  the  lip,  that  swell'd  with  a  living  glow, 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fallen  snow ; 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair, — 
But  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there 
When  the  tide  of  life,  from  its  secret  dwelling, 
In  a  sudden  gush,  is  deeply  swelling. 
And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips, 
Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 
As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too 
As  the  clouds  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 
That  seem  like  a  host  of  glory,  met 
To  honour  the  sun  at  his  golden  set ; 
O  !  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 
How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  one  cling, 
As  if  she  would  blend  her  soul  with  his 
In  a  deep  and  long-imprinted  kiss ; 
So  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 
Where  the  glassy  vapour  cheats  his  eyes ; 
And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 
And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 
And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 
Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 
And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled, 
And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 
Her  eye  still  beams  unwonted  fires, 
With  a  woman's  love,  and  a  saint's  desires, 
And  her  last,  fond,  lingering  look  is  given 
To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  heaven, 
As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 
To  a  purer  world,  and  a  brighter  day. 


TO  THE  EAGLE. 

Binn  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing, 

Thy  home  is  high  in  heaven, 
Where  wide  the  storms  their  banners  fling, 

And  the  tempest  clouds  are  driven. 
Thy  throne  is  on  the  mountain  top ; 

Thy  fields,  the  boundless  air; 
And  hoary  peaks,  that  proudly  prop 

The  skies,  thy  dwellings  are. 

Thou  sittest  like  a  thing  of  light, 

Amid  the  noontide  blaze : 
The  midwr.y  sun  is  clear  and  bright; 

It  cannot  dim  thy  gaze. 
Thy  pinions,  to  the  rushing  blast, 

O'er  the  bursting  billow,  spread, 
Where  the  vessel  plunges,  hurry  past, 

Like  an  angel  of  the  dead. 

Thou  art  perch'd  aloft  on  the  beetling  crag, 
And  the  waves  are  white  below, 

And  on,  with  a  haste  that  cannot  lag, 
They  rush  in  an  endless  flow. 


Again  thou  hast  plumed  thy  wing  for  flight 

To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  away,  like  a  spirit  wreathed  in  light, 

Thou  hurriest,  wild  and  free. 

Thou  hurriest  over  the  myriad  waves, 

And  thou  leavcst  them  all  behind ; 
Thou  sweepest  that  place  of  unknown  graves, 

Fleet  as  the  tempest  wind. 
When  the  night-storm  gathers  dim  and  dark 

With  a  shrill  and  boding  scream, 
Thou  rushest  by  the  foundering  bark, 

Quick  as  a  passing  dream. 

Lord  of  the  boundless  realm  of  air, 

In  thy  imperial  name, 
The  hearts  of  the  bold  and  ardent  dare 

The  dangerous  path  of  fame. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  thy  golden  wings, 

The  Roman  legions  bore, 
From  the  river  of  Egypt's  cloudy  springs, 

Their  pride,  to  the  polar  shore. 

For  thee  they  fought,  for  thee  they  fell, 

And  their  oath  was  on  thee  laid  ; 
To  thee  the  clarions  raised  their  swell, 

And  the  dying  warrior  pray'd. 
Thou  wert,  through  an  age  of  death  and  fears, 

The  image  of  pride  and  power, 
Till  the  gather'd  rage  of  a  thousand  years 

Burst  forth  in  one  awful  hour. 

And  then  a  deluge  of  wrath  it  came, 

And  the  nations  shook  with  dread ; 
And  it  swept  the  earth  till  its  fields  were  flame, 

And  piled  with  the  mingled  dead. 
Kings  were  roll'd  in  the  wasteful  flood, 

With  the  low  and  crouching  slave  ; 
And  together  lay,  in  a  shroud  of  blood, 

The  coward  and  the  brave. 

And  where  was  then  thy  fearless  flight? 

"  O'er  the  dark,  mysterious  sea, 
To  the  lands  that  caught  the  setting  light, 

The  cradle  of  Liberty. 
There,  on  the  silent  and  lonely  shore, 

For  ages,  I  watch'd  alone, 
And  the  world,  in  its  darkness,  ask'd  no  more 

Where  the  glorious  bird  had  flown. 

«  But  then  came  a  bold  and  hardy  few, 

And  they  breasted  the  unknown  wave; 
I  caught  afar  the  wandering  crew; 

And  I  knew  they  were  high  and  brave. 
I  wheel'd  around  the  welcome  bark, 

As  it  sought  the  desolate  shore, 
And  up  to  heaven,  like  a  joyous  lark, 

My  quivering  pinions  bore. 

"And  now  that  bold  and  hardy  few 

Are  a  nation  wide  and  strong; 
And  danger  and  doubt  I  have  led  them  through, 

And  they  worship  me  in  song; 
And  over  their  bright  and  glancing  arms, 

On  field,  and  lake,  and  sea, 
With  an  eye  that  fires,  and  a  spell  that  charms, 

I  guide  them  to  victory." 


JAMES   G.  PERCIVAL. 


201 


PREVALENCE  OF  POETRY. 

THE  world  is  full  of  poetry — the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit ;  and  the  waves 
Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 
And  sparkle  in  its  brightness.     Earth  is  veil'd, 
And  mantled  with  its  beauty ;  and  the  walls, 
That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in, 
Are  eloquent  with  voices,  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 
In  harmonies,  too  perfect,  and  too  high, 
For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mould, 
And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn, 
Unfading  beauty,  and  unyielding  power. 

The  year  leads  round  the  seasons,  in  a  choir 
Forever  charming,  and  forever  new, 
Blending  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
The  mournful,  and  the  tender,  in  one  strain, 
Which  steals  into  the  heart,  like  sounds,  that  rise 
Far  off,  in  moonlight  evenings,  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  ocean,  resting  after  storms ; 
Or  tones,  that  wind  around  the  vaulted  roof, 
And  pointed  arches,  and  retiring  aisles 
Of  some  old,  lonely  minster,  where  the  hand, 
Skilful,  and  moved,  with  passionate  love  of  art, 
Plays  o'er  the  higher  keys,  and  bears  aloft 
The  peal  of  bursting  thunder,  and  then  calls, 
By  mellow  touches,  from  the  softer  tubes, 
Voices  of  melting  tenderness,  that  blend 
With  pure  and  gentle  musings,  till  the  soul, 
Commingling  with  the  melody,  is  borne, 
Rapt,  and  dissolved  in  ecstasy,  to  heaven. 

'T  is  not  the  chime  and  flow  of  words,  that  move 
In  measured  file,  and  metrical  array ; 
'T  is  not  the  union  of  returning  sounds, 
Nor  all  the  pleasing  artifice  of  rhyme, 
And  quantity,  and  accent,  that  can  give 
This  all-pervading  spirit  to  the  ear, 
Or  blend  it  with  the  movings  of  the  soul. 
'Tis  a  mysterious  feeling,  which  combines 
Man  with  the  world  around  him,  in  a  chain 
Woven  of  flowers,  and  dipp'd  in  sweetness,  till 
He  taste  the  high  communion  of  his  thoughts, 
With  all  existence,  in  earth  and  heaven, 
That  meet  him  in  the  charm  of  grace  and  power. 
'T  is  not  the  noisy  babbler,  who  displays, 
In  studied  phrase,  and  ornate  epithet, 
And  rounded  period,  poor  and  vapid  thoughts, 
Which  peep  from  out  the  cumbrous  ornaments 
That  overload  their  littleness.     Its  words 
Are  few,  but  deep  and  solemn ;  and  they  break 
Fresh  from  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  are  full 
Of  all  that  passion,  which,  on  Carmel,  fired 
The  holy  prophet,  when  his  lips  were  coals, 
His  language  wing'd  with  terror,  as  when  bolts 
Leap  from  the  brooding  tempest,  arm'd  with  wrath, 
Commission'd  to  affright  us,  and  destroy. 

Passion,  when  deep,  is  still :  the  glaring  eye 
That  reads  its  enemy  with  glance  of  fire, 
The  lip,  that  curls  and  writhes  in  bitterness, 
The  brow  contracted,  till  its  wrinkles  hide 
The  keen,  fix'd  orbs,  that  burn  and  flash  below, 
The  hand  firm  clcnch'd  and  quivering,  and  the 
foot 

20 


Planted  in  attitude  to  spring,  and  dart 

Its  vengeance,  are  the  language  it  employs. 

So  the  poetic  feeling  needs  no  words 

To  give  it  utterance ;  but  it  swells,  and  glows, 

And  revels  in  the  ecstasies  of  soul, 

And  sits  at  banquet  with  celestial  forms, 

The  beings  of  its  own  creation,  fair 

And  lovely,  as  e'er  haunted  wood  and  wave, 

When  earth  was  peopled,  in  its  solitudes, 

With  nymph  and  naiad — mighty,  as  the  gods, 

Whose  palace  was  Olympus,  and  the  clouds, 

That  hung,  in  gold  and  flame,  around  its  brow ; 

Who  bore,  upon  their  features,  all  that  grand 

And  awful  dignity  of  front,  which  bows 

The  eye  that  gazes  on  the  marble  Jove, 

Who  hurls,  in  wrath,  his  thunder,  and  the  god, 

The  image  of  a  beauty,  so  divine, 

So  masculine,  so  artless,  that  we  seem 

To  share  in  his  intensity  of  joy, 

When,  sure  as  fate,  the  bounding  arrow  sped, 

And  darted  to  the  scaly  monster's  heart. 

This  spirit  is  the  breath  of  Nature,  blown 
Over  the  sleeping  forms  of  clay,  who  else 
Doze  on  through  life  in  blank  stupidity, 
Till  by  its  blast,  as  by  a  touch  of  fire, 
They  rouse  to  lofty  purpose,  and  send  out, 
In  deeds  of  energy,  the  rage  within. 
Its  seat  is  deeper  in  the  savage  breast, 
Than  in  the  man  of  cities ;  in  the  child, 
Than  in  the  maturer  bosoms.     Art  may  prune 
Its  rank  and  wild  luxuriance,  and  may  train 
Its  strong  out-breakings,  and  its  vehement  gusts 
To  soft  refinement,  and  amenity ; 
But  all  its  energy  has  vanish'd,  all 
Its  maddening,  and  commanding  spirit  gone, 
And  all  its  tender  touches,  and  its  tones 
Of  soul-dissolving  pathos,  lost  and  hid 
Among  the  measured  notes,  that  move  as  dead 
And  heartless,  as  the  puppets  in  a  show. 

Well  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days, 
How  deep  the  feeling,  when  my  eye  look'd  forth 
On  Nature,  in  her  loveliness,  and  storms ; 
How  my  heart  gladden'd,  as  the  light  of  spring 
Came   from   the   sun,   with   zephyrs,   and  with 

showers, 

Waking  the  earth  to  beauty,  and  the  woods 
To  music,  and  the  atmosphere  to  blow, 
Sweetly  and  calmly,  with  its  breath  of  balm. 
O !  how  I  gazed  upon  the  dazzling  blue 
Of  summer's  heaven  of  glory,  and  the  waves, 
That  roll'd,  in  bending  gold,  o'er  hill  and  plain; 
And  on  the  tempest,  when  it  issued  forth, 
In  folds  of  blackness,  from  the  northern  sky, 
And  stood  above  the  mountains,  silent,  dark, 
Frowning,  and  terrible ;  then  sent  abroad 
The  lightning,  as  its  herald,  and  the  peal, 
That  roll'd  in  deep,  deep  volleys,  round  the  hills, 
The  warning  of  its  coming,  and  the  sound, 
That  usher'd  in  its  elemental  war. 
And,  0 !  I  stood,  in  breathless  longing  fix'd, 
Trembling,  and  yet  not  fearful,  as  the  clouds 
Heaved  their  dark  billows  on  the  roaring  winds, 
That  sent,  from  mountain  top,  and  bending  wood, 
A  long,  hoarse  murmur,  like  the  rush  of  waves, 
That  burst,  in  foam  and  fury,  on  the  shore. 


202 


JAMES   G.  PERCIVAL. 


Nor  less  the  swelling  of  my  heart,  when  high 

Rose  the  blue  arch  of  autumn,  cloudless,  pure 

As  nature,  at  her  dawning,  when  she  sprang 

Fresh  from  the  hand  that  wrought  her ;  where  the  eye 

Caught  not  a  speck  upon  the  soft  serene, 

To  stain  its  deep  cerulean,  but  the  cloud, 

That  floated,  like  a  lonely  spirit,  there, 

White  as  the  snow  of  Zemla,  or  the  foam 

That  on  the  mid-sea  tosses,  cinctured  round, 

In  easy  undulations,  with  a  belt 

Woven  of  bright  APOLLO'S  golden  hair. 

Nor,  when  that  arch,  in  winter's  clearest  night, 

Mantled  in  ebon  darkness,  strew'd  with  stars 

Its  canopy,  that  secm'd  t^  swell,  and  swell 

The  higher,  as  I  gazed  upon  it,  till, 

Sphere  after  sphere,  evolving,  on  the  height 

Of  heaven,  the  everlasting  throne  shone  through, 

In  glory's  effulgence,  and  a  wave, 

Intensely  bright,  roll'd,  like  a  fountain,  forth 

Beneath  its  sapphire  pedestal,  and  stream'd 

Down  the  long  galaxy,  a  flood  of  snow, 

B  athing  the  heavens  in  light,  the  spring,  that  gush'd, 

In  overflowing  richness,  from  the  breast 

Of  all-maternal  nature.     These  I  saw, 

And  felt  to  madness ;  but  my  full  heart  gave 

No  utterance  to  the  ineffable  within. 

Words  were  too  weak ;  they  were  unknown ;  but  still 

The  feeling  was  most  poignant:  it  has  gone; 

And  all  the  deepest  flow  of  sounds,  that  e'er 

Pour'd,  in  a  torrent  fulness,  from  the  tongue 

Rich  with  the  wealth  of  ancient  bards,  and  stored 

With  all  the  patriarchs  of  British  song 

Hallow'd  and  render'd  glorious,  cannot  tell 

Those  feelings,  which  have  died,  to  live  no  more. 


CLOUDS. 

YE  Clouds,  who  are  the  ornament  of  heaven ; 
Who  give  to  it  its  gayest  shadowings, 
And  its  most  awful  glories ;  ye  who  roll 
In  the  dark  tempest,  or  at  dewy  evening 
Hang  low  in  tenderest  beauty ;  ye  who,  ever 
Changing  your  Protean  aspects,  now  are  gather'd, 
Like  fleecy  piles,  when  the  mid-sun  is  brightest, 
Even  in  the  height  of  heaven,  and  there  repose, 
Solemnly  calm,  without  a  visible  motion, 
Hour  after  hour,  looking  upon  the  earth 
With  a  serencst  smile  : — or  ye  who  rather 
Heap'd  in  those  sulphury  masses,  heavily 
Jutting  above  their  bases,  like  the  smoke 
Pour'd  from  a  furnace  or  a  roused  volcano, 
Stand  on  the  dun  horizon,  threatening 
Lightning  and  storm — who,  lifted  from  the  hills, 
March  onward  to  the  zenith,  ever  darkening, 
And  heaving  into  more  gigantic  towers 
And  mountainous  piles  of  blackness — who  then  roar 
With  the  collected  winds  within  your  womb, 
Or  the  far  utter'd  thunders — who  ascend 
Swifter  and  swifter,  till  wide  overhead 
Your  vanguards  curl  and  toss  upon  the  tempest 
Like  the  stirr'd  ocean  on  a  reef  of  rocks 
Just  topping  o'er  its  waves,  while  deep  below 
The  pregnant  mass  of  vapour  and  of  flame 


Rolls  with  an  awful  pomp,  and  grimly  lowers, 
Seeming  to  the  struck  eye  of  fear  the  car 
Of  an  offended  spirit,  whose  swart  features 
Glare  through  the  sooty  darkness — fired  with  ven- 
geance, 

And  ready  with  uplifted  hand  to  smite 
And  scourge  a  guilty  nation ;  ye  who  lie, 
After  the  storm  is  over,  far  away, 
Crowning  the  dripping  forests  with  the  arch 
Of  beauty,  such  as  lives  alone  in  heaven, 
Bright  daughter  of  the  sun,  bending  around 
From  mountain  unto  mountain,  like  the  wreath 
Of  victory,  or  like  a  banner  telling 
Of  joy  and  gladness ;  ye  who  round  the  moon 
Assemble  when  she  sits  in  the  mid-sky 
In  perfect  brightness,  and  encircle  her 
With  a  fair  wreath  of  all  aerial  dyes  : 
Ye  who,  thus  hovering  round  her,  shine  like  moun- 
tains 

Whose  tops  are  never  darken'd,  but  remain, 
Centuries  and  countless  ages,  rear'd  for  temples 
Of  purity  and  light ;  or  ye  who  crowd 
To  hail  the  new-born  day,  and  hang  for  him, 
Above  his  ocean-couch,  a  canopy 
Of  all  inimitable  hues  and  colours, 
Such  as  are  only  pencil'd  by  the  hands 
Of  the  unseen  ministers  of  earth  and  air, 
Seen  only  in  the  tinting  of  the  clouds, 
And  the  soft  shadowing  of  plumes  and  flowers ; 
Or  ye  who,  following  in  his  funeral  train, 
Light  up  your  torches  at  his  sepulchre, 
And  open  on  us  through  the  clefted  hills 
Far  glances  into  glittering  worlds  beyond 
The  twilight  of  the  grave,  where  all  is  light, 
Golden  and  glorious  light,  too  full  and  high 
For  mortal  eye  to  gaze  on,  stretching  out 
Brighter  and  ever  brighter,  till  it  spread, 
Like  one  wide,  radiant  ocean,  without  bounds, 
One  infinite  sea  of  glory : — Thus,  ye  clouds, 
And  in  innumerable  other  shapes 
Of  greatness  or  of  beauty,  ye  attend  us, 
To  give  to  the  wide  arch  above  us,  life 
And  all  its  changes.     Thus  it  is  to  us 
A  volume  full  of  wisdom,  but  without  ye 
One  awful  uniformity  had  ever 
With  too  severe  a  majesty  oppress'd  us. 


MORNING  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

A  NIGHT  had  pass'd  away  among  the  hills, 
And  now  the  first  faint  tokens  of  the  dawn 
Show'd  in  the  east.     The  bright  and  dewy  star, 
Whose  mission  is  to  usher  in  the  morn, 
Look'd  through  the  cool  air,  like  a  blessed  thing 
In  a  far  purer  world.     Below  there  lay, 
Wrapp'd  round  a  woody  mountain  tranquilly, 
A  misty  cloud.     Its  edges  caught  the  light, 
That  now  came  up  from  out  the  unseen  depth 
Of  the  full  fount  of  day,  and  they  were  laced 
With  colours  ever  brightening.     I  had  waked 
From  a  long  sleep  of  many  changing  dreams, 
And  now  in  the  fresh  forest  air  I  stood 
Nerved  to  another  day  of  wandering. 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


203 


Before  me  rose  a  pinnacle  of  rock. 

Lifted  above  the  wood  that  hemm  d  it  in, 

And  now  already  glowing.     There  the  beams 

Came  from  the  far  horizon,  and  they  wrapp'd  it 

In  light  and  glory.     Round  its  vapoury  cone 

A  crown  of  far-diverging  rays  shot  out, 

And  gave  to  it  the  semblance  of  an  altar 

Lit  for  the  worship  of  the  undying  flame, 

That  center'd  in  the  circle  of  the  sun, 

Now  coming  from  the  ocean's  fathomless  caves, 

Anon  would  stand  in  solitary  pomp 

Above  the  loftiest  peaks,  and  cover  them 

With  splendour  as  a  garment.     Thitherward 

I  bent  my  eager  steps ;  and  through  the  grove, 

Now  dark  as  deepest  night,  and  thickets  hung 

With  a  rich  harvest  of  unnumber'd  gems, 

Waiting  a  clearer  dawn  to  catch  the  hues 

Shed  from  the  starry  fringes  of  its  veil 

On  cloud,  and  mist,  and  dew,  and  backward  thrown 

In  infinite  reflections,  on  I  went, 

Mounting  with  hasty  foot,  and  thence  emerging, 

I  scaled  that  rocky  steep,  and  there  awaited 

Silent  the  full  appearing  of  the  sun. 

Below  there  lay  a  far-extended  sea, 
Rolling  in  feathery  waves.     The  wind  blew  o'er  it, 
And  toss'd  it  round  the  high-ascending  rocks, 
And  swept  it  through  the  half-hidden  forest  tops, 
Till,  like  an  ocean  waking  into  storm, 
It  heaved  and  welter'd.     Gloriously  the  light 
Crested  its  billows,  and  those  craggy  islands 
Shone  on  it  like  to  palaces  of  spar 
Built  on  a  sea  of  pearl.     Far  overhead, 
Thy  sky,  without  a  vapour. or  a  stain, 
Intensely  blue,  even  deepen'd  into  purple, 
When  nearer  the  horizon  it  received 
A  tincture  from  the  mist  that  there  dissolved 
Into  the  viewless  air, — the  sky  bent  round, 
The  awful  dome  of  a  most  mighty  temple, 
Built  by  omnipotent  hands  for  nothing  less 
Than  infinite  worship.  There  I  stood  in  silence — 
I  had  no  words  to  tell  the  mingled  thoughts 
Of  wonder  and  of  joy  that  then  came  o'er  me, 
Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush.     So  beautiful, 
So  bright,  so  glorious  !     Such  a  majesty 
In  yon  pure  vault!     So  many  dazzling  tints 
In  yonder  waste  of  waves, — so  like  the  ocean 
With  its  unnumber'd  islands  there  encircled 
By  foaming  surges,  that  the  mounting  eagle, 
Lifting  his  fearless  pinion  through  the  clouds 
To  bathe  in  purest  sunbeams,  seem'd  an  ospray 
Hovering  above  his  prey,  and  yon  tall  pines, 
Their  tops  half-mantled  in  a  snowy  veil, 
A  frigate  with  full  canvass,  bearing  on 
To  conquest  and  to  glory.     But  even  these 
Had  round  them  something  of  the  lofty  air 
In  which  they  moved  ;  not  like  to  things  of  earth, 
But  heighten'd,  and  made  glorious,  as  became 
Such  pomp  and  splendour. 

Who  can  tell  the  brightness, 
That  every  moment  caught  a  newer  glow, 
That  circle,  with  its  centre  like  the  heart 
Of  elemental  fire,  and  spreading  out 
In  floods  of  liquid  gold  on  the  blue  sky 
And  on  the  ophaline  waves,  crown'd  with  a  rainbow 
Bright  as  the  arch  that  bent  above  the  throne 


Seen  in  a  vision  by  the  holy  man 
In  Patmos !  who  can  tell  how  it  ascended, 
And  flow'd  more  widely  o'er  that  lifted  ocean, 
Till  instantly  the  unobstructed  sun 
Roll'd  up  his  sphere  of  fire,  floating  away — 
Away  in  a  pure  ether,  far  from  earth, 
And  all  its  clouds, — and  pouring  forth  unbounded 
His  arrowy  brightness !  From  that  burning  centre 
At  once  there  ran  along  the  level  line 
Of  that  imagined  sea,  a  stream  of  gold — 
Liquid  and  flowing  gold,  that  seem'd  to  tremble 
Even  with  a  furnace  heat,  on  to  the  point 
Whereon  I  stood.     At  once  that  sea  of  vapour 
Parted  away,  and  melting  into  air, 
Rose  round  me,  and  I  stood  involved  in  light, 
As  if  a  flame  had  kindled  up,  and  wrapp'd  me 
In  its  innocuous  blaze.     Away  it  roll'd, 
Wave  after  wave.     They  climb'd  the  highest  rocks, 
Pour'd  over  them  in  surges,  and  then  rush'd 
Down  glens  and  valleys,  like  a  wintry  torrent 
Dash'd  instant  to  the  plain.     It  seem'd  a  moment, 
And  they  were  gone,  as  if  the  touch  of  fire 
At  once  dissolved  them.     Then  I  found  myself 
Midway  in  air ;  ridge  after  ridge  below, 
Descended  with  their  opulence  of  woods 
Even  to  the  dim-seen  level,  where  a  lake 
Flash'd  in  the  sun,  and  from  it  wound  a  line, 
Now  silvery  bright,  even  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  encircling  Mils.     A  waste  of  rocks 
Was  round  me — but  below  how  beautiful, 
How  rich  the  plain  !  a  wilderness  of  groves 
And  ripening  harvests ;  while  the  sky  of  June — 
The  soft,  blue  sky  of  June,  and  the  cool  air, 
That  makes  it  then  a  luxury  to  live, 
Only  to  breathe  it,  and  the  busy  echo 
Of  cascades,  and  the  voice  of  mountain  brooks, 
Stole  with  such  gentle  meanings  to  my  heart, 
That  where  I  stood  seem'd  heaven. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 

HE  comes  not — I  have  watched  the  moon  go 

down, 

But  yet  he  comes  not. — Once  it  was  not  so. 
He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow, 
The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 
Yet  he  will  come,  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep ; 
And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep, 
To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 

0  !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep, 

Over  those  sleeping  eyes,  that  smile,  which  cheers 
My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow,  fix'd  and  deep. 

1  had  a  husband  once,  who  loved  me — now 
He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow, 
And  feeds  his  passion  on  a  wanton's  lip, 
As  bees,  from  laurel  flowers,  a  poison  sip ; 
But  yet  I  cannot  hate — 0  !  there  were  hours, 
When  I  could  hang  forever  on  his  eye, 
And  time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 
Strew'd,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowers. 
I  loved  him  then — he  loved  me  too. — My  heart 
Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle  if  he  smile ; 

The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart ; 
And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 


204 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


Venom'd  and  barb'd,  and  waste  upon  the  vile 
Caresses,  which  his  babe  and  mine  should  share  ; 
Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  calmly  bear 
His  madness, — and  should  sickness  come  and  lay 
Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 
I  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay, 
Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say, 
How  injured,  and  how  faithful  I  had  been ! 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 


in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove  ; 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  felling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl-shells  spangle*  the  flinty  snow; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air  : 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter: 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 
The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep  sea  ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea: 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own  : 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore; 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


DECLINE  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

WHY  have  ye  linger'd  on  your  way  so  long, 

Bright  visions,  who  were  wont  to  hear  my  call, 
And  with  the  harmony  of  dance  and  song 

Keep  round  my  dreaming  couch  a  festival  ? 
Where  are  ye  gone,  with  all  your  eyes  of  light, 

And  where  the  flowery  voice  I  loved  to  hear, 
When,  through  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 

Ye  whisper'd  like  an  angel  in  my  ear  1 
0 !  fly  not  with  the  rapid  wing  of  time, 

But  with  your  ancient  votary  kindly  stay; 
And  while  the  loftier  dreams,  that  rose  sublime 

In  years  of  higher  hope,  have  flown  away : 
0 !  with  the  colours  of  a  softer  clime, 

Give  your  last  touches  to  the  dying  day. 


GENIUS  SLUMBERING. 

HE  sleeps,  forgetful  of  his  once  bright  fame ; 

He  has  no  feeling  of  the  glory  gone ; 
He  has  no  eye  to  catch  the  mounting  flame, 

That  once  in  transport  drew  his  spirit  on ; 
He  lies  in  dull,  oblivious  dreams,  nor  cares 
Who  the  wreathed  laurel  bears. 

And  yet,  not  all  forgotten,  sleeps  he  there ; 

There  are  who  still  remember  how  he  bore 
Upward  his  daring  pinions,  till  the  air 

Seem'd  living  with  the  crown  of  light  he  wore ; 
There  are  who,  now  his  early  sun  has  set, 
Nor  can,  nor  will  forget. 

He  sleeps, — and  yet,  around  the  sightless  eye 
And  the  press'd  lip,  a  darken'd  glory  plays ; 

Though  the  high  powers  in  dull  oblivion  lie, 
There  hovers  still  the  light  of  other  days; 

Deep  in  that  soul  a  spirit,  not  of  earth, 

Still  struggles  for  its  birth. 

He  will  not  sleep  forever,  but  will  rise 

Fresh  to  more  daring  labours ;  now,  even  now, 

As  the  close  shrouding  mist  of  morning  flics, 
The  gather'd  slumber  leaves  his  lifted  brow; 

From  his  half-open'd  eye,  in  fuller  beams, 

His  waken'd  spirit  streams. 

Yes,  he  will  break  his  sleep ;  the  spell  is  gone ; 

The  deadly  charm  departed ;  see  him  fling 
Proudly  his  fetters  by,  and  hurry  on, 

Keen  as  the  famish'd  eagle  darts  her  wing ; 
The  goal  is  still  before  him,  and  the  prize 
Still  woos  his  eager  eyes. 

He  rushes  forth  to  conquer:  shall  they  take — 
They,  who,  with  feebler  pace,  still  kept  their  way, 

When  he  forgot  the  contest — shall  they  take, 
Now  he  renews  the  race,  the  victor's  bay ! 

Still  let  them  strive — when  he  collects  his  might, 

He  will  assert  his  right. 

The  spirit  cannot  always  sleep  in  dust, 
Whose  essence  is  ethereal ;  they  may  try 

To  darken  and  degrade  it ;  it  may  rust 
Dimly  a  while,  but  cannot  wholly  die; 

And,  when  it  wakens,  it  will  send  its  fire 

Intenser  forth  and  higher. 


GENIUS  WAKING. 

SLUMBER'S  heavy  chain  hath  bound  thee — 

Where  is  now  thy  fire  ? 
Feebler  wings  are  gathering  round  thee — 

Shall  they  hover  higher? 
Can  no  power,  no  spell,  recall  thee 

From  inglorious  dreams  ? 
0,  could  glory  so  appal  thee, 

With  his  burning  beams ! 

Thine  was  once  the  highest  pinion 

In  the  midway  air; 
With  a  proud  and  sure  dominion, 

Thou  didst  upward  bear, 
Like  the  herald,  wing'd  with  lightning, 

From  the  Olympian  throne, 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


205 


Ever  mounting,  ever  brightening, 
Thou  vvert  there  alone. 

Where  the  pillar'd  props  of  heaven 

Glitter  with  eternal  snows, 
Where  no  darkling  clouds  are  driven, 

Where  no  fountain  flows — 
Far  above  the  rolling  thunder, 

When  the  surging  storm 
Rent  its  sulphury  folds  asunder, 

We  beheld  thy  form. 

0,  what  rare  and  heavenly  brightness 

Flow'd  around  thy  plumes, 
As  a  cascade's  foamy  whiteness 

Lights  a  cavern's  glooms ! 
Wheeling  through  the  shadowy  ocean, 

Like  a  shape  of  light, 
With  serene  and  placid  motion, 

Thou  wert  dazzling  bright. 

From  that  cloudless  region  stooping, 

Downward  thou  didst  rush, 
Not  with  pinion  faint  and  drooping      ' 

But  the  tempest's  gush. 
Up  again  undaunted  soaring, 

Thou  didst  pierce  the  cloud, 
When  the  warring  winds  were  roaring 

Fearfully  and  loud. 

Where  is  now  that  restless  longing 

After  higher  things  1 
Come  they  not,  like  visions,  thronging 

On  their  airy  wings  1 
Why  should  not  their  glow  enchant  thee 

Upward  to  their  bliss  ? 
Surely  danger  cannot  daunt  thee 

From  a  heaven  like  this  1 

But  thou  slumberest;  faint  and  quivering 

Hangs  thy  ruffled  wing ; 
Like  a  dove  in  winter  shivering, 

Or  a  feebler  thing. 
Where  is  now  thy  might  and  motion, 

Thy  imperial  flight  1 
,,Where  is  now  thy  heart's  devotion  ? 

Where  thy  spirit's  light1? 

Hark!  his  rustling  plumage  gathers 

Closer  to  his  side ; 
Close,  as  when  the  storm-bird  weathers 

Ocean's  hurrying  tide. 
Now  his  nodding  beak  is  steady — 

Wide  his  burning  eye — 
Now  his  open  wings  are  ready, 

And  his  aim — how  high ! 

Now  he  curves  his  neck,  and  proudly 

Now  is  stretch'd  for  flight — 
Hark!  his  wings — they  thunder  loudly, 

And  their  flash — how  bright ! 
Onward — onward  over  mountains, 

Through  the  rock  and  storm, 
Now,  like  sunset  over  fountains, 

Flits  his  glancing  form. 

Glorious  bird,  thy  dream  has  left  thee — 
Thou  hast  rcach'd  thy  heaven — 

Lingering  slumber  hath  not  reft  thee 
Of  the  glory  given. 


With  a  bold,  a  fearless  pinion, 

On  thy  starry  road, 
None,  to  fame's  supreme  dominion, 

Mightier  ever  trode. 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

HAII  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 

Our  fondest  boast; 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  Glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host: 

No  slave  is  here ;  our  unchain 'd  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 

Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  cross'd  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore ; 
They  left  behinAhe  coward  slave 
To  welter  in  his  living  grave ; 
With  hearts  unbent,  and  spirits  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 

Such  toils  as  meaner  souls  had  quell'd ; 
But  souls  like  these,  such  toils  impell'd 

To  soar. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  when  first  they  stood 

On  Bunker's  height, 

And,  fearless,  stemm'd  the  invading  flood, 
And  wrote  our  dearest  rights  in  blood, 
And  mow'd  in  ranks  the  hireling  brood, 

In  desperate  fight! 
O,  'twas  a  proud,  exulting  day, 
For  even  our  fallen  fortunes  lay 

In  light 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  Liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest; 
And,  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppress'd : 
All,  who  the  wreath  of  Freedom  twine 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine, 

Are  bless'd. 

We  love  thy  rude  and  rocky  shore, 

And  here  we  stand — 
Let  foreign  navies  hasten  o'er, 
And  on  our  heads  their  fury  pour, 
And  peal  their  cannon's  loudest  roar, 

And  storm  our  land; 
They  still  shall  find  our  lives  are  given 
To  die  for  home ; — and  leant  on  Heaven 

Our  hand. 

S 


206 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


MAY. 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours, — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playfrl  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves;^ 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play ; 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 

Ox  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
O  !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 
And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AUTUMN. 

Now  the  growing  year  is  over, 
And  the  shepherd's  tinkling  bell 

Faintly  from  its  winter  cover 
Rings  a  low  farewell : — 

Now  the  birds  of  Autumn  shiver, 

Where  the  wither'd  beech-leaves  quiver, 

O'er  the  dark  and  lazy  river, 
In  the  rocky  dell. 

Now  the  mist  is  on  the  mountains, 

Reddening  in  the  rising  sun ; 
Now  the  flowers  around  the  fountains 

Perish  one  by  one : — 
Not  a  spire  of  grass  is  growing, 
But  the  leaves  that  late  were  glowing, 
Now  its  blighted  green  are  strewing 
With  a  mantle  dun. 

Now  the  torrent  brook  is  stealing 
Faintly  down  the  furrow'd  glade — 

Not  as  when  in  winter  pealing, 
Such  a  din  is  made, 

That  the  sound  of  cataracts  falling 

Gave  no  echo  so  appalling, 

As  its  hoarse  and  heavy  brawling 
In  the  pine's  black  shade. 

Darkly  blue  the  mist  is  hovering 

Round  the  clifted  rock's  bare  height- 
All  the  bordering  mountains  covering 

With  a  dim,  uncertain  light : — 
Now,  a  fresher  wind  prevailing, 
Wide  its  heavy  burden  sailing, 
Deepens  as  the  day  is  failing, 
Fast  the  gloom  of  night. 

Slow  the  blood-stain'd  moon  is  riding 

Through  the  still  and  hazy  air, 
Like  a  sheeted  spectre  gliding 

In  a  torch's  glare  : — 
Few  the  hours,  her  light  is  given — 
Mingling  clouds  of  tempest  driven 
O'er  the  mourning  face  of  heaven, 
All  is  blackness  there. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME. 

FAINTLY  flow,  thou  falling  river, 

Like  a  dream  that  dies  away; 
Down  to  ocean  gliding  ever, 

Keep  thy  calm  unruffled  way : 
Time  with  such  a  silent  motion, 

Floats  along,  on  wings  of  air, 
To  eternity's  dark  ocean, 

Burying  all  its  treasures  there. 

Roses  bloom,  and  then  they  wither ; 

Cheeks  are  bright,  then  fade  and  die ; 
Shapes  of  light  are  wafted  hither — 

Then,  like  visions  hurry  by  :. 
Quick  as  clouds  at  evening  driven 

O'er  the  many-colour'd  west, 
Years  are  bearing  us  to  heaven, 

Home  of  happiness  and  rest. 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


207 


IT  IS  GREAT  FOR  OUR  COUNTRY 
TO  DIE. 

0  !  IT  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where  ranks 

are  contending : 
Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame ;  Glory  awaits 

us  for  aye — 
Glory,  that  never  is  dim,  shining  on  with  light 

never  ending — 

Glory  that  never  shall  fade,  never,  0 !  never 
away. 

0  !  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die — how  softly 

reposes 
Warrior  youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the  tears  of 

his  love, 
Wet  by  a  mother's  warm  tears ;  they  crown  him 

with  garlands  of  roses, 

Weep,  and  then  joyously  turn,  bright  where  he 
triumphs  above. 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  youth  descend,  who 

for  country  hath  perish'd : 
HEBE  awaits  him   in   heaven,  welcomes  him 

there  with  her  smile ; 
There,  at  the  banquet  divine,  the  patriot  spirit  is 

cherish' d ; 

Gods  love  the  young,  who  ascend  pure  from 
the  funeral  pile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious  river ; 
Not  to  the  isles  of  the  bless'd,  over  the  blue, 

rolling  sea ; 
But  on  Olympian  heights,  shall  dwell  the  devoted 

forever ; 

There  shall  assemble  the  good,  there  the  wise, 
valiant,  and  free. 

0  !  then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die,  in  the 

front  rank  to  perish, 
Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  Victory's  shout 

in  our  ear : 
Long  they  our  statues  shall  crown,  in  songs  our 

memory  cherish ; 

We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven,  pleased 
the  sweet  music  to  hear. 


EXTRACT  FROM  PROMETHEUS. 

Oun  thoughts  are  boundless,  though  our  frames 
are  frail, 

Our  souls  immortal,  though  our  limbs  decay ; 
Though  darken'd  in  this  poor  life  by  a  veil 

Of  suffering,  dying  matter,  we  shall  play 

In  truth's  eternal  sunbeams ;  on  the  way 
To  heaven's  high  capitol  our  cars  shall  roll ; 

The  temple  of  the  Power  whom  all  obey, 
That  is  the  mark  we  tend  to,  for  the  soul 
Can  take  no  lower  flight,  and  seek  no  meaner  goal. 


I  feel  it — though  the  flesh  is  weak,  I  feel 
The  spirit  has  its  energies  untamed 

By  all  its  fatal  wanderings ;  time  may  heal 

The  wounds  which  it  has  suffer'd ;  folly  claim'd 
Too  large  a  portion  of  its  youth ;  ashamed 

Of  those  low  pleasures,  it  would  leap  and  fly, 
And  soar  on  wings  of  lightning,  like  the  famed 

Elijah,  when  the  chariot,  rushing  by, 

Bore  him  with  steeds  of  fire  triumphant  to  the  sky. 

We  are  as  barks  afloat  upon  the  sea, 

Helmless  and  oarless,  when  the  light  has  fled, 
The  spirit,  whose  strong  influence  can  free 

The  drowsy  soul,  that  slumbers  in  the  dead 

Cold  night  of  mortal  darkness ;  from  the  bed 
Of  sloth  he  rouses  at  her  sacred  call, 

And,  kindling  in  the  blaze  around  him  shed, 
Rends  with  strong  effort  sin's  debasing  thrall, 
And  gives  to  GOD  his  strength,  his  heart,  his  mind, 

his  all. 
Our  home  is  not  on  e*arth;  although  we  sleep, 

And  sink  in  seeming  death  a  while,  yet,  then, 
The  awakening  voice  speaks  loudly,  and  we  leap 

To  life,  and  energy,  and  light,  again; 

We  cannot  slumber  always  in  the  den 
Of  sense  and  selfishness ;  the  day  will  break, 

Ere  we  forever  leave  the  haunts  of  men ; 
Even  at  the  parting  hour  the  soul  will  wake, 
Nor,  like  a  senseless  brute,  its  unknown  journey 

take. 
How  awful  is  that  hour,  when  conscience  stings 

The  hoary  wretch,  who,  on  his  death-bed  hears, 
Deep  in  his  soul,  the  thundering  voice  that  rings, 

In  one  dark,  damning  moment,  crimes  of  years, 
And,  screaming  like  a  vulture  in  his  ears, 
Tells,  one  by  one,  his  thoughts  and  deeds  of  shame , 

How  wild  the  fury  of  his  soul  careers ! 
His  swart  eye  flashes  with  intensest  flame, 
And  like  the  torture's  rack  the  wrestling  of  his 
frame. 


HOME. 

MT  place  is  in  the  quiet  vale, 

The  chosen  haunt  of  simple  thought ; 
I  seek  not  Fortune's  flattering  gale, 

I  better  love  the  peaceful  lot. 

I  leave  the  world  of  noise  and  show, 
To  wander  by  my  native  brook ; 

I  ask,  in  life's  unruffled  flow, 

No  treasure  but  my  friend  and'  book. 

These  better  suit  the  tranquil  home, 
Where  the  clear  water  murmurs  by ; 

And  if  I  wish  a  while  to  roam, 
I  have  an  ocean  in  the  sky. 

Fancy  can  charm  and  feeling  bless 

With  sweeter  hours  than  fashion  knows ; 

There  is  no  calmer  quietness 

Than  home  around  the  bosom  throws. 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

[Boro,  1795.] 


THE  author  of  "Fanny,"  "Burns,"  "Marco 
Bozzaris,"  etc.,  was  born  at  Guilford  in  Connecti- 
cut, in  August,  1795.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he 
removed  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where  he  has 
since  resided.  It  is  said  that  he  evinced  a  taste  for 
poetry,  and  wrote  verses,  at  a  very  early  period ; 
but  the  oldest  of  his  effusions  that  I  have  seen 
are  those  under  the  signatures  of  "  Croaker,"  and 
"  Croaker  &  Co.,"  published  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Post,  in  1819.  In  the  production  of 
these  pleasant  satires*  he  was  associated  with 
Doctor  DRAKE,  the  author  of  the  "  Culprit  Fay," 
a  man  of  brilliant  wit  and  delicate  fancy,  with 
whom  he  was  long  intimate.  DRAKE  died  in 
1820,  and  his  friend  soon  after  wrote  for  the  New 
York  Review,  then  edited  by  BRYANT,  the  lines 
to  his  memory,  beginning — 

"Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ; 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise." 

Near  the  close  of  the  year  1819,  HALLECK  pub- 
lished "Fanny,"  his  longest  poem,  which  has 
since  passed  through  numerous  editions,  though 
its  authorship  has  never  been  publicly  avowed.  It 
is  a  humorous  satire,  containing  from  twelve  to 
fifteen  hundred  lines,  and  was  written  and  printed 
in  three  weeks  from  its  commencement. 

In  1827  he  published  a  small  volume,  contain- 
ing "  Alnwick  Castle,"  "  Marco  Bozzaris,"  and  a 
few  other  pieces,  which  had  previously  appeared 
in  various  miscellanies;  and  in  1836,  an  edition 
of  all  his  serious  poems  then  written,  including 
"Burns,"  "Red  Jacket,"  "The  Field  of  the 
Grounded  Arms,"  and  those  before  alluded  to. 
The  last  and  most  complete  collection  of  his  works 
appeared  early  in  the  present  year. 

Mr.  HALLECK  is  the  only  one  of  our  poets  who 
possesses  a  decided  local  popularity.  With  the 
subjects  of  "  Fanny,"  the  "  Croakers,"  and  some 
of  his  other  pieces,  every  person  in  New  York  is 
in  some  degree  acquainted,  and  his  name  is  che- 
rished in  that  city  with  fondness  and  enthusiasm. 
His  humorous  poems  are  marked  with  an  uncom- 
mon ease  of  versification,  a  natural,  unstudied 
flow  of  language,  and  a  careless  playfulness  and 
felicity  of  jest.  "  Sometimes,"  remarks  Mr.  BRY- 
ANT, "in  the  midst  of  a  strain  of  harmonious 
diction,  and  soft  and  tender  imagery,  he  surprises 
by  an  irresistible  stroke  of  ridicule,  as  if  he  took 
pleasure  in  showing  the  reader  that  the  poetical 
vision  he  had  raised  was  but  a  cheat.  Sometimes, 


*  The  curiosity  of  the  town  was  greatly  excited  to 
know  by  whom  these  pieces  had  been  written,  and  they 
were  ascribed,  at  different  times,  to  various  literary  gen- 
tlemen, while  the  real  authors  proved,  for  a  long  while, 
entirely  unsuspected.— WILLIAM  LEGGETT.— The  Critic. 


with  that  aerial  facility  which  is  his  peculiar  en- 
dowment, he  accumulates  graceful  and  agreeable 
images  in  a  strain  of  irony  so  fine,  that  did  not 
the  subject  compel  the  reader  to  receive  it  as  irony, 
he  would  take  it  for  a  beautiful  passage  of  serious 
poetry — so  beautiful,  that  he  is  tempted  to  regret 
that  he  is  not  in  earnest,  and  that  phrases  so  ex- 
quisitely chosen,  and  poetic  colouring  so  brilliant, 
should  be  employed  to  embellish  subjects  to  which 
they  do  not  properly  belong.  At  other  times,  he 
produces  the  effect  of  wit  by  dexterous  allusion  to 
contemporaneous  events,  introduced  as  illustra- 
tions of  the  main  subject,  with  all  the  unconscious 
gracefulness  of  the  most  animated  and  familiar 
conversation.  He  delights  in  ludicrous  contrasts, 
produced  by  bringing  the  nobleness  of  the  ideal 
world  into  comparison  with  the  homeliness  of  the 
actual ;  the  beauty  and  grace  of  nature  with  the 
awkwardness  of  art.  He  venerates  the  past  and 
laughs  at  the  present.  He  looks  at  them  through 
a  medium  which  lends  to  the  former  the  charm  of 
romance,  and  exaggerates  the  deformity  of  the 
latter.  His  poetry,  whether  serious  or  sprightly, 
is  remarkable  for  the  melody  of  the  numbers.  It 
is  not  the  melody  of  monotonous  and  strictly 
regular  measurement.  His  verse  is  constructed  to 
please  an  ear  naturally  fine,  and  accustomed  to  a 
range  of  metrical  modulation.  It  is  as  different 
from  that  painfully-balanced  versification,  that 
uniform  succession  of  iambics,  closing  the  scene 
with  the  couplet,  which  some  writers  practise,  and 
sorrie  critics  praise,  as  the  note  of  the  thrush  is 
unlike  that  of  the  cuckoo.  He  is  familiar  with 
those  general  rules  and  principles  which  are  the 
basis  of  metrical  harmony  ;  and  his  own  unerring 
taste  has  taught  him  the  exceptions  which  a  pro- 
per attention  to  variety  demands.  He  under- 
stands that  the  rivulet  is  made  musical  by  obstruc- 
tions in  its  channel.  In  no  poet  can  be  found 
passages  which  flow  with  more  sweet  and  liquid 
smoothness ;  but  he  knows  very  well  that  to  make 
this  smoothness  perceived,  and  to  prevent  it  from 
degenerating  into  monotony,  occasional  roughness 
must  be  interposed." 

HALLECK'S  serious  poems  are  as  admirable  as 
his  satirical.  There  are  few  finer  martial  lyrics 
than  "Marco  Bozzaris;"  "Burns"  and  "Red 
Jacket"  are  distinguished  for  manly  vigour  of 
thought  and  language ;  and  several  of  his  shorter 
pieces  have  rarely  been  excelled  in  melodiousness 
of  versification  or  quiet  beauty  of  imagery. 

HALLECK  has  generally  been  engaged  in  commer- 
cial pursuits.  He  was  once  in  "the  cotton  trade, 
and  sugar  line ;"  but  I  believe  he  has  for  several 
years  been  the  principal  superintendent  of  the  af- 
fairs of  the  great  capitalist,  Mr.  ASTOH.  He  is  a 
bachelor,  and  is  as  popular  among  his  friends  for  his 
social  qualities,  as  he  is  with  the  world  as  a  poet. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


209 


BURNS. 

TO  A  ROSE,  BROUGHT  FROM  NEAR  ALLOW  AY  KIRK,  IN  AYR- 
SHIRE,  IN  THE  AUTUMN  OF  l&O. 

WILD  rose  of  Alloway!  ray  thanks, 
Thou  mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon, 

When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonny  Boon." 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn  tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We've  cross'd  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  wither' d — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — • 
The  doom  of  all  tilings  wrought  of  clay — 

And  wither'd  my  life's  leaf,  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  I 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 

His,  who  an  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  BURNS — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimm'd  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she 's  canonized  his  mind ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 

Where  the  bard-peasant  first  drew  breath : 

A  straw-thatch'd  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle, 
To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  poet's  pride  and  power. 

The  pride  that  lifted  BURNS  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
Tharoll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  BURNS  are  there; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 
27 


His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listen'd,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet's  mastery. 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth ; 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hac  wi'  WALLACE  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  BURNS — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod — 

Lived— died — in  form  and  soul  a  man, 
The  image  of  his  GOD. 

Though  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  wo, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  and  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward,  and  of  slave; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye, 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 


210 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


Praise  to  the  bard  '.  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallow'd  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  Wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 
Crown'd  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far ; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have  press'd 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  west, 
My  own  green  forest-land; 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries ! 
The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  ROBERT 


RED  JACKET, 

A  CHIEF  OF  THE  INDIAN  TRIBES,  THE  TCSCARORAS. 

COOPF.H,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind, 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate  hall  of  nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought. 


And  faithful  to  the  act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law-authority — it  pass'd  nem.  con. — 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  ha-re  voted, 
The  most  enlighten'd  people  ever  known. 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  bay  of  Fundy, 
There 's  not  a  bailiff  nor  an  epitaph. 

And,  furthermore,  in  fifty  years  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zcuibla  to  the  line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora, 
Gazing  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 

In  all  its  medall'd,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 
Its  eyes'  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half-martial  and  half-diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring,  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  democratic, 
Outrival  Europe— even  in  our  kings ; 

For  thou  wert  monarch  born.  Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest-tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely.  Though  no  poet's  magic 
Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English 

Unless  he  had  a  genius  for  the  tragic,  [rhyme, 
And  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime; 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land ;  and  on  her  herald-roll, 

As  nobly  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  COSCR  DE  LION'S,  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would 

frighten 

That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 
And  GKORGE  the  FOURTH  wore,  in  the  dance  at 

Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch  on  field  and  flood, 

As  ROB  ROT'S  tartans  for  the  highland  heather, 
Or  forest-green  for  England's  ROBIN  HOOD. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit?  (like  a  whaler's) 
Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 

As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 
Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  eloquence  1     Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport; 

And  there 's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are^hort. 

Is  beauty?  Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed, 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  VP;T-S, 

And  she  who  perish'd,  young  and  broken-hearted, 
Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles,  and  not  for  tears. 

The  monarch  mind — the  mystery  of  commanding, 
The  godlike  power,  the  art  NAPOLF.OX, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding1 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one; 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


211 


Thou  hast  it     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrel  minds,  without  a  blush,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  their  dark  pall. 

Who  will  believe — not  I — for  in  deceiving 

Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem. 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  patriarch's,  soothe  a  dying  hour ; 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlight  bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  JOB'S,  eschewing  evil; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  cliricli'd  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair? 

That  in  thy  veins  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  which  bathes  the  upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat  o'  mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee  1 

And  underneath  that  face  like  summer's  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all,  save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipes  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars; 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  will  be  by  the  Great  Spirit 
Remember'd  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne. 


CONNECTICUT. 

AND  still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 
That  murmurs  at  their  feet,  a  conquer"d  wave ; 

'T  is  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabin'd  slave ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands  are  bold 

and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave; 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  Heaven  they 

Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way.      [pray, 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws,  denominated  blue; 

(1C  red,  they  might  to  DRACO'S  code  belong;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  vin — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  west.    . 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  bcin<r, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year : 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but,  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ;  and  should  PARK  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show         [know. 

The  Niger's  source,  they  'd  meet  him  with — We 


They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die: 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  and 
peddling; 

Or,  wandering  through  the  southern  countries, 
teaching 

The  ABC  from  WEBSTER'S  spelling-book; 
Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 

And  gaining,  by  what  they  call  «  hook  and  crook," 
And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 

A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 
Upon  them  with  as  favourable  eyes 
As  GABRIEL  on  the  devil  in  Paradise. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.    View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is 
placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farm-house  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honour  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 
Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny ; 

Men  who  sway'd  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 
And  look'd  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye ; 

Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history. 

Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathay  an  vales, 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  BOCCACCIO'S  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno — yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow — and,  in  the  autumn  time, 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon, — the  mist  that 
shrouds 

Her  twilight  hills, — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 
The  glorious  splendour  of  her  sunset  clouds, 

The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 
Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 

Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 
And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 
The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power; 
The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove; 

The  mother,  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower; 
Forms,  features,  worshipp'd  while  we  breathe  or 
move, 

Be,  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour, 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake ;  you  '11  find 
them  there. 


212 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

HOME  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "  flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 


A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew,  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katharine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruin'd  pile  : 

Does  not  the  succouring  ivy,  keeping 

Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 
As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 

One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch  ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  Templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damp'd  with  his  dying 

breath, 

When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  talcs,  if  there  be  « tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here ; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 

I  wander'd  through  the  lofty  halls 
Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 


And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dash'd 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup ; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flash'd, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone ; 
And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town, 
And  this,  alas !  its  market  day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way ; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 
From  Wooler,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  Round  Table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy : 
'Tis  what  "our  President."  Monroe, 

Has  call'd  "  the  era  of  good  feeling :" 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  oft'  cattle-stealing ; 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings: 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-day  the  turban'd  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar  stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die : 
And  not  a  sabre  blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 
In  the  arm'd  pomp  of  feudal  state  1 

The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "  gentle  Kate," 

Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men, 

In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn ; 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 


213 


A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,"and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy  ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bow'd  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


MAGDALEN. 

A  swoHT),  whose  blade  has  ne'er  been  wet 

With  blood,  except  of  freedom's  foes; 
That  hope  which,  though  its  sun  be  set, 

Still  with  a  starlight  beauty  glows ; 
A  heart  that  worshipp'd  in  Romance 

The  Spirit  of  the  buried  Time, 
And^dreams  of  knight,  and  steed,  and  lance, 

And  ladye-love,  and  minstrel-rhyme ; 
These  had  been,  and  I  deemed  would  be 
My  joy,  whate'er  my  destiny. 

Bom  in  a  camp,  its  watch-fires  bright 

Alone  illumed  my  cradle-bed  ; 
And  I  had  borne  with  wild  delight 

My  banner  where  Bolivar  led, 
Ere  manhood's  hue  was  on  my  cheek, 

Or  manhood's  pride  was  on  my  brow. 
Its  folds  are  furl'd — the  war-bird's  beak 

Is  thirsty  on  the  Andes  now ; 
I  long'd,  like  her,  for  other  skies 
Clouded  by  Glory's  sacrifice. 

In  Greece,  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land, 

Its  soldier-song  the  bugle  sings; 
And  I  had  buckled  on  my  brand, 

And  waited  but  the  sea  wind's  wings, 
To  bear  me  where,  or  lost  or  won 

Her  battle,  in  its  frown  or  smile, 
Men  live  with  those  of  Marathon, 

Or  die  with  those  of  Scio's  isle ; 
And  find  in  Valour's  tent  or  tomb, 
In  life  or  death,  a  glorious  home. 

I  could  have  left  but  yesterday 

The  scene  of  my  boy-years  behind, 
And  floated  on  my  careless  way 

Wherever  will'd  the  breathing  wind. 
I  could  have  bade  adieu  to  aught 

I've  sought,  or  met,  or  welcomed  here, 
Without  an  hour  of  shaded  thought, 

A  sigh,  a  murmur,  or  a  tear. 
Such  was  I  yesterday — but  then 
I  had  not  known  thee,  Magdalen. 

To-day  there  is  a  change  within  me, 

There  is  a  weight  upon  my  brow, 
And  Fame^whose  whispers  once  could  win  me 

From  all  I  lovedj  is  powerless  now. 
There  ever  is  a  form,  a  face 

Of  maiden  beauty  in  my  dreams, 
Speeding  before  me,  like  the  race 

To  ocean  of  the  mountain  streams — 
With  dancing  hair,  and  laughing  eyes, 
That  seem  to  mock  me  as  it  flies. 

My  sword — it  slumbers  in  its  sheath ; 
My  hopes — their  starry  light  is  gone ; 


My  heart — the  fabled  clock  of  death, 

Beats  with  the  same  low,  lingering  tone : 

And  thi^,  the  land  of  Magdalen, 
Seems  now  the  only  spot  on  earth 

Where  skies  are  blue  and  flowers  are  green ; 
And  here  I'd  build  my  household  hearth, 

And  breathe  my  song  of  joy,  and  twine 

A  lovely  being's  name  with  mine. 

In  vain !  in  vain !  the  sail  is  spread ; 

To  sea !  to  sea !  my  task  is  there ; 
But  when  among  the  unmourned  dead 

They  lay  me,  and  the  ocean  air 
Brings  tidings  of  my  day  of  doom, 

Mayst  thou  be  then,  as  now  thou  art, 
The  load-star  of  a  happy  home ; 

In  smile  and  voice,  in  eye  and  heart 
The  same  as  thou  hast  ever  been, 
The  loved,  the  lovely  Magdalen. 


TWILIGHT. 

THEHE  is  an  evening  twilight  of  me  heart, 

When  its  wild  passion-waves  are  lull'd  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 

As  fades  the  day-beam  in  the  rosy  west. 
'Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 

But  hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  then"  early 
power. 

In  youth  the  cheek  was  crimson'd  with  her  glow ; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then ;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  wo 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 
Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born  ; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die, 
Flush'd  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mock'd  the  passing  clouds  thatdimm'd  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then — as  fleeting  and  as  few. 

And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too — on  the  eye, 

Half  realized,  her  early  dreams  burst  bright, 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seem'd  nigh, 

Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight ; 
And  though  at  times  might  lower  the  thunder-storm, 

And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 
Was  balmy  with  her  breath,  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 
'Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen,    [green. 
Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress, 

There's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her 
That  angel-smile  of  tranquil  loveliness,  [now ; 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 
That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening  star 

That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 
Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar, 

And  hush'd  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart ; 
The  meteor  bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 
A  moonbeam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 


214 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS.* 

AT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power: 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring : 
Then  press'd  that  monarch's  throne — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden-bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

BOZZARIS  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platea's  day ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  «ires  who  conquer'd  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  pass'd  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last; 
He  awoke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"To  arms !  they  come !  the  Greek !  the  Greek !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

BOZZARIS  cheer  his  band: 
"  Strike — till  the  last  arm'd  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

GOB — and  your  native  land !" 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquer'd — but  BOZZARIS  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  firstborn's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 

*He  fell  in  an  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi, 
the  site  of  the  ancient  Platjea,  August  20, 1S23,  and  expired 
in  the  moment  of  victory.  His  last  words  were:  "To 
die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  not  a  pain." 


Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean-storm, 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm. 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine; 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light  » 

To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  pnson'd  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

BOZZATIIS!  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb: 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells : 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears: 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  bora  to  die. 


JOHN   G.   C.  BRAINARD. 


[Born,  1796,    Died,  1828.] 


DURING  the  present  century  many  persons  in 
this  country,  whose  early  productions  gave  promise 
of  brilliant  achievements  in  maturity,  have  died 
young.  It  has  been  said  that  the  history  of 
American  genius  might  be  written  in  a  series  of 
obituaries  of  youthful  authors.  Were  DRAKE, 
SANDS,  GRIFFIN,  ROCKWELL,  WILCOX,  PINK- 
NET,  CLARKE,  the  DAVIDSONS,  and  BRAINARD 
now  alive,  there  would  be  no  scarcity  of  American 
writers,  nor  would  any  of  them  have  passed  the 
ordinary  meridian  of  existence.  What  they  have 
left  us  must  be  regarded  as  the  first-fruits  of  minds 
whose  full  powers  were  to  the  last  undeveloped, 
and  which  were  never  tasked  to  their  full  capacity. 

JOHN  GARDNER  CALKINS  BHAINARD  was  a  son 
of  the  Honourable  J.  G.  BRAINARD,  one  of  the 
Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Connecticut. 
He  was  born  at  New  London,  in  that  State,  on 
the  twenty-first  day  of  October,  1796.  After 
finishing  his  preparatory  studies,  which  were  pur- 
sued under  the  direction  of  an  elder  brother,  he 
entered  Yale  College,  in  1811,  being  then  in  the 
fifteenth  year  of  his  age.  At  this  immature  pe- 
riod, before  the  mind  is  fully  awake  to  the  nature 
and  importance  of  moral  and  intellectual  discipline, 
severe  application  to  study  is  unusual.  BRAIN- 
ARD'S  books  were  neglected  for  communion  with 
his  own  thoughts  and  "  thick-coming  fancies,"  or 
for  the  society  of  his  fellows.  His  college  career 
was  marked  by  nothing  peculiar :  he  was  distin- 
guished for  the  fine  powers  he  evinced  whenever 
he  chose  to  exert  them,  for  the  uniform  modesty 
of  his  deportment,  the  kindness  which  character- 
ized his  intercourse  with  those  about  him,  and  a 
remarkable  degree  of  sensitiveness,  which  caused 
him  to  shrink  from  every  harsh  collision,  and  to 
court  retirement.  On  leaving  college,  in  1815,  he 
commenced  the  study  of  law,  in  his  native  place, 
and  on  his  admission  to  the  bar,  he  removed  to 
the  city  of  Middletown,  intending  to  practise  there 
his  profession.  His  success  was  less  than  he  an- 
ticipated ;  perhaps  because  of  his  too  great  mo- 
desty— an  unfortunate  quality  in  lawyers — or,  it 
may  ba,  in  consequence  of  his  indolence  and 
convivial  propensities.  One  of  his  biographers  re- 
marks that  his  friends  were  always  welcome,  save 
when  they  came  as  clients. 

Wearied  with  the  vexations  and  dry  formalities 
of  his  profession,  he  relinquished  it  in  the  winter 
of  1822,  to  undertake  the  editorship  of  the  Con- 
necticut Mirror,  a  weekly  political  and  literary 
gazette,  published  in  Hartford.  But  here  he  found 
as  little  to  please  him  as  in  the  business  he  had 
deserted.  He  was  too  indolent  to  prepare  every 
week  articles  of  a  serious,  argumentative  charac- 
ter, and  gave  in  their  place,  graceful  or  humorous 
paragraphs,  and  the  occasional  pieces  of  verse  on 
which  rests  his  reputation  as  a  poet.  These,  nt 
the  time,  were  republished  in  many  periodicals, 


and  much  praised.  In  the  departments  of  poetry 
and  criticism,  the  Mirror  acquired  a  high  reputa- 
tion ;  but  in  others,  while  under  his  direction,  it 
hardly  rose  to  mediocrity.* 

His  first  volume  of  poetry ,j-  containing  his  con- 
tributions to  the  Mirror,  and  some  other  pieces, 
was  published  early  in  1825.  It  was  favourably 
received  by  the  public,  and  its  success  induced  his 
friends  to  urge  him  to  undertake  the  composition 
of  a  larger  and  more  important  work  than  he  had 
yet  attempted.  His  constitutional  lassitude  and 
aversion  to  high  and  continued  effort  deterred  him 
from  beginning  the  task,  until  1827,  when  his 
health  began  to  wane,  and  it  was  no  longer  in  his 
power.  He  then  relinquished  the  editorship  of 
the  Mirror,  and  sought  for  restoring  quiet,  and  the 
gentle  ministrations  of  affection,  the  home  of  his 
childhood.  His  illness  soon  assumed  the  charac- 
ter of  consumption,  and  he  saw  that  he  had  but  a 
brief  time  to  live.  A  few  weeks  were  passed  on 
the  eastern  shore  of  Long  Island,  in  the  hope  of 
deriving  benefit  from  a  change  of  air ;  but  nothing 
could  arrest  the  progress  of  the  fatal  malady ;  and 

he  returned  to  New  London,  to  prepare  for  the 

• 

*  The  editor  of  the  last  edition  of  his  works,  of  which 
I  have  received  a  copy  since  the  above  was  written,  and 
while  this  volume  is  passing  through  the  press,  speaks 
as  follows  of  his  editorial  career  : — "  We  are  assured  by 
competent  testimony,  that  laboured  and  able  political  arti- 
cles were  withheld  from  publication,  owing  to  causes  over 
which  he  had  little  control.  It  is  riot,  perhaps,  necessary 
to  detail  the  fact?,  but  they  certainly  go  far  to  exculpate 
him  from  the  charge  of  levity,  or  weakness,  in  conduct- 
ing the  editorial  department  of  his  paper.  Prudential 
considerations  were  suffered  to  have  sway,  at  the  expense 
of  his  reputation  for  political  tact  and  foresight.  The 
only  substitutes  for  the  articles  referred  to,  were  such 
brief  and  tame  pieces  ns  he  could  prepare,  after  the  best 
nnd  almost  only  hours  for  composition  had  passed  by. 
This  circumstance,  together  with  the  consciousness  that 
the  paper  was  ill  sustained  in  respect  to  its  patronage,  was 
sufficiently  discouraging  to  a  person  whose  sensibilities 
were  as  acute  as  those  of  BRAINARD.  It  accounts, 
also,  for  the  frequent  turns  of  mental  depression  which 
marked  his  latter  years,— heightened,  indeed,  by  that 
frequent  and  mortifying  concomitant  of  genius, — slen- 
der pecuniary  means." 

t  The  volume  was  introduced  by  the  following  charac- 
teristic address  to  the  reader  :— "The  author  of  the  fol- 
lowing pieces  has  been  induced  to  publish  them  in  a 
book,  from  considerations  which  cannot  he  interesting  to 
the  public.  Many  of  these  little  poems  have  been  printed 
in  the  Connecticut  Mirror ;  and  others  are  just  fit  to  keep 
them  company.  No  apologies  are  made,  and  no  criti- 
cisms deprecated.  The  commonplace  story  of  the  impor- 
tunities of  friends,  though  it  had  its  share  in  the  publica- 
tion, is  not  insisted  upon  ;  but  the  vanity  of  the  author, 
if  others  choose  to  call  it  such,  is  a  natural  motive,  and 
the  hope  of '  making  a  little  something  by  it,'  is  an  honest 
acknowledgment,  if  it  is  a  poor  excuse."  The  motto  of 
the  title-page  was  as  quaint :  — 

"  Some  said,  '  John,  print  it ;'  others  said  '  \c.t  so  ;' 

Some  said  '  It  might  do  good ;'  others  said,  '  Xo.'  " 

Bunyau's  Apology. 


216 


JOHN   G.   C.   BRAINARD. 


spiritual  life  upon  which  he  was  about  to  enter. 
He  had  always  regarded  with  reverence  the  Chris- 
tian character  and  profession,  and  he  was  now 
united  to  the  visible  church,*  and  received  the 
holiest  of  the  sacraments.  He  lingered  until  the 
twenty -sixth  of  September,  1828,  when  he  passed 
peacefully  to  the  rest  of  those  who  "  know  that 
their  Redeemer  lives." 

The  pathway  of  BRATXART»  was  aside  from  the 
walks  of  ambition,  and  the  haunts  of  worldliness. 
He  lived  within  himself,  holding  communion  with 
his  own  thoughts,  and  suffering  from  deep  and 
lasting  melancholy.  Like  WILCOX,  it  is  said,  he 
had  met  with  one  of  those  disappointments  in  early 
life,  which  so  frequently  impress  the  soul  with 
sadness ;  and  though  there  was  sometimes  gayety 
in  his  manner  and  conversation,  it  was  generally 
assumed,  to  conceal  painful  musings  or  to  beguile 
sorrow. 

His  person  was  small,  and  well  formed ;  his 
countenance  mild,  and  indicative  of  the  kindness 
and  gentleness  of  his  nature ;  and  in  his  eyes 
there  was  a  look  of  dreamy  listlessness  and  ten- 
derness. He  was  fond  of  society,  and  his  pleasing 


conversation  and  amiable  character  won  for  him 
many  ardent  friends.  He  was  peculiarly  sensitive  ; 
and  Mr.  WIIITTIER,*  in  a  sketch  of  his  life,  re- 
marks that  in  his  gayest  moments  a  coldly-spoken 
word,  or  casual  inattention,  would  check  at  once 
the  free  flow  of  his  thoughts,  cause  the  jest  to  die 
on  his  lips,  and  "  the  melancholy  which  had  been 
lifted  from  his  heart,  to  fall  again  with  increased 
heaviness." 

BRAINARD  lacked  the  mental  discipline  and 
strong  self-command  which  alone  confer  true 
power.  He  never  could  have  produced  a  great 
work.  His  poems  were  nearly  all  written  during 
the  six  years  in  which  he  edited  the  Mirror,  and 
they  bear  marks  of  haste  and  carelessness,  though 
some  of  them  are  very  beautiful.  He  failed  only  in 
his  humorous  pieces  ;  in  all  the  rest  his  language  is 
appropriate  and  pure,  his  diction  free  and  harmo- 
nious, and  his  sentiments  natural  and  sincere. 
His  serious  poems  are  characterized  by  deep 
feeling  and  delicate  fancy ;  and  if  we  had  no  re- 
cords of  his  history,  they  would  show  us  that  he 
was  a  man  of  great  gentleness,  simplicity,  and 
purity. 


JERUSALEM.t 

FOUR  lamps  were  burning  o'er  two  mighty  graves — 
GODFREYS  and  BALDWIN'S^ — Salem's  Chris- 
tian kings ; 

And  holy  light  glanced  from  Helena's  naves, 
Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  pilgrim  brings, — 

*  On  this  occasion,  says  the  Reverend  Mr.  M'EwEN,  as 
he  was  too  feeble  to  go  to  the  church  and  remain  through 
the  customary  services,  he  arrived  at  and  entered  the 
sanctuary  when  these  were  nearly  or  quite  through. 
Every  one  present  (literally,  almost)  knew  him,— the 
occasion  of  his  coming  was  understood, — and  when  he 
appeared,  pale,  feehle,  emaciated,  and  trembling  in  con- 
sequence of  his  extreme  debility,  the  sensation  it  pro- 
duced was  at  once  apparent  throughout  the  whole  assem- 
bly. There  seemed  to  be  an  instinctive  homage  paid  to 
the  grace  of  GOD  in  him  ;  or,  perhaps,  the  fact  shows 
how  readily  a  refined  Christian  community  sympathizes 
with  genius  and  virtue  destined  to  an  early  tomb. 

tThe  following  intelligence  from  Constantinople  was 
of  the  eleventh  October,  1824:  "A  severe  earthquake  is 
said  to  have  taken  place  at  Jerusalem,  which  has  destroy- 
ed great  part  of  that  city,  shaken  down  the  Mosque  of 
Omar,  and  reduced  the  Holy  Sepulchre  to  ruins  from  top 
to  bottom  " 

J  GODFREY  and  BALDWIN  were  the  first  Christian  kings 
at  Jerusalem.  The  Empress  HELENA,  mother  of  CON- 
STAXTIXE  the  Great,  built  the  church  of  the  sepulchre  on 
Mount  Calvary.  The  walls  are  of  stone  and  the  roof  of 
cedar.  The  four  lamps  which  lit  it,  are  very  costly.  It  is 
kept  in  repair  by  the  offerings  of  pilgrims  who  resort  to 
it.  The  mosque  was  originally  a  Jewish  temple.  The 
Emperor  JULIAN  undertook  to  rebuild  the  temple  of  Jeru- 
salem ;it  a  very  <rr<>;it  expense,  to  disprove  the.  prophecy 
of  our  Saviour,  as  it  was  understood  by  the  Jews;  but 
the  work  and  the  workmen  were  destroyed  by  an  earth- 
quake. The  pools  of  De.ihi'sda  and  Gilion — the  tomb  of 
the  Virsin  MARV,  mid  of  Kins  JEIIOSAPHAT — the  pillar 
of  ABSALOM— tin?  tomb  of  /ACHARIAH— and  the  campo 
sn-nto,  or  holy  field,  which  is  supposed  to  have  been  pur- 
chased with  the  price  of  JUDAS'S  treason,  are,  or  were 
lately,  the  most  interesting  pans  of  Jeiusalem. 


While  through  the  panelFd  roof  the  cedar  flings 
Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir,  and  roof,  and  dome, 

And  every  porphyry-pillar'd  cloister  rings 
To  every  kneeler  there  its  "  welcome  home," 
As  every  lip  breathes  out,  «  0  LORD,  thy  kingdom 
come." 

A  mosque  was  garnish'd  with  its  crescent,  moons, 

And  a  clear  voice  call'd  Mussulmans  to  prayer. 
There  were  the  splendours  of  Judea's  thrones — 

There  were  the  trophies  which  its  conquerors 
wear — 

All  but  the  truth,  the  holy  truth,  was  there : — 
For  there,  with  lip  profane,  the  crier  stood, 

And  him  from  the  tall  minaret  you  might  hear, 
Singing  to  all  whose  steps  had  thither  trod, 
That  verse  misunderstood,  "  There  is  no  GOD  but 
GOD." 

Hark  !  did  the  pilgrim  tremble  as  he  kneel'd  ? 

And  did  the  turban 'd  Turk  his  sins  confess  ? 
Those  mighty  hands  the  elements  that  wield, 

That  mighty  Power  that  knows  to  curse  or  bless, 

Is  over  all ;  and  in  whatever  dress 
His  suppliants  crowd  around  him,  He  can  see 

Their  heart,  in  city  or  in  wilderness, 
And  probe  its  core,  and  make  its  blindness  flee, 
Owning  Him  very  Gon,  the  only  Deity. 

There  was  an  earthquake  once  that  rent  thy  fane, 
Proud  JUIIAN  ;  when  (against  the  prophecy 

Of  Him  who  lived,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 
"  That  one  stone  on  another  should  not  lie") 
Thou  wouldst  rebuild  that  Jewish  masonry 

To  moc-k  the  eternal  Word. — The  earth  below 
Gush'd  out  in  fire ;  and  from  the  brazen  sky, 

*  JOHN  G.  WHITTIEH  was  one  of  HRAIXARD'S  inti- 
mate friends,  and,  soon  after  his  death,  he  wrote  an  in- 
teresting account  of  his  life,  which  was  prefixed  to  an 
edition  of  bis  poems,  printed  in  1832. 


JOHN   G.  C.   BRAINARD. 


217 


And  from  the  boiling  seas  such  wrath  did  flow, 
As  saw  not  Shinar's  plain,  nor  Babel's  overthrow. 

Another  earthquake  comes.    Dome,  roof,  and  wall 
Tremble ;  and  headlong  to  the  grassy  bank, 

And  in  the  muddied  stream  the  fragments  fall, 
While  the  rent  chasm  spread  its  jaws,  and  drank 
At  one  huge  draught,  the  sediment,  which  sank 

In  Salem's  drained  goblet.     Mighty  Power! 
Thou  whom  we  all  should  worship,  praise,  and 
thank, 

Where  was  thy  mercy  in  that  awful  hour, 

When  hell  moved  from  beneath,  and  thine  own 
heaven  did  lower! 

Say,  Pilate's  palaces — proud  Herod's  towers — 

Say,  gate  of  Bethlehem,  did  your  arches  quake? 
Thy  pool,  Bethesda,  was  it  fill'd  with  showers  7 

Calm  Gihon,  did  the  jar  thy  waters  wake  ? 

Tomb  of  thee,  MART — Virgin — did  it  shake '! 
Glow'd  thy  bought  field,  Aceldama,  with  blood  ? 

Where  were  the  shudderings  Calvary  might 
Did  sainted  Mount  Moriah  send  a  flood,  [make  ? 
To  wash  away  the  spot  where  once  a  GOD  had  stood  1 

Lost  Salem  of  the  Jews — great  sepulchre 
Of  all  profane  and  of  all  holy  things — 

Where  Jew,  and  Turk,  and  Gentile  yet  concur 
To  make  thee  what  thou  art !  thy  history  brings 
Thoughts  mix'd  of  joy  and  wo.     The  whole 
earth  rings 

With  the  sad  truth  which  He  has  prophesied, 
Who  would  have  shelter'd  with  his  holy  wings 

Thee  and  thy  children.     You  his  power  defied : 

You  scourged  him  while  he  lived,  and  mock'd  him 
as  he  died ! 

There  is  a  star  in  the  untroubled  sky,       [made — 

That  caught  the  first  light  which  its  Maker 
It  led  the  hymn  of  other  orbs  on  high ; — 

'T  will  shine  when  all  the  fires  of  heaven  shall 
fade. 

Pilgrims  at  Salem's  porch,  be  that  your  aid ! 
For  it  has  kept  its  watch  on  Palestine ! 

Look  to  its  holy  light,  nor  be  dismay 'd, 
Thouirh  broken  is  each  consecrated  shrine, 
Though  crush'd  and  ruin'd  all — which  men  have 
call'd  divine. 


OX  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

FROM  that  lone  lake,  the  sweetest  of  the  chain 
That  links  the  mountain  to  the  mighty  main, 
Fresh  from  the  rock  and  swelling  by  the  tree, 
Rushing  to  meet,  and  dare,  and  breast  the  sea — 
Fair,  noble,  glornus  river!  in  thy  wave 
The  sunniest  slopes  and  swootest  pastures  lave ; 
The  mountain  torrent,  with  its  wintry  roar, 
S prin 'TS  from  its  home  and  leaps  upon  thy  shore: — 
The  promontories  love  thee — and  for  this 
Turn  their  rough  cheeks  and  stay  thee  for  thy  kiss. 
Stern,  at    thy  source,  thy  northern  guardians 
Ru'le  rulers  of  the  solitary  land,  [stand, 

Wild  dwellers  by  thy  cold,  scquester'd  springs, 
Of  earth  the  feathers  and  of  air  the  wings ; 
28 


Their  blasts  have  rock'd  thy  cradle,  and  in  storm 
Cover'd  thy  couch  and  swathed  in  snow  thy  form — 
Yet,  bless'd  by  all  the  elements  that  sweep 
The  clouds  above,  or  the  unfathom'd  deep, 
The  purest  breezes  scent  thy  blooming  hills, 
The  gentlest  dews  drop  on  thy  eddying  rills, 
By  the  moss'd  bank,  and  by  the  aged  tree, 
The  silver  streamlet  smoothest  glides  to  thee. 

The  young  oak  greets  thee  at  the  water's  edge, 
Wet  by  the  wave,  though  anchor'd  in  the  ledge. 
— 'T  is  there  the  otter  dives,  the  beaver  feeds, 
Where  pensive  osiers  dip  their  willowy  weeds, 
And  there  the  wild-cat  purs  amid  her  brood, 
And  trains  them  in  the  sylvan  solitude, 
To  watch  the  squirrel's  leap,  or  mark  the  mink 
Paddling  the  water  by  the  quiet  brink ; — 
Or  to  out-gaze  the  gray  owl  in  the  dark, 
Or  hear  the  young  fox  practising  to  bark. 

Dark  as  the  frost-nipp'd  leaves  that  strew'd  the 

ground, 

The  Indian  hunter  here  his  shelter  found ; 
Here  cut  his  bow  and  shaped  his  arrows  true, 
Here  built  his  wigwam  and  his  bark  canoe, 
Spear'd  the  quick  salmon  leaping  up  the  fall, 
And  slew  the  deer  without  the  rifle-ball ;  [choose, 
Here  his  young  squaw  her  cradling  tree  would 
Singing  her  chant  to  hush  her  swart  pappoose  ; 
Here  stain  her  quills  and  string  her  trinkets  rude, 
And  weave  her  warrior's  wampum  in  the  wood. 
— No  more  shall  they  thy  welcome  waters  bless, 
No  more  their  forms  thy  moon-lit  banks  shall  press, 
No  more  be  heard,  from  mountain  or  from  grove, 
His  whoop  of  slaughter,  or  her  song  jf  love. 

Thou  didst  not  shake,  thou  didst  not  shrink 

when,  late, 

The  mountain-top  shut  down  its  ponderous  gate, 
Tumbling  its  tree-grown  ruins  to  thy  side, 
An  avalanche  of  acres  at  a  slide. 
Nor  dost  thou  say,  when  winter's  coldest  breath 
Howls  through  the  woods  and  sweeps  along  the 

heath — 

One  mighty  sigh  relieves  thy  icy  breast, 
And  wakes  thee  from  the  calmness  of  thy  rest. 

Down  sweeps  the  torrent  ice — it  may  not  stay 
By  rock  or  bridge,  in  narrow  or  in  bay — 
Swift,  swifter  to  the  heaving  sea  it  goes, 
And  leaves  thee  dimpling  in  thy  sweet  repose. 
— Yet  as  the  unharm'd  swallow  skims  his  way, 
And  lightly  drops  his  pinions  in  thy  spray, 
So  the  swift  sail  shall  seek  thy  inland  seas, 
And  swell  and  whiten  in  thy  purer  breeze, 
New  paddles  dip  thy  waters,  and  strange  oars 
Feather  thy  waves  and  touch  thy  noble  shores. 

Thy  noble  shores !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines, 
At  mid-day,  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines ; 
Where  the  white  school-house  with  its  daily  drill 
Of  sunburn'd  children,  smiles  upon  the  hill ; 
Where  the  neat  village  grows  upon  the  eye, 
Deck'd  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity — 
Where  hard-won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit,  honour,  and  gives  labour  health ; 
Where  GOLDSMITH'S  self  might  send  his  exiled  band 
To  find  a  new  "  Sweet  Auburn"  in  our  land. 

What  Art  can  execute,  or  Taste  devise, 
Decks  thy  fair  course  and  gladdens  in  thine  eyes — 
T 


218 


JOHN  G.   C.  BRAINARD. 


As  broader  sweep  the  bendings  of  thy  stream, 
To  meet  the  southern  sun's  more  constant  beam. 
Here  cities  rise,  and  sea-wash'd  commerce  hails 
Thy  shores  and  winds  with  all  her  flapping  sails, 
From  tropic  isles,  or  from  the  torrid  main — 
Where  grows  the  grape,or  sprouts  the  sugar-cane — 
Or  from  the  haunts  where  the  striped  haddock  play, 
By  each  cold,  northern  bank  and  frozen  bay. 
Here,  safe  return'd  from  every  stormy  sea, 
Waves  the  striped  flag,  the  mantle  of  the  free, 
— That  star-lit  flag,  by  all  the  breezes  curl'd 
Of  yon  vast  deep  whose  waters  grasp  the  world. 

In  what  Arcadian,  what  Utopian  ground 
Are  warmer  hearts  or  manlier  feelings  found, 
More  hospitable  welcome,  or  more  zeal 
To  make  the  curious  "  tarrying"  stranger  feel 
That,  next  to  home,  here  best  may  he  abide, 
To  rest  and  cheer  him  by  the  chimney-side ; 
Drink  the  hale  farmer's  cider,  as  he  hears 
From  the  gray  dame  the  tales  of  other  years. 
Cracking  his  shag-barks,  as  the  aged  crone 
— Mixing  the  true  and  doubtful  into  one — 
Tells  how  the  Indian  scalp'd  the  helpless  child, 
And  bore  its  shrieking  mother  to  the  wild, 
Butcher'd  the  father  hastening  to  his  home, 
Seeking  his  cottage — finding  but  his  tomb. 
How  drums,  and  flags,  and  troops  were  seen  on  high, 
Wheeling  and  charging  in  the  northern  sky, 
And  that  she  knew  what  these  wild  tokens  meant, 
When  to  the  Old  French  War  her  husband  went. 
How,  by  the  thunder-blasted  tree,  was  hid 
The  golden  spoils  of  far-famed  ROBERT  KIDD  ; 
And  then  the  chubby  grandchild  wante  to  know 
About  the  ghosts  and  witches  long  ago, 
That  haunted  the  old  swamp. 

The  clock  strikes  ten — 
The  prayer  is  said,  nor  unforgotten  then 
The  stranger  in  their  gates.     A  decent  rule 
Of  elders  in  thy  puritanic  school.  [dream, 

When  the  fresh  morning  wakes  him  from  his 
And  daylight  smiles  on  rock,  and  slope,  and  stream, 
Are  there  not  glossy  curls  and  sunny  eyes, 
As  brightly  lit  and  bluer  than  thy  skies ; 
Voices  as  gentle  as  an  echo'd  call, 
And  sweeter  than  the  soften'd  waterfall 
That  smiles  and  dimples  in  its  whispering  spray, 
Leaping  in  sportive  innocence  away : — 
And  lovely  forms,  as  graceful  and  as  gay 
As  wild-brier,  budding  in  an  April  day  ! 
— How  like  the  leaves — the  fragrant  leaves  it  bears, 
Their  sinless  purposes  and  simple  cares. 

Stream  of  my  sleeping  fathers !  when  the  sound 
Of  coming  war  echoed  thy  hills  around, 
How  did  thy  sons  start  forth  from  every  glade, 
Snatching  the  musket  where  they  left  the  spade. 
How  did  their  mothers  urge  them  to  the  fight, 
Their  sisters  tell  them  to  defend  the  right ; — 
How  bravely  did  they  stand,  how  nobly  fall, 
The  earth  their  coffin  and  the  turf  their  pall; 
How  did  the  aged  pastor  light  his  eye, 
When,  to  his  flock,  he  read  the  purpose  high 
And  stern  resolve,  whate'er  the  toil  may  be, 
To  pledge  life,  name,  fame,  all — for  liberty. 
— Cold  is  the  hand  that  penn'd  that  glorious  page — 
Still  in  the  grave  the  body  of  that  sage 


Whose  lip  of  eloquence  and  heart  of  zeal 
Made  patriots  act  and  listening  statesmen  feel — 
Brought  thy  green  mountains  down  upon  their  foes, 
And  thy  white  summits  melted  of  their  snows, 
While  every  vale  to  which  his  voice  could  come, 
Rang  with  the  fife  and  echoed  to  the  drum. 

Bold  river !  better  suited  are  thy  waves 
To  nurse  the  laurels  clustering  round  thy  graves, 
Than  many  a  distant  stream,  that  soaks  the  mud 
Where  thy  brave  sons  have  shed  their  gallant  blood, 
And  felt,  beyond  all  other  mortal  pain, 
They  ne'er  should  see  their  happy  home  again. 

Thou  hadst  a  poet  once, — and  he  could  tell, 
Most  tunefully,  whate'er  to  thee  befell ; 
Could  fill  each  pastoral  reed  upon  thy  shore — 
But  we  shall  hear  his  classic  lays  no  more ! 
He  loved  thee,  but  he  took  his  aged  way, 
By  Erie's  shore,  and  PERRY'S  glorious  day, 
To  where  Detroit  looks  out  amidst  the  wood, 
Remote  beside  the  dreary  solitude. 

Yet  for  his  brow  thy  ivy  leaf  shall  spread, 
Thy  freshest  myrtle  lift  its  berried  head, 
And  our  gnarl'd  charter-oak  put  forth  a  bough, 
Whose  leaves  shall  grace  thy  TBUM  BULL'S  ho- 
nour'd  brow. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  WOODWARD, 
AT  EDINBURGH. 

"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 

Is  cord — is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 

On  earthly  bliss ;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

ANOTHER  !  'tis  a  sad  word  to  the  heart, 
That  one  by  one  has  lost  its  hold  on  life, 

From  all  it  loved  or  valued,  forced  to  part 
In  detail.     Feeling  dies  not  by  the  knife 
That  cuts  at  once  and  kills — its  tortured  strife 

Is  with  distill'd  affliction,  drop  by  drop 
Oozing  its  bitterness.     Our  world  is  rife 

With  grief  and  sorrow !  all  that  we  would  prop, 

Or  would  be  propp'd  with,  falls — when  shall  the 
ruin  stop  ? 

The  sea  has  one,*  and  Palestine  has  one, 

And  Scotland  has  the  last.     The  snooded  maid 

Shall  gaze  in  wonder  on  the  stranger's  stone, 
And  wipe  the  dust  off  with  her  tartan  plaid — 
And  from  the  lonely  tomb  where  thou  art  laid, 

Turn  to  some  other  monument — nor  know 

Whose  grave  she  passes,  or  whose  name  she, read : 

Whose  loved  and  honour'd  relics  lie  below; 

Whose  is  immortal  joy,  and  whose  is  mortal  wo. 

There  is  a  world  of  bliss  hereafter — else 
Why  are  the  bad  above,  the  good  beneath 

The  green  grass  of  the  grave  1  The  mower  fells 
Flowers  and  briers  alike.  But  man  shall  breathe 
(When  he  his  desolating  blade  shall  sheathe 

And  rest  him  from  his  work)  in  a  pure  sky, 
Above  the  smoke  of  burning  worlds ; — and  Death 

On  scorched  pinions  with  the  dead  shall  lie, 

When  time,  with  all  his  years  and  centuries  has 
pass'd  by. 

*  Professor  FISHER,  lost  in  the  "  Albion,"  and  Rev.  LEVI 
PARSONS,  missionary  to  Palestine,  who  died  at  Alexandria 


JOHN   G.   C.   BRAINARD.                                               219 

ON  A  LATE  LOSS.* 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 

That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 

"  He  shall  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept.** 

O  !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side  ! 

Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 

THE  breath  of  air  that  stirs  the  harp's  soft  string, 
Floats  on  to  join  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm  ; 
The  drops  of  dew  exhaled  from  flowers  of  spring, 

In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar  ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him 
Who  drown'd  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 

Rise  and  assume  the  tempest's  threatening  form  ; 
The  first  mild  beam  of  morning's  glorious  sun, 

Above  its  loftiest  mountains  1  —  a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 

Ere  night,  is  sporting  in  the  lightning's  flash  ; 

And  the  smooth  stream,  that  flows  in  quiet  on, 

* 

Moves  but  to  aid  the  overwhelming  dash 
That  wave  and  wind  can  muster,  when  the  might 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky  unite. 

WHO  shall  weep  when  the  righteous  die  ? 

So  science  whisper'd  in  thy  charmed  ear, 
And  radiant  learning  beckon'd  thee  away. 
The  breeze  was  music  to  thee,  and  the  clear 

Who  shall  mourn  when  the  good  depart  ? 
When  the  soul  of  the  godly  away  shall  fly, 
Who  shall  lay  the  loss  to  heart  1 

Beam  of  thy  morning  promised  a  bright  day. 
And  they  have  wreck'd  thee  !  —  But  there  is  a  shore 
Where    storms    are   hush'd  —  where   tempests 

He  has  gone  into  peace  —  he  has  laid  him  down, 
To  sleep  till  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  ; 
And  he  shall  wake  on  that  holy  morn, 

never  rage  ; 
Where  angry  skies  and  blackening  seas  no  more 

When  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 

With  gusty  strength  their  roaring  warfare  wage. 

But  ye  who  worship  in  sin  and  shame 

By  thee  its  peaceful  margent  shall  be  trod  — 

Your  idol  gods,  whate'er  they  be  : 

Thy  home  is  heaven,  and  thy  friend  is  GOD. 

Who  scoff,  in  your  pride,  at  your  Maker's  name, 

By  the  pebbly  stream  and  the  shady  tree,  — 

« 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams, 

SONNET  TO  THE  SEA-SERPENT. 

Bow  down  in  their  worship,  and  loudly  pray  ; 



Trust  in  your  strength,  and  believe  in  your  dreams, 

"  Hugest  that  swims  the  ocean  stream." 

But  the  wind  shall  carry  them  all  away. 

WKLTEU  upon  the  waters,  mighty  one  — 
And  stretch  thee  in  the  ocean's  trough  of  brine  ; 
Turn  thy  wet  scales  up  to  the  wind  and  sun, 
And  toss  the  billow  from  thy  flashing  fin  ; 

There  's  one  who  drank  at  a  purer  fountain, 
One  who  was  wash'd  in  a  purer  flood: 
He  shall  inherit  a  holier  mountain, 
He  shall  worship  a  holier  GOD. 

Heave  thy  deep  breathings  to  the  ocean's  din, 

But  the  sinner  shall  utterly  fail  and  die, 

And  bound  upon  its  ridges  in  thy  pride  : 

Whehn'd  in  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea  ; 

Or  dive  down  to  its  lowest  depths,  and  in 

And  GOD,  from  his  throne  of  light  on  high, 

The  caverns  where  its  unknown  monsters  hide, 
Measure  thy  length  beneath  the  gulf-stream's  tide— 

Shall  say,  there  is  no  peace  for  thee. 

Or  rest  thee  on  that  navel  of  the  sea 

«  

Where,  floating  on  the  Maelstrom,  abide 

EPITHALAMIUM. 

The  krakcns  sheltering  under  Norway's  lee  ; 

But  go  not  to  Nahant,  lest  men  should  swear 
You  are  a  great  deal  bigger  than  you  are. 

I  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning, 
Tinged  by  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one  ; 

THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 

I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  bless'd, 



It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

"Labitur  et  labetur." 



I  saw  two  summer  currents 

THE  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 

And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 

As  if  Gon  pour'd  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 

In  peace  each  other  greeting; 

And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front; 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  green, 

And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  secm'd  to  him 

While  dimpling  eddies  play'd  between. 

Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
'•  The  sound  of  many  waters  ;"  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 
Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  beat  ; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream> 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 

*  Professor  FISHEB,  lost  in  the  Albion,  off  the  coast  of 

A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease  — 

Kiiisale,  Ireland. 

A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 

220 


JOHN    G.   C.   BRAINARD. 


TO  THE  DEAD. 

How  many  now  are  dead  to  me 

That  live  to  others  yet ! 
How  many  are  alive  to  me 
Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
That  sickening,  sinking  look,  which  we 

Till  dead  can  ne'er  forget. 

Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Most  wretchedly  alone, 
One  died  in  prison,  far  away, 
Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day, 
And  never  hope  or  comfort's  ray 

In  his  lone  dungeon  shone. 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  me, 

Though  months  and  years  have  pass'd ; 
In  a  lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 
Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee, 
And  then  his  form  and  face  I  see, 

As  when  I  saw  him  last. 

And  one  with  a  bright  lip,  and  cheek, 

And  eye,  is  dead  to  me. 
How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek ! 
His  lip  was  cold — it  would  not  speak : 
His  heart  was  dead,  for  it  did  not  break: 

And  his  eye,  for  it  did  not  see. 

Then  for  the  living  be  the  tomb, 

And  for  the  dead  the  smile ; 
Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 
Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom, — 
Dim  is  such  glare :  but  bright  the  gloom 

Around  the  funeral  pile. 


THE   DEEP. 

THERE'S  beauty  in  the  deep: 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ; 
And,  though  the  lights  shine  bright  on  high, 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow, 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid  ; 
And  sun  and  moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 

There's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There 's  music  in  the  deep : — 
It  is  not  in  the  surf's  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore, — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea-nymph's  shell, 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Echoes  through  groves,  with  coral  gay, 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 

There's  music  in  the  deep. 

There 's  quiet  in  the  deep : — 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave ; 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend 
With  sin  and  sorrow,  to  the  end : 


Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home ; 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 
There 's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


MR.  MERRY'S  LAMENT  FOR 
TOM." 


'LONG 


"Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fiithoin  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore." 

THY  cruise  is  over  now, 

Thou  art  anchor'd  by  the  shore, 
And  never  more  shall  thou 

Hear  the  storm  around  thce  roar ; 
Death  has  shaken  out  the  sands  of  thy  glass. 
Now  around  thce  sports  the  whale, 
And  the  porpoise  snuffs  the  gale, 
And  the  night-winds  wake  their  wail, 
As  they  pass. 

The  sea-grass  round  thy  bier 

Shall  bend  beneath  the  tide, 
Nor  tell  the  breakers  near 

Where  thy  manly  limbs  abide ; 
But  the  granite  rock  thy  tombstone  shall  be. 
Though  the  edges  of  thy  grave 
Are  the  combings  of  the  wave — 
Yet  unheeded  they  shall  rave 
Over  thee. 

At  the  piping  of  all  hands, 

When  the  judgment  signal 's  spread — 
Wrhen  the  islands,  and  the  lands, 

And  the  seas  give  up  their  dead, 
And  the  south  and  the  north  shall  come ; 
When  the  sinner  is  dismay'd, 
And  the  just  man  is  afraid, 
Then  heaven  be  thy  aid, 
Poor  TOM. 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

WHAT  is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves? 
Have  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy" 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of1! — Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colours  hung 
Upon  the  forest  tops — he  had  not  sighed. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  hunter  now : 
,  The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright,  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves  1" 


JOHN    G.    C.    BRAINARD. 


221 


STANZAS. 

THE  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk, 

And  wither'd  are  the  pale  wild  flowers ; 
The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  spring's  green  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learn'd  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note, 

That  rose  and  swell'd  from  yonder  tree — 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perch'd,  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  ] 
Away — where  summer  wings  will  rove, 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there, 
The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair; 

No  forest  tree  stands  stripp'd  and  bare, 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead, 

No  mountain  top,  with  sleety  hair, 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there,  with  all  the  birds,  and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek, 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 

I'll  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 
And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone,— 

See — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Feel — that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone. 


THE  STORM  OF  WAR. 

0 !  ONCE  was  felt  the  storm  of  war! 

It  had  an  earthquake's  roar ; 
It  flash' d  upon  the  mountain  height, 

And  smoked  along  the  shore. 
It  thunder'd  in  a  dreaming  ear, 

And  up  the  farmer  sprang; 
It  mutter'd  in  a  bold,  true  heart, 

And  a  warrior's  harness  rang. 

It  rumbled  by  a  widow's  door, — 

All  but  her  hope  did  fail ; 
It  trembled  through  a  leafy  grove, 

And  a  maiden's  cheek  was  pale. 
It  steps  upon  the  sleeping  sea, 

And  waves  around  it  howl ; 
It  strides  from  top  to  foaming  top, 

Out-frowning  ocean's  scowl. 

And  yonder  sail'd  the  merchant  ship, 

There  was  peace  upon  her  deck ; 
Her  friendly  flag  from  the  mast  was  torn, 

And  the  waters  whelm'd  the  wreck. 
But  the  same  blast  that  bore  her  down 

Fill'd  a  gallant  daring  sail, 
That  loved  the  might  of  the  blackening  storm, 

And  laugh'd  in  the  roaring  gale. 


The  stream,  that  was  a  torrent  once, 

Is  rippled  to  a  brook, 
The  sword  is  broken,  and  the  spear 

Is  but  a  pruning-hook. 
The  mother  chides  her  truant  boy, 

And  keeps  him  well  from  harm; 
While  in  the  grove  the  happy  maid 

Hangs  on  her  lover's  arm. 

Another  breeze  is  on  the  sea, 

Another  wave  is  there, 
And  floats  abroad  triumphantly 

A  banner  bright  and  fair. 
And  peaceful  hands,  and  happy  hearts, 

And  gallant  spirits  keep 
Each  star  that  decks  it  pure  and  bright, 

Above  the  rolling  deep. 


THE  GUERILLA. 

THOUGH  friends  are  false,  and  leaders  fail, 

And  rulers  quake  with  fear; 
Though  tamed  the  shepherd  in  the  vale, 

Though  slain  the  mountaineer; 
Though  Spanish  beauty  fill  their  arms, 

And  Spanish  gold  their  purse — 
Sterner  than  wealth's  or  war's  alarms 

Is  the  wild  Guerilla's  curse. 

No  trumpets  range  us  to  the  fight : 

No  signal  sound  of  drum 
Tells  to  the  foe,  that,  in  their  might, 

The  hostile  squadrons  come. 
No  sunbeam  glitters  on  our  spears, 

No  warlike  tramp  of  steeds 
Gives  warning — for  the  first  that  hears 

Shall  be  the  first  that  bleeds. 

The  night-breeze  calls  us  from  our  bed, 

At  dew-fall  forms  the  line, 
And  darkness  gives  the  signal  dread 

That  makes  our  ranks  combine : 
Or  should  some  straggling  moonbeam  lie 

On  copse  or  lurking  hedge, 
'T  would  flash  but  from  a  Spaniard's  eye, 

Or  from  a  dagger's  edge. 

'T  is  clear  in  the  sweet  vale  below, 

And  misty  on  the  hill ; 
The  skies  shine  mildly  on  the  foe, 

But  lour  upon  us  still. 
This  gathering  storm  shall  quickly  burst, 

And  spread  its  terrors  far, 
And  at  its  front  we  '11  be  the  first, 

And  with  it  go  to  war. 

0 !  the  mountain  peak  shall  safe  remain — 

'Tis  the  vale  shall  be  despoil'd, 
And  the  tame  hamlets  of  the  plain 

With  ruin  shall  run  wild ; 
But  liberty  shall  breathe  our  air 

Upon  the  mountain  head, 
And  freedom's  breezes  wander  here, 

Here  all  their  fragrance  shed. 


222 


JOHN    G.    C.    BRAINARD. 


THE  SEA-BIRD'S  SONG. 

Ox  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  danger, 
On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  death, 
Who,  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a  stranger, 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  his  breath  1 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair, 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watches  their  course,  who  so  mildly 
Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  1 

Who  lists  to  their  shrieks,  who  so  wildly 
Are  clasp'd  in  the  arms  of  the  seas  I 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  &c. 

Who  hovers  on  high  o'er  the  lover, 
And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck  1 

Whose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover, 
With  its  shadow,  the  foundering  wreck  ? 
'T  is  the  sea-bird,  &c. 

My  eye  in  the  light  of  the  billow, 
My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave, 

I  shall  take  to  my  breast,  for  a  pillow, 
The  shroud  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 
I  'm  a  sea-bird,  &c. 

My  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  lighted, 

When  hoarse  the  wild  winds  veer  about , 
My  eye,  when  the  bark  is  benighted, 
Sees  the  lamp  of  the  light-house  go  out. 
I'm  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 


TO  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  FRIEND. 

I  PRAT  thee,  by  thy  mother's  face, 

And  by  her  look,  and  by  her  eye, 
By  every  decent  matron  grace 
That  hover'd  round  the  resting-place 

Where  thy  young  head  did  lie ; 
And  by  the  voice  that  soothed  thine  ear, 
The  hymn,  the  smile,  the  sigh,  the  tear, 

That  match'd  thy  changeful  mood ; 
By  every  prayer  thy  mother  taught, 
By  every  blessing  that  she  sought, 

I  pray  thee  to  be  good. 

Is  not  the  nestling,  when  it  wakes, 

Its  eye  upon  the  wood  around, 
And  on  its  new-fledged  pinions  takes 
Its  taste  of  leaves,  and  boughs,  and  brakes — 

Of  motion,  sight,  and  sound, — 
Is  it  not  like  the  parent  7     Then 
Be  like  thy  mother,  child,  and  when 

Thy  wing  is  bold  and  strong, — 
As  pure  and  steady  be  thy  light, 
As  high  and  heavenly  be  thy  flight,    * 

As  holy  be  thy  song. 


SALMON  RIVER.* 


Hie  viridis  tenera  prsetexit  arundine  ripas 
Mincius. — VIRGIL. 


'Tis  a  sweet  stream — and  so,  'tis  true,  are  all 
That,  undisturb'd,  save  by  the  harmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall, 

Pursue  their  way 

By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that  since  the  deluge  fix'd  has  stood, 
Showing  to  sun  and  moon  their  crisping  flood 

By  night  and  day. 

But  yet  there 's  something  in  its  humble  rank, 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 

With  unscared  look ; 

There 's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that's  superstitious — and  that  seems 
To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams, 

In  that  small  brook. 

Havoc  has  been  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 

And  blood  has  dropp'd  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain ; 

The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain — 

And  many  a  quiver, 

Fill'd  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 
Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  't  is  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 

From  Salmon  river. 

Here,  say  old  men,  the  Indian  magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight ;  or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  sequester'd  rock,  or  darkening  glade, 

Or  tangled  dell. 

Here  PHILIP  came,  and  MIANTOXIMO, 
And  ask'd  about  their  fortunes  long  ago, 
As  SAUL  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  SAMUEL. 

And  here  the  black  fox  roved,  that  howl'd  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  and  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox ; 

Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear, 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stripp'd  and  dress'd,  to  wear, 
Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 

Transfer  him  to  a  box. 

Such  are  the  tales  they  toll.     'T  is  hard  to  rhyme 
About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 
That  few  have  heard  of — but  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love ; 

And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-straw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river — which,  if  there  be  need, 

I'll  try  to  prove. 

*  This  river  enters  into  the  Connecticut  at  East  Haddam. 


SAMUEL    G.   GOODRICH. 


[Born,  1796.] 


SAMUEL  GIUSWOLD  GOODHICH  is  a  native  of 
Ridgefield,  on  the  western  border  of  Connecticut, 
and  was  born  about  the  year  1796.  His  father 
was  a  respectable  clergyman,  distinguished  for  his 
simplicity  of  character,  strong  common  sense,  and 
eloquence.  Our  author  was  educated  in  the  com- 
mon schools  of  his  native  town,  and  soon  after 
he  was  twenty-one  years  old,  engaged  in  the 
business  of  publishing,  in  Hartford,  where  he 
resided  for  several  years.  In  1824,  being  in  ill 
health,  he  visited  Europe,  and  travelled  over  Eng- 
land, France,  Germany,  and  Holland,  devoting 
his  attention  particularly  to  the  institutions  for 
education ;  and  on  his  return,  having  determined 
to  attempt  an  improvement  in  books  for  the  young, 
established  himself  in  Boston,  and  commenced 
the  trade  of  authorship.  Since  that  time  he  has 
produced  from  twenty  to  thirty  volumes,  under 
the  signature  of  "  Peter  Parley,"  which  have 
passed  through  a  great  number  of  editions  in  this 
country  and  in  England,  and  been  translated  into 
several  foreign  languages.  Of  some  of  these 
works  more  than  fifty  thousand  copies  are  circu- 
lated annually.  In  1824  Mr.  GOODRICH  com- 
menced "  The  Token,"  an  annuary,  of  which  he 
was  the  editor  for  fourteen  years.  In  this  series 


BIRTHNIGHT  OF  THE  HUMMING-BIRDS. 


I'LL  tell  you  a  fairy  tale  that's  new — 
How  the  merry  elves  o'er  the  ocean  flew, 
From  the  Emerald  isle  to  this  far-oif  shore, 
As  thev  were  wont  in  the  days  of  yore — 
And  play'd  their  pranks  one  moonlit  night, 
Where  the  zephyrs  alone  could  see  the  sight. 


Ere  the  old  world  yet  had  found  the  new, 
The  fairies  oft  in  their  frolics  flew, 
To  the  fragrant  isles  of  the  Carribee — 
Bright  bosom-gems  of  a  golden  sea. 
Too  dark  was  the  film  of  the  Indian's  eye, 
These  gossamer  sprites  to  suspect  or  spy, — 
So  they  danced  raid  the  spicy  groves  unseen, 
And  gay  were  their  gambolings,  I  ween ; 
For  the  fairies,  like  other  discreet  little  elves, 
Are  freest  and  fondest  when  all  by  themselves. 
No  thought  had  they  that  in  after  time 
The  muse  would  echo  their  deeds  in  rhyme ; 
So,  gayly  doffing  light  stocking  and  shoe, 
They  tripp'd  o'er  the  meadow  all  dappled  in  dew. 
I  could  tell,  if  I  would,  some  right  merry  tales 
Of  unslipper'd  fairies  that  danced  in  the  vales — 


he  published  most  of  the  poems  of  which  he  is 
known  to  be  the  author.  They  were  all  written 
while  he  was  actively  engaged  in  business.  His 
"  Fireside  Education"  was  composed  in  sixty 
days,  while  he  was  discharging  his  duties  as  a 
member  of  the  Massachusetts  Senate,  and  super- 
intending his  publishing  establishment;  and  his 
numerous  other  prose  works  were  produced  with 
equal  rapidity.  In  1837  he  published  a  volume 
entitled  "  The  Outcast,  and  other  Poems,"  most 
of  the  contents  of  which  had  previously  been 
printed;  and,  in  1841,  "Sketches  from  a  Stu- 
dent's Window,"  a  collection  of  poems  and  prose 
writings  that  had  originally  appeared  in  "  The 
Token"  and  other  periodicals. 

Mr.  GOODRICH  has  been  a  liberal  patron  of 
American  authors  and  artists ;  and  it  is  question- 
able whether  any  other  person  has  done  as  much 
to  improve  the  style  of  the  book  manufacture,  or  to 
promote  the  arts  of  engraving.  It  is  believed  that 
he  has  put  in  circulation  more  than  two  millions 
of  volumes  of  his  own  productions ;  all  of  which 
inculcate  pure  morality,  and  cheerful  views  of  life. 
His  style  is  simple  and  unaffected;  the  flow  of 
his  verse  melodious;  and  his  subjects  generally 
such  as  he  is  capable  of  treating  most  successfully. 


But  the  lovers  of  scandal  I  leave  in  the  lurch — 
And,  besides,  these  elves  don't  belong  to  the  church. 
If  they  danced — be  it  known — 'twas  not  in  the 

clime 
Of  your  MATHERS  and  HOOKERS,  where  laughter 

was  crime ; 

Where  sentinel  virtue  kept  guard  o'er  the  lip, 
Though  witchcraft  stole  into  the  heart  by  a  slip ! 
O,  no !  'twas  the  land  of  the  fruit  and  the  flower — 
Where  summer  an«   spring   both  dwelt  in  one 

bower — 
Where  one  hung  the  citron,  all   ripe  from  the 

bough, 

And  the  other  with  blossoms  encircled  its  brow, — 
Where  the  mountains  embosom'd  rich  tissues  of 

gold, 

And  the  rivers  o'er  rubies  and  emeralds  roll'd. 
It  was  there,  where  the  seasons  came  only  to  bless, 
And  the  fashions  of  Eden  still  linger'd,  in  dress, 
That  these  gay  little  fairies  were  wont,  as  I  say, 
To  steal  in  their  merriest  gambols  away. 
But,  dropping  the  curtain  o'er  frolic  and  fun, 
Too  good  to  be  told,  or  too  bad  to  be  done, 
I  give  you  a  legend  from  Fancy's  own  sketch, 
Though  I  warn  you  he's  given  to  fibbing — the 

wretch ! 

But  I  learn  by  the  legends  of  breezes  and  brooks, 
'T  is  as  true  as  the  fairy  tales  told  in  the  books. 

223 


224 


SAMUEL  G.  GOODRICH. 


One  night  when  the  moon  shone  fair  on  the  main, 
Choice  spirits  were  gather'd  'twixt  Derry  and  Spain, 
And  lightly  embarking  from  Erin's  bold  cliffs, 
They  slid  o'er  the  wave  in  their  moonbeam  skiffs. 
A  ray  for  a  rudder — a  thought  for  a  sail, 
Swift,  swift  was  each  bark  as  the  wing  of  the  gale. 
Yet  long  were  the  tale,  should  I  linger  to  say 
What  gambol  and  frolic  enliven'd  the  way ; 
How  they  flirted  with  bubbles  that  danced  on  the 

wave, 

Or  listen'd  to  mermaids  that  sang  from  the  cave ; 
Or  slid  with  the  moonbeams  down  deep  to  the  grove 
Of  coral,  "  where  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove :" 
How  there,  in  long  vistas  of  silence  and  sleep, 
They  waltzed,  as  if  mocking  the  death  of  the  deep: 
How  oft,  where  the  wreck  lay  scatter'd  and  torn, 
They  peep'd  in  the  skull — now  ghastly  and  lorn ; 
Or  deep,  mid  wild  rocks,  quizzed  the  goggling  shark, 
And   mouth'd  at  the   sea-wolf — so   solemn  and 

stark — 

Each  seeming  to  think  that  the  earth  and  the  sea 
Were  made  but  for  fairies — for  gambol  and  glee  ! 
Enough,  that  at  last  they  came  to  the  isle, 
Where  moonlight  and  fragrance  were  rivals  the 

while. 

Not  yet  had  those  vessels  from  Palos  been  here, 
To  turn  the  bright  gem  to  the  blood-mingled  tear. 
O,  no !  still  blissful  and  peaceful  the  land, 
And  the  merry  elves  flew  from  the  sea  to  the  strand. 
Right  happy  and  joyous  seem'd  now  the  bright  crew, 
As  they  tripp'd  mid  the  orange  groves  flashing  in 

dew, 

For  they  were  to  hold  a  revel  that  night, 
A  gay,  fancy  ball,  and  each  to  be  dight 
In  the  gem  or  the  flower  that  fancy  might  choose 
From  mountain  or  vale,  for  its  fragrance  or  hues. 


Away  sped  the  maskers  like  arrows  of  light, 
To  gather  their  gear  for  the  revel  bright. 
To  the  dazzling  peaks  of  far-off  Peru, 
In  emulous  speed  some  sportive  flew — 
And  deep  in  the  mine,  or  mid  glaciers  on  high, 
For  ruby  and  sapphire  searched  heedful  and  sly. 
For  diamonds  rare  that  gleam  in  the  bed 
Of  Brazilian  streams,  some  merrily  sped, 
While  others  for  topaz  and  emerald  stray, 
Mid  the  cradle  cliffs  of  the  Paraguay. 
As  these  are  gathering  the  rarest  of  gems, 
Others  are  plucking  the  rarest  of  stems. 
They  range  wild  dells  where  the  zephyr  alone 
To  the  blushing  blossoms  before  was  known ; 
Through  forests  they  fly,  whose  branches  are  hung 
By  creeping  plants,  with  fair  flowerets  strung — 
Where  temples  of  nature  with  arches  of  bloom, 
Are  lit  by  the  moonlight,  and  faint  with  perfume. 
They  stray  where  the  mangrove  and  clematis  twine, 
Where  azalia  and  laurel  in  rivalry  shine ; 
Where,  tall  as  the  oak,  the  passion-tree  glows, 
And  jasmine  is  blent  with  rhodora  and  rose. 
O'er  blooming  savannas  and  meadows  of  light, 
Mid  regions  of  summer  they  sweep  in  their  flight, 
A  nd  gathering  the  fairest  they  speed  to  their  bower, 
Each  one  with  his  favourite  brilliant  or  flower. 


The  hour  is  come,  and  the  fairies  are  seen 
In  their  plunder  array'd  on  the  moonlit  green. 
The  music  is  breathed — 't  is  a  soft  tone  of  pleasure, 
And  the  light  giddy  throng  whirl  into  the  measure. 
'T  was  a  joyous  dance,  and  the  dresses  were  bright, 
Such  as  never  were  known  till  that  famous  night; 
For  the  gems  and  the  flowers  that  shone  in  the  scene, 
O'ermatch'd  the  regalia  of  princess  and  queen. 
No  gaudy  slave  to  a  fair  one's  brow 
Was  the  rose,  or  the  ruby,  or  emerald  now; 
But  lighted  with  souls  by  the  playful  elves, 
The  brilliants  and  blossoms  seem'd  dancing  them- 
selves. 

VI. 

Of  all  that  did  chance,  'twere  a  long  tale  to  tell, 
Of  the  dresses  and  waltzes,  and  who  was  the  belle  ; 
But  each  were  so  happy,  and  all  were  so  fair, 
That  night  stole  away  and  the  dawn  caught  them 

there ! 

Such  a  scampering  never  before  was  seen 
As  the  fairies'  flight  on  that  island  green. 
They  rush'd  to  the  bay  with  twinkling  feet, 
But  vain  was  their  haste,  for  the  moonlight  fleet 
Had  pass'd  with  the  dawn,  and  never  again 
Were  those  fairies  permitted  to  traverse  the  main, — 
But  mid  the  groves,  when  the  sun  was  high, 
The  Indian  marked  with  a  worshipping  eye 
The  humming-birds,  all  unknown  before, 
Glancing  like  thoughts  from  flower  to  flower, 
And  seeming  as  if  earth's  loveliest  things, 
The  brilliants  and  blossoms,  had  taken  wings : — 
And  fancy  hath  whisper'd  in  numbers  light, 
That  these  are  the  fairies  who  danced  that  night, 
And  linger  yet  in  the  garb  they  wore, 
Content  in  our  clime,  and  more  blest  than  before ! 


THE  RIVER. 

O,  TELL  me,  pretty  river ! 

Whence  do  thy  waters  flow  ? 
And  whither  art  thou  roaming, 

So  pensive  and  so  slow  1 

"  My  birthplace  was  the  mountain, 
My  nurse,  the  April  showers ; 

My  cradle  was  a  fountain, 
O'ercurtain'd  by  wild  flowers. 

"  One  morn  I  ran  away, 
A  madcap,  hoyden  rill — 

And  many  a  prank  that  day 
I  play'd  adown  the  hill ! 

"  And  then,  mid  meadowy  banks, 
I  flirted  with  the  flowers, 

That  stoop'd,  with  glowing  lips, 
To  woo  me  to  their  bowers. 

"  But  these  bright  scenes  are  o'er, 
And  darkly  flows  my  wave — 

I  hear  the  ocean's  roar, 

And  there  must  be  my  grave !" 


SAMUEL    G.    GOODRICH. 


225 


THE  LEAF. 

IT  came  with  spring's  soft  sun  and  showers, 
Mid  bursting  buds  and  blushing  flowers ; 
It  flourish'd  on  the  same  light  stem, 
It  drank  the  same  clear  dews  with  them. 
The  crimson  tints  of  summer  morn, 
That  gilded  one,  did  each  adorn. 
The  breeze,  that  whisper'd  light  and  brief 
To  bud  or  blossom,  kiss'd  the  leaf; 
When  o'er  the  leaf  the  tempest  flew, 
The  bud  and  blossom  trembled  too. 

But  its  companions  pass'd  away, 
And  left  the  leaf  to  lone  decay. 
The  gentle  gales  of  spring  went  by, 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  summer  die. 
The  autumn  winds  swept  o'er  the  hill, 
And  winter's  breath  came  cold  and  chill. 
The  leaf  now  yielded  to  the  blast, 
And  on  the  rushing  stream  was  cast. 
Far,  far  it  glided  to  the  sea, 
And  whirl'd  and  eddied  wearily, 
Till  suddenly  it  sank  to  rest, 
And  slumber  d  in  the  ocean's  breast. 

Thus  life  begins — its  morning  hours, 
Bright  as  the  birth-day  of  the  flowers ; 
Thus  passes  like  the  leaves  away, 
As  wither'd  and  as  lost  as  they. 
Beneath  the  parent  roof  we  meet 
In  joyous  groups,  and  gayly  greet 
The  golden  beams  of  love  and  light, 
That  kindle  to  the  youthful  sight. 
But  soon  we  part,  and  one  by  one, 
Like  leaves  and  flowers,  the  group  is  gone. 
One  gentle  spirit  seeks  the  tomb, 
His  brow  yet  fresh  with  childhood's  bloom. 
Another  treads  the  paths  of  fame, 
And  barters  peace  to  win  a  name. 
Another  still  tempts  fortune's  wave, 
And  seeking  wealth,  secures  a  grave. 
The  last  grasps  yet  the  brittle  thread — 
Though  friends  are  gone  and  joy  is  dead, 
Still  dares  the  dark  and  fretful  tide, 
And  clutches  at  its  power  and  pride, 
Till  suddenly  the  waters  sever, 
And,  like  the  leaf,  he  sinks  forever. 


LAKE  SUPERIOR. 

"  FATHER  OF  LAKES  !"  thy  waters  bend 
Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  view, 

When,  throned  in  heaven,  he  sees  thee  send 
Back  to  the  sky  its  world  of  blue. 

Boundless  and  deep,  the  forests  weave 
Their  twilight  shade  thy  borders  o'er, 

And  threatening  cliffs,  like  giants,  heave 
Their  rugged  forms  along  thy  shore. 

Pale  Silence,  mid  thy  hollow  caves, 
With  listening  ear,  in  sadness  broods ; 


Or  startled  Echo,  o'er  thy  waves, 

Sends  the  hoarse  wolf-notes  of  thy  woods. 

Nor  can  the  light  canoes,  that  glide 
Across  thy  breast  like  things  of  air, 

Chase  from  thy  lone  and  level  tide 
The  spell  of  stillness  reigning  there. 

Yet  round  this  waste  of  wood  and  wave, 

Unheard,  unseen,  a  spirit  lives, 
That,  breathing  o'er  each  rock  and  cave, 

To  all  a  wild,  strange  aspect  gives. 

The  thunder-riven  oak,  that  flings 
Its  grisly  arms  athwart  the  sky, 

A  sudden,  startling  image  brings 
To  the  lone  traveller's  kindled  eye. 

The  gnarl'd  and  braided  boughs,  that  show 
Their  dim  forms  in  the  forest  shade, 

Like  wrestling  serpents  seem,  and  throw 
Fantastic  horrors  through  the  glade. 

The  very  echoes  round  this  shore 

Have  caught  a  strange  and  gibbering  tone : 
For  they  have  told  the  war-whoop  o'er, 

Till  the  wild  chorus  is  their  own. 

Wave  of  the  wilderness,  adieu  ! 

Adieu,  ye  rocks,  ye  wilds  and  woods ! 
Roll  on,  thou  element  of  blue, 

•And  fill  these  awful  solitudes ! 

Thou  hast  no  tale  to  tell  of  man — 

God  is  thy  theme,     le  sounding  caves 

Whisper  of  Him,  whose  mighty  plan 
Deems  as  a  bubble  all  your  waves ! 


THE  SPORTIVE  SYLPHS. 

THE  sportive  sylphs  that  course  the  air, 
Unseen  on  wings  that  twilight  weaves, 

Around  the  opening  rose  repair, 

And  breathe  sweet  incense  o'er  its  leaves. 

With  sparkling  cups  of  bubbles  made, 
They  catch  the  ruddy  beams  of  day, 

And  steal  the  rainbow's  sweetest  shade, 
Their  blushing  favourite  to  array. 

They  gather  gems  with  sunbeams  bright, 
From  floating  clouds  and  falling  showers; 

They  rob  Aurora's  locks  of  light 

To  grace  their  own  fair  queen  of  flowers. 

Thus,  thus  adorned,  the  speaking  rose 

Becames  a  token  fit  to  tell 
Of  things  that  words  can  ne'er  disclose, 

And  naught  but  this  reveal  so  well. 

Then,  take  my  flower,  and  let  its  leaves 
Beside  thy  heart  be  cherish'd  near, 

While  that  confiding  heart  receives 
The  thought  it  whispers  to  thine  ear. 


ISAAC   CLASON. 


[Born  about  1796.    Died,  1830.] 


ISAAC  CLASOW  wrote  the  Seventeenth  and  Eight- 
eenth Cantos  of  Don  Juan — a  continuation  of  the 
poem  of  Lord  BTRON — published  in  1825.  I  have 
not  been  able  to  learn  many  particulars  of  his  bio- 
graphy. He  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York, 
where  his  father  was  a  distinguished  merchant, 
and  graduated  at  Columbia  College  in  1813.  He 
inherited  a  considerable  fortune,  but  in  the  pur- 
suit of  pleasure  he  spent  it  all,  and  much  besides, 
received  from  his  relatives.  He  was  in  turn  a  gay 
roue  in  London  and  Paris,  a  writer  for  the  public 
journals,  an  actor  in  the  theatres,  and  a  private 


tutor.  A  mystery  hangs  over  his  closing  years. 
It  has  been  stated  that  he  was  found  dead  in  an 
obscure  lodging-house  in  London,  under  circum- 
stances that  led  to  a  belief  that  he  committed  sui- 
cide, about  the  year  1830. 

Besides  his  continuation  of  Don  Juan,  he  wrote 
but  little  poetry.  The  two  cantos  which  he  left 
under  that  title,  have  much  of  the  spirit  and  feel- 
ing, in  thought  and  diction,  which  characterize  the 
work  of  BTRON.  He  was  a  man  of  attractive  man- 
ners and  brilliant  conversation.  His  fate  is  an 
unfavourable  commentary  on  his  character. 


NAPOLEON.* 

I  love  no  land  so  well  as  that  of  France — 
Land  of  NAPOLEON  and  CHARLEMAGNE, 

Renown'd  for  valour,  women,  wit,  and  dance, 
For  racy  Burgundy,  and  bright  Champagne, 

Whose  only  word  in  battle  was,  Advance ; 

Whilethat  grand  genius,who  seein'd  born  to  reign, 

Greater  than  AMMON'S  son,  who  boasted  birth 

From  heaven,  and  spurn'd  all  sons  of  earth ; 

Greater  than  he  who  wore  his  buskins  high, 
A  VENUS  arm'd,  impress'd  upon  his  seal; 

Who  smiled  at  poor  CALPHURNIA'S  prophecy, 
Nor  fear'd  the  stroke  he  soon  was  doom'd  to  feel; 

Who  on  the  ides  of  March  breath'd  his  last  sigh, 
As  BRUTUS  pluck'd  away  his  "cursed  steel," 

Exclaiming,  as  he  expired,  "Et  tu,  BRUTE," 

But  BRUTUS  thought  he  only  did  his  duty  ; 

Greater  than  he,  who,  at  nine  years  of  age, 
On  Carthage'  altar  swore  eternal  hate ; 

Who,  with  a  rancour  time  could  ne'er  assuage, 
With  feelings  no  reverse  could  moderate, 

With  talents  such  as  few  would  dare  engage, 
With  hopes  that  no  misfortune  could  abate, 

Died  like  his  rival,  both  with  broken  hearts, — 

Such  was  their  fate,  and  such  was  BONAPARTE'S. 

NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE  !  thy  name  shall  live 
Till  time's  last  echo  shall  have  ceased  to  sound; 

And  if  eternity's  confines  can  give 

To  space  reverberation,  round  and  round 

The  spheres  of  heaven,  the  long,  deep  cry  of  "Vive 
NAPOLEON  !"  in  thunders  shall  rebound ; 

The  lightning's  flash  shall  blaze  thy  name  on  high, 

Monarch  of  earth  Jiovv  meteor  of  the  sky! 

What  though  on  St.  Helena's  rocky  shore 
Thy  head  be  pillow'd,  and  thy  form  entomb'd, 

Perhaps  that  son,  the  child  thou  didst  adore, 
Fired  with  a  father's  fame,  may  yet  be  doom'd 

*  From  the  Seventeenth  Canto  of  Don  Juan. 


To  crush  the  bigot  BOURBON,  and  restore 

Thy  mouldering  ashes  ere  they  be  consumed ; 
Perhaps  may  run  the  course  thyself  didst  run, 
And  light  the  world,  as  comets  light  the  sun. 

'T  is  better  thou  art  gone :  't  were  sad  to  see, 
Beneath  an  "imbecile's  impotent  reign," 

Thine  own  unvanquish'd  legions  doom'd  to  be 
Cursed  instruments  of  vengeance  on  poor  Spain, 

That  land,  so  glorious  once  in  chivalry, 
Now  sunk  in  slavery  and  shame  again; 

To  see  the  imperial  guard,  thy  dauntless  band, 

Made  tools  for  such  a  wretch  as  PERDU* AND. 

Farewell,  NAPOLEON  !  thine  hour  is  past ; 

No  more  earth  trembles  at  thy  dreaded  name ; 
But  France,  unhappy  France,  shall  long  contrast 

Thy  deeds  with  those  of  worthless  D'ANGOULEME. 
Ye  gods  !  how  long  shall  slavery's  thraldom  last ! 

Will  France  alone  remain  forever  tame  1 
Say,  will  no  WALLACE,  will  no  WASHINGTON 
Scourge  from  thy  soil  the  infamous  BOURBON? 

Is  Freedom  dead  ?     Is  NERO'S  reign  restored  1 
Frenchmen !  remember  Jena,  Austerlitz : 

The  first,  which  made  thy  emperor  the  lord 
Of  Prussia,  and  which  almost  threw  in  fits 

Great  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ;  he  who,  at  the  board, 
Took  all  the  Prussian  uniform  to  bits ; 

FREDERICK,  the  king  of  regimental  tailors, 

As  HUDSON  LOWE,  the  very  prince  of  jailors. 

Farewell,  NAPOLEON  !  couldst  thou  have  died 
The  coward  scorpion's  death,  afraid,  ashamed 

To  meet  adversity's  advancing  tide, 

The  weak  had  praised  thee,  but  the  wise  had 
blamed ; 

But  no!  though  torn  from  country,  child,  and  bride, 
With  spirit  unsubdued,  with  soul  untamed, 

Great  in  misfortune,  as  in  glory  high, 

Thou  daredst  to  live  through  life's  worst  agony. 

Pity,  for  thee,  shall  weep  her  fountains  dry, 
Mercy,  for  thee,  shall  bankrupt  all  her  store; 

Valour  shall  pluck  a  garland  from  on  high, 
And  Honour  twine  the  wreath  thy  temples  i 

226 


ISAAC    CLASON. 


227 


Beauty  shall  beckon  to  thee  from  the  sky, 

And  smiling  seraphs  open  wide  heaven's  door; 
Around  thy  head  the  brightest  stars  shall  meet, 
And  rolling  suns  play  sportive  at  thy  feet. 

Farewell,  NAPOLEON  !  a  long  farewell, 

A  stranger's  tongue,  alas !  must  hymn  thy  worth; 
No  craven  Gaul  dares  wake  his  harp  to  tell, 

Or  sound  in  song  the  spot  that  gave  thee  birth. 
No  more  thy  name,  that,  with  its  magic  spell, 

Aroused  the  slumbering  nations  of  the  earth, 
.    Echoes  around  thy  land;  'tis  past — at  length 
France  sinks  beneath  the  sway  of  CHARLES  the 
Tenth. 


JEALOUSY. 

HE  who  has  seen  the  red-fork'd  lightnings  flash 
From  out  some  black  and  tempest-gather'd  cloud, 

And  heard  the  thunder's  simultaneous  crash, 
Bursting  in  peals,  terrifically  loud  ; 

He  who  has  mark'd  the  madden'd  ocean  dash 
(Robed  in  its  snow-white  foam  as  in  a  shroud) 

Its  giant  billows  on  the  groaning  shore, 

While  death  seem'd  echo'd  in  the  deafening  roar ; 

He  who  has  seen  the  wild  tornado  sweep 
(Its  path  destruction,  and  its  progress  death) 

The  silent  bosom  of  the  smiling  deep 

With  the  black  besom  of  its  boisterc  us  breath, 

Waking  to  strife  the  slumbering  waves,  that  leap 
In  battling  surges  from  their  beds  beneath, 

Yawning  and  swelling  from  their  liquid  caves, 

Like  buried  giants  from  their  restless  graves: — 

He  who  has  gazed  on  sights  and  scenes  like  these, 
Hath  look'd  on  nature  in  her  maddest  mood ; 

But  nature's  warfare  passes  by  degrees, — 
The  thunder's  voice  is  hush'd,  however  rude, 

The  dying  winds  unclasp  the  raging  seas, 

The  scowling  sky  throws  back  her  cloud-capt 
hood, 

The  infant  lightnings  to  their  cradles  creep, 

And  the  gaunt  earthquake  rocks  herself  to  sleep. 

But  there  are  storms,  whose  lightnings  never  glare, 
Tempests,  whose  thunders  never  cease  to  roll — 

The  storms  of  love,  when  madden'd  to  despair, 
The  furious  tempests  of  the  jealous  soul. 

That  kamsin  of  the  heart,  which  few  can  bear, 
Which  owns  no  limit,  and  which  knows  no  goal, 

Whose  blast  leaves  joy  a  tomb,  and  hope  a  speck, 

Reason  a  blank,  and  happiness  a  wreck. 


EARLY  LOVE. 


THE  fond  caress  of  beauty,  0,  that  glow! 

The  first  warm  glow  that  mantles  round  the  heart 
Of  boyhood!  when  all's  new — the  first  dear  vow 

He  ever  breathed — the  tear-drops  that  first  start, 
Pure  from  the  unpractised  eye — the  overflow 

Of  waken'd  passions,  that  but  now  impart 
A  hope,  a  wish,  a  feeling  yet  unfelt, 
That  mould  to  madness,  or  in  mildness  melt. 


Ah !  where's  the  youth  whose  stoic  heart  ne'er  knew 
The  fires  of  joy,  that  burst  through  every  vein, 

That  burn  forever  bright,  forever  new, 
As  passion  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again? 

That,  like  the  phoenix,  die  but  to  renew — 
Beat  in  the  heart,  and  throb  upon  the  brain — 

Self-kindling,  quenchless  as  the  eternal  flame 

That  sports  in  Etna's  base.     But  I  'm  to  blame 

Ignobly  thus  to  yield  to  raptures  past ; 

To  call  my  buried  feelings  from  their  shrouds, 
O'er  which  the  deep  funereal  pall  was  cast — 

Like  brightest  skies  entomb'd  in  darkest  clouds ; 
No  matter,  these,  the  latest  and  the  last 

That  rise,  like  spectres  of  the  past,  in  crowds ; 
The  ebullitions  of  a  heart  not  lost, 
But  weary,  wandering,  worn,  and  tempest-toss'd. 

'T  is  vain,  and  worse  than  vain,  to  think  on  joys 
Which,  like  the  hour  that's  gone,  return  no  more; 

Bubbles  of  folly,  blown  by  wanton  boys — 
Billows  that  swell,  to  burst  upon  the  shore — 

Playthings  of  passion,  manhood's  gilded  toys, 
(Deceitful  as  the  shell  that  seems  to  roar, 

But  proves  the  mimic  mockery  of  the  surge:) 

They  sink  in  sorrow's  sea,  and  ne'er  emerge. 


ALL  IS  VANITY. 


I  've  compass'd  every  pleasure, 

Caught  every  joy  before  its  bead  could  pass ; 

I  've  loved  without  restriction,  without  measure — 
I've  sipp'd  enjoyment  from  each  sparkling  glass — 

I've  known  what  'tis,  too,  to  "repent  at  leisure" — 
I  've  sat  at  meeting,  and  I  've  served  at  mass : — 

And  having  roved  through  half  the  world's  insanities, 

Cry,  with  the  Preacher — Vanity  of  vanities ! 

What  constitutes  man's  chief  enjoyment  here  ? 

What  forms  his  greatest  antidote  to  sorrow? 
Is 't  wealth?   Wealth  can  at  last  but  gild  his  bier, 

Or  buy  the  pall  that  poverty  must  borrow. 
Is 't  love  ?   Alas,  love 's  cradled  in  a  tear ; 

It  smiles  to-day,  and  weeps  again  to-morrow; 
Mere  child  of  passion,  that  beguiles  in  youth, 
And  flies  from  age,  as  falsehood  flies  from  truth. 

Is 't  glory  ?  Pause  beneath  St.  Helen's  willow, 
Whose  weeping  branches  wave  above  the  spot; 

Ask  him,  whose  head  now  rests  upon  its  pillow, 
Its  last,  low  pillow,  there  to  rest,  and  rot. 

Is 't  fame?  Ask  her.  who  floats  upon  the  billow, 
Untomb'd,  uncoflln'd,  and  perchance  forgot ; 

The  lovely,  lovesick  Lesbian,  frail  as  fair, 

Victim  of  love,  and  emblem  of  despair. 

Is 't  honour?    Go,  ask  him  whose  ashes  sleep 
Within  the  crypt  of  Paul's  stupendous  dome, 

Whose  name  once  thunder'd  victory  o'er  the  deep, 
Far  as  his  country's  navies  proudly  roam; 

Above  whose  grave  no  patriot  Dane  shall  weep, 
No  Frank  deplore  the  hour  he  found  a  home — 

A  home,  whence  valour's  voice  from  conquest's  car 

No  more  shall  rouse  the  lord — of  Trafalgar. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


[Born  about  1797.] 


MRS.  SIGOUBNEY,  formerly  Miss  LYDIA  HUNT- 
LET,  was  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,  about 
the  year  1797,  and  in  1819  was  married  to  Mr. 
CHARLES  SIGOURNEY,  an  opulent  merchant  of 
Hartford,  in  which  city  she  now  resides.  She  be- 
gan to  write  verses  at  a  very  early  age,  and  in 
1815  gave  to  the  press  her  first  book,  under  the 
title  of  "  Moral  Pieces."  She  has  since  published 
six  or  seven  volumes  in  verse,  and  about  as  many 
in  prose.  "  The  Aborigines,"  her  longest  poem,  ap- 
peared anonymously,  at  Cambridge,  and  attracted 
but  little  attention.  During  a  visit  which  she  made 
to  Europe  in  1840-41,  a  selection  from  her  poetical 
writings  was  printed  in  London,  and  soon  after  her 
return,  in  1842,  the  most  finished  and  sustained 
of  her  longer  poems,  «  Pocahontas,"  was  published 
in  a  volume  with  some  minor  pieces,  in  New  York. 
Among  her  prose  works  are  "  Connecticut  Forty 
Years  Since,"  «  Letters  to  Young  Ladies,"  "  Let- 
ters to  Mothers,"  "  Pleasant  Memories  of  Pleasant 
Lands,"  "  Scenes  in  My  Native  Land,"  and  "  Myr- 
tis,  and  other  Sketchings,"  the  last  of  which  ap- 
peared in  the  fall  of  1 846. 

In  a  reviewal  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Sigourney, 
recently  published  by  the  Honourable  ALEXANDER 
H.  EVERETT,  this  accomplished  critic  remarks  that 
"  they  commonly  express,  with  great  purity,  and 
evident  sincerity,  the  tender  affections  which  are 
so  natural  to  the  female  heart,  and  the  lofty  aspi- 
rations after  a  higher  and  better  state  of  being, 
which  constitute  the  truly  ennobling  and  elevating 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

Aw  axe  rang  sharply  mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  sky  had  tower'd 
In  unshorn  beauty.     There,  with  vigorous  arm, 
Wrought  a  bold  emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Beguiled  the  toil.     "  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 
Such  glorious  trees.  Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans.  Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sail'd, 
So  many  days,  on  toward  the  setting  sun  ? 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream."    "  Father,  the  brook 
That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launch'd 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 
My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound 
Of  our  firs^  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 


principle  in  art,  as  well  as  in  nature.  Love  and 
religion  are  the  unvarying  elements  of  her  song. 
This  is  saying,  in  other  words,  that  the  substance 
of  her  poetry  is  of  the  very  highest  order.  If  her 
powers  of  expression  were  equal  to  the  purity  and 
elevation  of  her  habits  of  thought  and  feeling,  she 
would  be  a  female  Milton,  or  a  Christian  Pindar. 
But  though  she  does  not  inherit 

'The  force  and  ample  pin-on 

That  th^  Theban  eagles  bear, 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  liquid  vaults  of  air,' 

she  nevertheless  manages  the  language  with  great 
ease  and  elegance;  and  often  with  much  of  the 
citriosa  felicitas,  that  '  reiined  felicity'  of  expres- 
sion, which  is,  after  all,  the  principal  charm  in  po- 
etry. In  blank  verse  she  is  very  successful.  The 
poems  that  she  has  written  in  this  measure  have 
not  unfrequently  much  of  the  manner  of  Words- 
worth, and  may  be  nearly  or  quits  as  highly  re- 
lished by  his  admirers." 

Mrs.  SIGOURNEY  has  been  the  most  voluminous 
and  most  popular  of  all  our  poetesses,  but  her  suc- 
cess, perhaps,  has  resulted  as  much  from  her  moral 
and  religious  as  from  her  poetical  characteristics. 
With  all  the  merit  that  can  be  claimed  for  some 
of  her  pieces,  it  must  be  admitted  that  many  of 
them,  composed  hastily  and  carelessly,  are  in  a 
literary  point  of  view  of  but  little  value.  They 
are  rhymed  commonplaces,  which  have  only  a 
remote  relation  to  true  poetry. 


— "  What,  ho ! — my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire, 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contain'd 
His  noon-repast,  look'd  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet,  confiding  smile.     "  See,  dearest,  see, 
That  bright-wing'd  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red-bird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone  1" 
— "  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful,  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snow-drops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now 
Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets."     Slow  night  drew  on, 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores.    Starting,  he  spake — 
"  Wife !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear  ? 

228 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 


229 


'T  was  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 
"No — no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which  mid  the  church,  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  peal'd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolved  the  illusion."     And  the  gentle  smile 
Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  soothed 
Her  waking  infant,  reassured  his  soul 
That,  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank ; 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranKs  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him.  Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city — roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neighed, 
The  favourite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark — familiar  doors 
Flew  open — greeting  hands  with  his  were  link'd 
In  friendship's  grasp — he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten — and  till  morning  roved 
Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


NIAGARA. 

FLOW  on,  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathom'd  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead :  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder,  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise.    Ah  I.who  can  dare 
To  lift  the  insect  trump  of  earthly  hope, 
Or  love,  or  sorrow — mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn?    Even  ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood :  and  all  his  waves 
Retire  abash'd.     For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 
To  sleep  like  a  a  spent  labourer — and  recall 
His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 
And  lull  them  to  a  cradle-calm :  but  thou, 
With  everlasting,  undecaying  tide, 
Dost  rest  not,  night  or  day. — The  morning  stars, 
When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem  ;  and  those  wrecking  fires, 
That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
This  solid  earth,  shall  find  JEHOVAH'S  name 
Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears, 
Of  thine  unending  volume.     Every  leaf, 
That  lifts  itself  within  thy  wide  domain, 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo ! — yon  birds 
Do  boldly  venture  near,  and  bathe  their  wing 
Amid  thy  mist  and  foam.     'T  is  meet  for  them 
To  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  and  lightly  stir 
The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapour-wreath, 


For  they  may  sport  unharm'd  amid  the  cloud, 

Or  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven, 

Without  reproof.     But  as  for  us,  it  seems 

Scarce  lawful,  with  our  broken  tones,  to  speak 

Familiarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  tint 

Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 

Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song, 

Were  profanation.     Thou  dost  make  the  soul 

A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty, 

But  as  it  presses  with  delirious  joy 

To  pierce  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 

And  tame  its  rapture,  with  the  humbling  view 

Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 

In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible, 

As  if  to  answer  to  its  GOD  through  thee. 


WINTER. 

I  DEEM  thee  not  unlovely,  though  thou  comcst 
With  a  stern  visage.     To  the  tuneful  bird, 
The  blushing  floweret,  the  rejoicing  stream, 
Thy  discipline  is  harsh.     But  unto  man 
Methinks  thou  hast  a  kindlier  ministry. 
Thy  lengthen'd  eve  is  full  of  fireside  joys, 
And  deathless  linking  of  warm  heart  to  heart, 
So  that  the  hoarse  storm  passes  by  unheard. 
Earth,  robed  in  white,  a  peaceful  Sabbath  holds, 
And  keepeth  silence  at  her  Maker's  feet. 
She  ceaseth  from  the  harrowing  of  the  plough, 
And  from  the  harvest-shouting.     Man  should  rest 
Thus  from  his  fever'd  passions,  and  exhale 
The  unbreathed  carbon  of  his  festering  thought, 
And  drink  in  holy  health.     As  the  toss'd  bark 
Doth  seek  the  shelter  of  some  quiet  bay 
To  trim  its  shatter'd  cordage,  and  restore 
Its  riven  sails — so  should  the  toil-worn  mind 
Refit  for  time's  rough  voyage.     Man,  perchance, 
Soured  by  the  world's  sharp  commerce,  or  impair'd 
By  the  wild  wanderings  of  his  summer  way, 
Turns  like  a  truant  scholar  to  his  home, 
And  yields  his  nature  to  sweet  influences 
That  purify  and  save.     The  ruddy  boy 
Comes  with  his  shouting  school-mates  from  their 

sport, 

On  the  smooth,  frozen  lake,  as  the  first  star 
Hangs,  pure  and  cold,  its  twinkling  cresset  forth, 
And,  throwing  off  his  skates  with  boisterous  glee, 
Hastes  to  his  mother's  side.     Her  tender  hand 
Doth  shake  the  snow-flakes  from  his  glossy  curls, 
And  draw  him  nearer,  and  with  gentle  voice 
Asks  of  his  lessons,  while  her  lifted  heart 
Solicits  silently  the  Sire  of  Heaven 
To  "  bless  the  lad."     The  timid  infant  learns 
Better  to  love  its  sire — and  longer  sits 
Upon  his  knee,  and  with  a  velvet  lip 
Prints  on  his  brow  such  language,  as  the  tongue 
Hath  never  spoken.     Come  thou  to  life's  feast 
With  dove-eyed  meekness,  and  bland  charity, 
And  thou  shalt  find  even  Winter's  rugged  blasts 
The  minstrel  teacher  of  thy  well-tuned  soul, 
And  when  the  last  drop  of  its  cup  is  drain'd — 
Arising  with  a  song  of  praise — go  up 
To  the  eternal  banquet 

U 


230 


LYDIA    H.   SIGOURNEY. 


NAPOLEON'S  EPITAPH. 

"  The  moon  of  St.  Helena  shone  out,  and  there  we  saw 
the  face  of  NAPOLEON'S  sepulchre,  characterless,  unin- 
scribed." 

And  who  shall  write  thine  epitaph  !  thou  man 
Of  mystery  and  might.     Shall  orphan  hands 
Inscribe  it  with  their  father's  broken  swords  1 
Or  the  warm  trickling  of  the  widow's  tear 
Channel  it  slowly  mid  the  rugged  rock, 
As  the  keen  torture  of  the  water-drop 
Doth  wear  the  sentenced  brain  1     Shall  countless 
Arise  from  Hades,  and  in  lurid  flame          [ghosts 
With  shadowy  finger  trace  thine  effigy, 
Who  sent  them  to  their  audit  unanneal'd, 
And  with  but  that  brief  space  for  shrift  of  prayer, 
Given  at  the  cannon's  mouth !   Thou,  who  didst  sit 
Like  eagle  on  the  apex  of  the  globe, 
And  hear  the  murmur  of  its  conquer'd  tribes, 
As  chirp  the  weak-voiced  nations  of  the  grass, 
Why  art  thou  sepulchred  in  yon  far  isle, 
Yon  little  speck,  which  scarce  the  mariner 
Descries  mid  ocean's  foam  ?    Thou,  who  didst  hew 
A  pathway  for  thy  host  above  the  cloud, 
Guiding  their  footsteps  o'er  the  frost-work  crown 
Of  the  throned  Alps— why  dost  thou  sleep  unmark'd, 
Even  by  such  slight  memento  as  the  hind 
Carves  on  his  own  coarse  tomb-stone  1    Bid  the 

throng 

Who  pour'd  thee  incense,  as  Olympian  JOVE, 
And  breathed  thy  thunders  on  the  battle-field, 
Return,  and  rear  thy  monument.     Those  forms 
O'er  the  wide  valleys  of  red  slaughter  spread, 
From  pole  to  tropic,  and  from  zone  to  zone, 
Heed  not  thy  clarion  call.     But  should  they  rise, 
As  in  the  vision  that  the  prophet  saw, 
And  each  dry  bone  its  sever'd  fellow  find, 
Piling  their  pillar'd  dust  as  erst  they  gave 
Their  souls  for  thee,  the  wondering  stars  might  deem 
A  second  time  the  puny  pride  of  man 
Did  creep  by  stealth  upon  its  Babel  stairs, 
To  dwell  with  them.     But  here  unwept  thou  art, 
Like  a  dead  lion  in  his  thicket-lair, 
With  neither  living  man,  nor  spirit  condemn'd, 
To  write  thine  epitaph.     Invoke  the  climes, 
Who  served  as  playthings  in  thy  desperate  game 
Of  mad  ambition,  or  their  treasures  strew'd 
Till  meagre  famine  on  their  vitals  prey'd, 
To  pay  the  reckoning.    France !  who  gave  so  free 
Thy  life-stream  to  his  cup  of  wine,  and  saw 
That  purple  vintage  shed  o'er  half  the  earth, 
Write  the  first  line,  if  thou  hast  blood  to  spare. 
Thou,  too,  whose  pride  did  deck  dead  CESAR'S  tomb, 
And  chant  high  requiem  o'er  the  tyrant  band 
Who  had  their  birth  with  thee,  lend  us  thine  arts 
Of  sculpture  and  of  classic  eloquence, 
To  grace  his  obsequies,  at  whose  dark  frown 
Thine  ancient  spirit  quail'd,  and  to  the  list 
Of  mutilated  kings,  who  glean'd  their  meat 
'Neath  AGAG'S  table,  add  the  name  of  Rome. 
— Turn,  Austria !  iron-brow'd  and  stern  of  heart, 
And  on  his  monument,  to  whom  thou  gavest 
In  anger,  battle,  and  in  craft  a  bride, 
Grave  Austerlitz,  and  fiercely  turn  away. 


— As  the  rein'd  war-horse  snufis  the  trumpet-blast, 
Rouse  Prussia  from  her  trance  with  Jena's  name, 
And  bid  her  witness  to  that  fame  which  soars 
O'er  him  of  Macedon,  and  shames  the  vaunt 
Of  Scandinavia's  madman.   •  From  the  shades 
Of  letter'd  ease,  O,  Germany !  come  forth 
With  pen  of  fire,  and  from  thy  troubled  scroll 
Such  as  thou  spread's!  at  Leipsic,  gather  tints 
Of  deeper  character  than  bold  romance 
Hath  ever  imaged  in  her  wildest  dream, 
Or  history  trusted  to  her  sibyl-leaves. 
— Hail,  lotus  crown'd  !  in  thy  green  childhood  fed 
By  stiff-neck'd  PHARAOH,  and  the  shepherd-kings, 
Hast  thou  no  tale  of  him  who  drench'd  thy  sands 
At  Jaffa  and  Aboukir !  when  the  flight 
Of  rushing  souls  went  up  so  strange  and  strong 
To  the  accusing  Spirit  ]     Qlorious  Isle  ! 
Whose  thrice  enwreathed  chain,  Promethean-like, 
Did  bind  him  to  the  fatal  rock,  we  ask 
Thy  deep  memento  for  this  marble  tomb. 
— Ho !  fur-clad  Russia !  with  thy  spear  of  frost, 
Or  with  thy  winter-mocking  Cossack's  lance, 
Stir  the  cold  memories  of  thy  vengeful  brain, 
And  give  the  last  line  of  our  epitaph. 
— But  there  was  silence ;  for  no  sceptred  hand 
Received  the  challenge.     From  the  misty  deep 
Rise,  island-spirits !  like  those  sisters  three, 
Who  spin  and  cut  the  trembling  thread  of  life, 
Rise  on  your  coral  pedestals,  and  write 
That  eulogy  which  haughtier  climes  deny. 
Come,  for  ye  lull'd  him  in  your  matron  arms, 
And  cheer'd  his  exile  with  the  name  of  king, 
And  spread  that  curtain'd  couch  which  none  disturb, 
Come,  twine  some  trait  of  household  tenderness, 
Some  tender  leaflet,  nursed  with  Nature's  tears 
Around  this  urn.     But  Corsica,  who  rock'd 
His  cradle,  at  Ajacio,  turn'd  away, 
And  tiny  Elba,  in  the  Tuscan  wave 
Threw  her  slight  annal  with  the  haste  of  fear, 
And  rude  Helena,  sick  at  heart,  and  gray 
'Neath  the  Pacific's  smiling,  bade  the  moon, 
With  silent  finger,  point  the  traveller's  gaze 
To  an  unhonour'd  tomb.     Then  Earth  arose, 
That  blind,  old  empress,  on  her  crumbling  throne, 
And  to  the  echoed  question  "  Who  shall  write 
Napoleon's  epitaph  ?"  as  one  who  broods 
O'er  unforgiven  injuries,  answer'd,  "  None." 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON.* 


hast  thou  slept  unnoted.     Nature  stole 
In  her  soft  ministry  around  thy  bed, 
Spreading  her  vernal  tissue,  violet-gemm'd, 
And  pearl'd  with  dews.    She  bade  bright  Summer 

bring 

Gifts  of  frankincense,  with  sweet  song  of  birds, 
And  Autumn  cast  his  reaper's  coronet 
Down  at  thy  feet,  and  stormy  Winter  speak 
Sternly  of  man's  neglect.     But  now  we  come 
To  do  thee  homage  —  mother  of  our  chief! 
Fit  homage  —  such  as  honoureth  him  who  pays. 
Methinks  we  see  thee  —  as  in  olden  time  — 


*  On   laying  the  corner-stone  of  her  monument   at 
Fredericksburg,  Virginia. 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


231 


Simple  in  garb — majestic  and  serene, 
Unmoved  by  pomp  or  circumstance — in  truth 
Inflexible,  and  with  a  Spartan  zeal 
Repressing  vice  and  making  folly  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  deem  it  woman's  part  to  waste 
Life  in  inglorious  sloth — to  sport  awhile 
Amid  the  flowers,  or  on  the  summer  wave, 
Then  fleet,  like  the  ephemeron,  away, 
Building  no  temple  in  her  children's  hearts, 
Save  to  the  vanity  and  pride  of  life  [clothed 

Which  she  had  worshipp'd.     For  the  might  that 
The  "  Pater  Patrise,"  for  the  glorious  deeds 
That  make  Mount  Vernon's  tomb  a  Mecca  shrine 
For  all  the  earth,  what  thanks  to  thee  are  due, 
Who,  mid  his  elements  of  being,  wrought, 
We  know  not — Heaven  can  tell.    Rise,  sculptured 
And  show  a  race  unborn  who  rest  below,     [pile  ! 
And  say  to  mothers  what  a  holy  charge 
Is  theirs — with  what  a  kingly  power  their  love 
Might  rule  the  fountains  of  the  new-born  mind. 
Warn  them  to  wake  at  early  dawn — and  sow 
Good  seed  before  the  world  hath  sown  her  tares ; 
Nor  in  their  toil  decline — that  angel  bands 
May  put  the  sickle  in,  and  reap  for  God, 
And  gather  to  his  garner.     Ye,  who  stand, 
With  thrilling  breast,  to  view  her  trophied  praise, 
Who  nobly  rear'd  Virginia's  godlike  chief — 
Ye,  whose  last  thought  upon  your  nightly  couch, 
Whose  first  at  waking,  is  your  cradled  son, 
What  though  no  high  ambition  prompts  to  rear 
A  second  WASHINGTON  ;  or  leave  your  name 
Wrought  out  in  marble  with 'a  nation's  tears 
Of  deathless  gratitude — yet  may  you  raise 
A  monument  above  the  stars — a  soul 
Led  by  your  teachings  and  your  prayers  to  GOD. 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

NATURE  doth  mourn  for  thee.    There  is  no  need 
For  man  to  strike  his  plaintive  lyre  and  fail, 
As  fail  he  must,  if  he  attempt  thy  praise. 
The  little  plant  that  never  sang  before, 
Save  one  sad  requiem,  when  its  blossoms  fell, 
Sighs  deeply  through  its  drooping  leaves  for  thee, 
As  for  a  florist  fallen.     The  ivy,  wreath'd 
Round  the  gay  turrets  of  a  buried  race, 
And  the  tali  palm  that  like  a  prince  doth  rear 
Its  diadem  'neath  Asia's  burning  sky, 
With  their  dim  legends  blend  thy  hallow'd  name. 
Thy  music,  like  baptismal  dew,  did  make 
Whate'er  it  touch'd  most  holy.     The  pure  shell, 
Laying  its  pearly  lip  on  ocean's  floor, 
The  cloister'd  chambers,  where  the  sea-gods  sleep, 
And  the  unfathom'd  melancholy  main, 
Lament  for  thee,  through  all  the  sounding  deeps. 
Hark!  from  the  snow-breasted  Himmaleh  to  where 
Snowdon  doth  weave  his  coronet  of  cloud, 
From  the  scathed  pine  tree,  near  the  red  man's  hut, 
To  where  the  everlasting  banian  builds 
Its  vast  columnac  temple,  comes  a  moan 
For  thee,  whose  ritual  made  each  rocky  height 
An  altar,  and  each  cottage-home,  the  haunt 
Of  Poesy.     Yea,  thou  didst  find  the  link 


That  joins  mute  nature  to  ethereal  mind, 
And  make  that  link  a  melody.     The  couch 
Of  thy  last  sleep,  was  in  the  native  clime 
Of  song  and  eloquence  and  ardent  soul, 
Spot  fitly  chosen  for  thee.     Perchance,  that  isle 
So  loved  of  favouring  skies,  yet  bann'd  by  fate, 
Might  shadow  forth  thine  own  unspoken  lot. 
For  at  thy  heart  the  ever-pointed  thorn 
Did  gird  itself,  until  the  life-stream  oozed 
In  gushes  of  such  deep  and  thrilling  song, 
That  angels  poising  on  some  silver  cloud 
Might  linger  mid  the  errands  of  the  skies, 
And  listen,  all  unblamed.     How  tenderly 
Doth  Nature  draw  her  curtain  round  thy  rest ! 
And,  like  a  nurse,  with  finger  on  her  lip, 
Watch,  lest  some  step  disturb  thee,  striving  still 
From  other  touch,  thy  sacred  harp  to  guard. 
Waits  she  thy  waking,  as  the  mother  waits 
For  some  pale  babe,  whose  spirit  sleep  hath  stolen, 
And  laid  it  dreaming  on  the  lap  of  Heaven  ? 
We  say  not  thou  art  dead.     We  dare  not.     No. 
For  every  mountain  stream  and  shadowy  dell 
Where  thy  rich  harpings  linger,  would  hurl  back 
The  falsehood  on  our  souls.     Thou  spak'st  alike 
The  simple  language  of  the  freckled  flower, 
And  of  the  glorious  stars.     God  taught  it  thee. 
And  from  thy  living  intercourse  with  man 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  away,  until  this  earth 
Drops  her  last  gem  into  the  doom's-day  flame. 
Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  seat  with  that  bless'd  choir, 
Whose  hymns  thy  tuneful  spirit  learn'd  so  well 
From  this  sublunar  terrace,  and  so  long 
Interpreted.     Therefore,  we  will  not  say 
Farewell  to  thee ;  for  every  unborn  age 
Shall  mix  thee  with  its  household  charities, 
The  sage  shall  greet  thee  with  his  benison, 
And  woman  shrine  thee  as  a  vestal  flame 
In  all  the  temples  of  her  sanctity, 
And  the  young  child  shall  take  thee  by  the  hand 
And  travel  with  a  surer  step  to  Heaven. 


THE  ALPINE  FLOWERS. 

MEEK  dwellers  mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs ! 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips, 
Whence  are  ye  7 — Did  some  white-winged  mes- 
senger 

On  mercy's  missions  trust  your  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows  1 
Or,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Bid  them  with  tear-drops  nurse  ye  1 — 

— Tree  nor  shrub 

Dare  that  drear  atmosphere ;  no  polar  pine 
Uprears  a  veteran  front ;  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick-ribb'd  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  brilliant  eyes  to  Him 
Who  bids  you  bloom  unblanch'd  amid  the  waste 
Of  desolation.     Man,  who,  panting,  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or,  trembling,  treads  the  verge 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  o'er  which  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity,  looks  shuddering  up, 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness — 
Fearless,  yet  frail — and,  clasping  his  chill  hands, 


232 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


Blesses  your  pencill'd  beauty.     Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain  summits  rushing  on  the  sky, 
And  chaining  the  rapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  you  drooping  to  his  breast, 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost-wing'd  gale, 
And  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 


CONTENTMENT. 

THINK'ST  thou  the  steed  that  restless  roves 
O'er  rocks  and  mountains,  fields  and  groves, 

With  wild,  unbridled  bound, 
Finds  fresher  pasture  than  tb?e  bee, 
On  thymy  bank  or  vernal  tree, 
Intent  to  store  her  industry 

Within  her  waxen  round  1 

Think'st  thou  the  fountain  forced  to  turn 
Through  marble  vase  or  sculptured  urn, 

Affords  a  sweeter  draught 
Than  that  which,  in  its  native  sphere, 
Perennial,  undisturb'd  and  clear, 
Flows,  the  lone  traveller's  thirst  to  cheer, 

And  wake  his  grateful  thought  1 

Think'st  thou  the  man  whose  mansions  hold 
The  worldling's  pomp  and  miser's  gold, 

Obtains  a  richer  prize 
Than  he  who,  in  his  cot  at  rest, 
Finds  heavenly  peace,  a  willing  guest, 
And  bears  the  promise  in  his  breast 

Of  treasure  in  the  skies  1 


THE  WIDOW'S  CHARGE  AT  HER 
DAUGHTER'S  BRIDAL. 


gently,  thou,  whose  hand  has  won 

The  young  bird  from  the  nest  away, 
Where,  careless  'neath  a  vernal  sun, 

She  gayly  caroll'd  day  by  day  : 
The  haunt  is  lone,  the  heart  must  grieve, 

From  whence  her  timid  wing  doth  soar, 
They  pensive  list,  at  hush  of  e,  ve, 

Yet  hear  her  gushing  song  no  more. 

Deal  gently  with  her  :  thou  art  dear 

Beyond  what  vestal  lips  have  told, 
And  like  a  lamb,  from  fountain  clear, 

She  turns  confiding  to  the  fold  ; 
She  round  thy  sweet,  domestic  bower 

The  wreaths  of  changeless  love  shall  twine, 
Watch  for  thy  step  at  vesper  hour, 

And  blend  her  holiest  prayer  with  thine. 

Deal  gently,  thou,  when  far  away, 

Mid  stranger  scenes  her  foot  shall  rove, 
Nor  let  thy  tender  cares  decay, 

The  soul  of  woman  lives  in  love  ; 
And  shouldst  thou,  wondering,  mark  a  tear 

Unconscious  from  her  eyelid  break, 
Be  pitiful,  and  sooth  the  fear 

That  man's  strong  heart  can  ne'er  partake. 


A  mother  yields  her  gem  to  thee, 

On  thy  true  breast  to  sparkle  rare ; 
She  places  'neath  thy  household  tree 

The  idol  of  her  fondest  care ; 
And  by  thy  trust  to  be  forgiven, 

When  judgment  wakes  in  terror  wild, 
By  all  thy  treasured  hopes  of  heaven, 

Deal  gently  with  the  widow's  child. 


BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 

KING  HENRY  sat  upon  his  throne, 

And  full  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
His  eye  a  recreant  knight  survey'd— 

Sir  BERNARDINE  DC  BORN. 
And  he  that  haughty  glance  return'd 

Like  lion  in  his  lair, 
And  loftily  his  unchanged  brow 

Gleam'd  through  his  crisped  hair. 

"  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  realm, 

Lord  of  a  lawless  band, 
The  bold  in  speech,  the  fierce  in  broil, 

The  troubler  of  our  land ; 
Thy  castles,  and  thy  rebel-towers, 

Are  forfeit  to  the  crown, 
And  thou  beneath  the  Norman  axe 

Shalt  end  thy  base  renown. 

"  Deign'st  thou  no  word  to  bar  thy  doom, 

Thou  with  strange  madness  fired  1 
Hath  reason  quite  forsook  thy  breast '!" 

PLANTAGENET  inquired. 
Sir  BERNARD  turn'd  him  toward  the  king, 

He  blench'd  not  in  his  pride ; 
"My  reason  fail'd,  my  gracious  liege, 

The  year  Prince  HENRY  died." 

Quick  at  that  name  a  cloud  of  wo 

Pass'd  o'er  the  monarch's  brow, 
Touch'd  was  that  bleeding  chord  of  love, 

To  which  the  mightiest  bow. 
Again  swept  back  the  tide  of  years, 

Again  his  first-born  moved, 
The  fair,  the  graceful,  the  sublime, 

The  erring,  yet  beloved. 

And  ever,  cherish'd  by  his  side, 

One  chosen  friend  was  near, 
To  share  in  boyhood's  ardent  sport 

Or  youth's  untam'd  career ; 
With  him  the  merry  chase  he  sought 

Beneath  the  dewy  morn, 
With  him  in  knightly  tourney  rode, 

This  BERN AHDINE  DU  BORN. 

Then  in  the  mourning  father's  soul 

Each  trace  of  ire  grew  dim. 
And  what  his  buried  idol  loved 

Seem'd  cleansed  of  guilt  to  him — 
And  faintly  through  his  tears  he  spake, 

"  GOD  send  his  grace  to  thee, 
And  for  the  dear  sake  of  the  dead, 

Go  forth — unscathed  and  free." 


LYDIA    H.   SIGOURNEY. 


233 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  SIR 
WALTER  SCOTT. 

REST  with  the  noble  dead 

In  Dryburgh's  solemn  pile, 
Where  sleep  the  peer  and  warrior  bold, 
And  mitred  abbots  stern  and  old, 

Along  the  statued  isle ; 
Where,  stain'd  with  dust  of  buried  years, 
The  rude  sarcophagus  appears 

In  mould  imbedded  deep ; 
And  Scotia's  skies  of  sparkling  blue 
Stream  with  the  oriel  windows  through 

Where  ivied  masses  creep ; 
And,  touch'd  with  symmetry  sublime, 
The  moss-clad  towers  that  mock  at  time 

Their  mouldering  legends  keep. 

And  yet,  methinks,  thou  shouldst  have  chose 

Thy  latest  couch  at  fair  Melrose, 
Whence  burst  thy  first,  most  ardent  song, 
And  swept  with  wildering  force  along 

Where  Tweed  in  silver  flows. 
There  the  young  moonbeams,  quivering  faint 
O'er  mural  tablet  sculptured  quaint, 

Reveal  a  lordly  race ; 
And  knots  of  roses  richly  wrought, 
And  tracery  light  as  poet's  thought, 

The  cluster'd  columns  grace. 

There  good  King  DAVID'S  rugged  mien 
Fast  by  his  faithful  spouse  is  seen, 

And  'neath  the  stony  floor 
Lie  chiefs  of  DOCGLAS'  haughty  breast, 
Contented  now  to  take  their  rest, 

And  rule  their  kings  no  more. 

It  was  a  painful  thing  to  see 

Trim  Abbotsford  so  gay, 
The  rose-trees  climbing  there  so  bold, 
The  ripening  fruits  in  rind  of  gold, 

And  thou,  their  lord,  away. 

I  saw  the  lamp,  with  oil  unspent, 

O'er  which  thy  thoughtful  brow  was  bent, 

When  erst,  with  magic  skill, 
Unearthly  beings  heard  thy  call, 
And  flitting  spectres  throng'd  the  hall, 

Obedient  to  thy  will. 

Yon  fair  domain  was  all  thine  own, 
From  stately  roof  to  threshold  stone, 

Yet  didst  thou  lavish  pay 
The  coin  that  caused  life's  wheels  to  stop  1 
The  heart's  blood  oozing  drop  by  drop 

Through  the  tired  brain  away  ? 

I  said  the  lamp  unspent  was  there, 
The  books  arranged  in  order  fair ; 
But  none  of  all  thy  kindred  race 
Found  in  those  lordly  halls  a  place  : 
Thine  only  son,  in  foreign  lands, 
Led  boldly  on  his  martial  bands, 
And  stranger-lips,  unmoved  and  cold, 
The  legends  of  thy  mansion  told  ; 
They  lauded  glittering  brand  and  spear, 
And  costly  gifts  of  prince  and  peer, 
30 


And  broad  claymore,  with  silver  dight, 
And  hunting-horn  of  border  knight— 

What  were  such  gauds  to  me  1 
More  dear  had  been  one  single  word 
From  those  whose  veins  thy  blood  had  stirr'd 

To  Scotia's  accents  free. 

Yet  one  there  was,  in  humble  cell, 

A  poor  retainer,  lone  and  old, 
Who  of  thy  youth  remember'd  well, 

And  many  a  treasured  story  told ; 
And  pride,  upon  her  wrinkled  face, 

Blent  strangely  with  the  trickling  tear, 
As  Memory,  from  its  choicest  place, 
Brought  forth,  in  deep  recorded  trace, 

Thy  boyhood's  gambols  dear ; 
Or  pointed  out,  with  wither'd  hand, 
Where  erst  thy  garden-seat  did  stand, 
When  thou,  return'd  from  travel  vain, 
Wrapp'd  in  thy  plaid,  and  pale  with  pain, 

Didst  gaze  with  vacant  eye, 
For  stern  disease  had  drank  the  fount 

Of  mental  vision  dry. 

Ah !  what  avails,  with  giant  power, 
To  wrest  the  trophies  of  an  hour ; 
One  moment  write,  with  sparkling  eye, 
Our  name  on  castled  turrets  high, 
And  yield  the  next,  a  broken  trust, 
To  earth,  to  ashes,  and  to  dust. 

And  now,  farewell,  whose  hand  did  sweep 

Away  the  damps  of  ages  deep, 

And  fire  with  proud  baronial  strain 

The  harp  of  chivalry  again, 

And  make  its  wild,  forgotten  thrill 

To  modern  ears  delightful  still. 

Thou,  who  didst  make,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Bleak  Caledonia's  mountains  hoar, 
Her  blue  lakes  bosom'd  in  their  shade, 
Her  sheepfolds  scatter'd  o'er  the  glade, 
Her  rills,  with  music,  leaping  down, 
The  perfume  of  her  heather  brown, 
Familiar  as  their  native  glen 
To  differing  tribes  of  distant  men, 
Patriot  and  bard !  old  Scotia's  care 
Shall  keep  thine  image  fresh  and  fair, 
Embalming  to  remotest  time 
The  SHAKSPEAKE  of  her  tuneful  clime. 


A  BUTTERFLY  AT  A  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 

A  BUTTERFLY  bask'd  on  an  infant's  grave, 
Where  a  lily  had  chanced  to  grow ; 

Why  art  thou  here  with  thy  gaudy  dye  ? 

Where  she  of  the  bright  and  the  sparkling  eye 
Must  sleep  in  the  churchyard  low. 

Then  it  lightly  soar'd  through  the  sunny  air, 

And  spoke  from  its  shining  track : 
I  was  a  worm  till  I  won  my  wings, 

And  she  whom  thou  mourn'st,  like  a  seraph 


Wouldst  thou  call  the  blest  one  back  1 
r  2 


234 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


INDIAN  GIRL'S  BURIAL. 

A  VOICE  upon  the  prairies, 

A  cry  of  woman's  wo, 
That  mingleth  with  the  autumn  blast 

All  fitfully  and  low ; 
It  is  a  mother's  wailing : 

Hath  earth  another  tone 
Like  that  with  which  a  mother  mourns 

Her  lost,  her  only  one ! 

Pale  faces  gather  round  her, 

They  mark'd  the  storm  swell  high 
That  rends  and  wrecks  the  tossing  soul, 

But  their  cold,  blue  eyes  are  dry. 
Pale  faces  gaze  upon  her, 

As  the  wild  winds  caught  her  moan, 
But  she  was  an  Indian  mother, 

So  she  wept  her  tears  alone. 

Long  o'er  that  wasted  idol 

She  watch'd,  and  toil'd,  and  pray'd, 
Though  every  dreary  dawn  reveal'd 

Some  ravage  death  had  made, 
Till  the  fleshless  sinews  started, 

And  hope  no  opiate  gave, 
And  hoarse  and  hollow  grew  her  voice, 

An  echo  from  the  grave. 

She  was  a  gentle  creature, 

Of  raven  eye  and  tress; 
And  dove-like  were  the  tones  that  breathed 

Her  bosom's  tenderness, 
Save  when  some  quick  emotion 

The  warm  blood  strongly  sent, 
To  revel  in  her  olive  cheek, 

So  richly  eloquent. 

I  said  consumption  smote  her, 

And  the  healer's  art  was  vain, 
But  she  was  an  Indian  maiden, 

So  none  deplored  her  pain ; 
None,  save  that  widow'd  mother, 

Who  now,  by  her  open  tomb, 
Is  writhing,  like  the  smitten  wretch 

Whom  judgment  marks  for  doom. 

Alas !  that  lowly  cabin, 

That  bed  beside  the  wall, 
That  seat  beneath  the  mantling  vine, 

They  're  lone  and  empty  all. 
What  hand  shall  pluck  the  tall  green  corn, 

That  ripeneth  on  the  plain  7 
Since  she  for  whom  the  board  was  spread 

Must  ne'er  return  again. 

Rest,  rest,  thou  Indian  maiden, 

Nor  let  thy  murmuring  shade 
Grieve  that  those  pale-brow'd  ones  with  scorn 

Thy  burial  rite  survey'd ; 
There 's  many  a  king  whose  funeral 

A  black-robed  realm  shall  see, 
For  whom  no  tear  of  grief  is  shed 

Like  that  which  falls  for  thee. 


Yea,  rest  thee,  forest  maiden, 

Beneath  thy  native  tree ! 
The  proud  may  boast  their  little  day, 

Then  sink  to  dust  like  thee  : 
But  there 's  many  a  one  funeral 

With  nodding  plumes  may  be, 
Whom  nature  nor  affection  mourn, 

As  here  they  mourn  for  thee. 


BARZILLAI  THE  GILEADITE. 


"  Let  me  be  buried  by  the  grave  of  my  father  and  of 
my  mother."— 2  Sam.  xix.  37. 

Sox  of  JESSE  ! — let  me  go, 

Why  should  princely  honours  stay  me  ? — 
Where  the  streams  of  Gilead  flow, 
Where  the  light  first  met  mine  eye, 
Thither  would  I  turn  and  die ; — 
Where  my  parent's  ashes  lie, 

King  of  Israel ! — bid  them  lay  me. 

Bury  me  near  my  sire  revered, 
Whose  feet  in  righteous  paths  so  firmly  trod, 
Who  early  taught  my  soul  with  awe 
To  heed  the  prophets  and  the  law, 
And  to  my  infant  heart  appear'd 

Majestic  as  a  GOD  : — 
O !  when  his  sacred  dust 
The  cerements  of  the  tomb  shall  burst, 
Might  I  be  worthy  at  his  feet  to  rise 

To  yonder  blissful  skies, 
Where  angel-hosts  resplendent  shine, 
JEHOVAH  ! — Lord  of  hosts,  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Cold  age  upon  my  breast 

Hath  shed  a  frost-like  death ; 

The  wine-cup  hath  no  zest, 

The  rose  no  fragrant  breath  ; 

Music  from  my  ear  hath  fled, 

Yet  still  the  sweet  tone  lingereth  there. 
The  blessing  that  my  mother  shed 
Upon  my  evening  prayer. 
Dim  is  my  wasted  eye 
To  all  that  beauty  brings, 
The  brow  of  grace — 'the  form  of  symmetry 

Are  half-forgotten  things ; — 
Yet  one  bright  hue  is  vivid  still, 
A  mother's  holy  smile,  that  soothed  my  sharpest  ill. 

Memory,  with  traitor-tread 

Methinks,  doth  steal  away 
Treasures  that  the  mind  hath  laid 

Up  for  a  wintry  day. 
Images  of  sacred  power, 
Cherish'd  deep  in  passion's  hour, 

Faintly  now  my  bosom  stir: 
Good  and  evil  like  a  dream 
Half  obscured  and  shadowy  scrm, 
Yet  with  a  changeless  love  my  soul  rememberethher, 

Yea — it  remembereth  her  : 
Close  by  her  blessed  side,  make  ye  my  sepulchre. 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


235 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

*   DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polish'd 

brow, 

And  dash'd  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touch'd  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded.     Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
Forever.     There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence.     But  there  beam'd  a  smile, 
So  fix'd,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.    He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  heaven. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

• 

How  slow  yon  lonely  vessel  ploughs  the  main ! 
Amid  the  heavy  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toiling  atom ;  then,  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lash'd,  or  reels 
Half-wreck'd  through  gulfs  profound.    Moons  wax 

and  wane, 

But  still  that  patient  traveller  treads  the  deep. 
— I  see  an  ice-bound  coast  toward  which  she  steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement,  that  it  seems 
Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  turn'd  her  keel  to  stone, 
And  seal'd  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds. 
— They  land !  they  land !  not  like  the  Genoese, 
With  glittering  sword,  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies.     Forth  they  come 
From  their  long  prison,  hardy  forms  that  brave 
The  world's  unkindness,  men  of  hoary  hair, 
Maidens  of  fearless  heart,  and  matrons  grave, 
Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  glance. 
Bleak  Nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round, 
Eternal  forests,  and  unyielding  earth, 
And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 
With  vengeful  arrow.    What  could  lure  their  steps 
To  this  drear  desert  1     Ask  of  him  who  left 
His  father's  home  to  roam  through  Haran's  wilds, 
Distrusting  not  the  guide  who  call'd  him  forth, 
Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 
Should  be  as  ocean's  sands.     But  yon  lone  bark 
Hath  spread  her  parting  sail.  They  crowd  the  strand, 
Those  few,  lone  pilgrims.     Can  ye  scan  the  wo 
That  wrings  their  bosoms,  as  the  last,  frail  link, 
Binding  to  man,  and  habitable  earth, 
Is  sever'd  1     Can  ye  tell  what  pangs  were  there, 
With  keen  regrets ;  what  sickness  of  the  heart, 
What  yearnings  o'er  their  forfeit  land  of  birth, 
Their  distant,  dear  ones  1  Long,  with  straining  eye, 
They  watch  the  lessening  speck.  Heard  ye  no  shriek 
Of  anguish,  when  that  bitter  loneliness 
Sank  down  into  their  bosoms  7     No  !  they  turn 
Back  to  their  dreary,  famish'd  huts,  and  pray ! 
*  Pray,  and  the  ills  that  haunt  this  transient  life 
Fade  into  air.     Up  in  each  girded  breast 
There  sprang  a  rooted  and  mysterious  strength, 


A  loftiness,  to  face  a  world  in  arms, 
To  strip  the  pomp  from  sceptres,  and  to  lay 
On  duty's  sacred  altar,  the  warm  blood 
Of  slain  affections,  should  they  rise  between 
The  soul  and  GOD.     O  ye,  who  proudly  boast, 
In  your  free  veins,  the  blood  of  sires  like  these, 
Look  to  their  lineaments.     Dread  lest  ye  lose 
Their  likeness  in  your  sons.  Should  Mammon  cling 
Too  close  around  your  heart,  or  wealth  beget 
That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 
From  manly  virtue,  or  the  tempting  world 
Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul, 
Turn  ye  to  Plymouth-rock,  and  where  they  knelt 
Kneel,  and  renew  the  vow  they  breathed  to  GOD. 


INDIAN  NAMES. 

"How  can  the  red  men  be  forgotten,  while  so  many  of 
our  states  and  territories,  bays,  lakes,  and  rivers,  are  in- 
delibly stamped  by  names  of  their  giving  1" 

YE  say  they  all  have  pass'd  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave  ; 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanish'd 

From  off  the  crested  wave ; 
That,  mid  the  forests  where  they  roam'd, 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout ; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'T  is  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  ocean's  surge  is  curl'd, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world, 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  west, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins, 

That  cluster'd  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  disappear'd,  as  wither'd  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale ; 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown. 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  its  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart. 
Monadnock,  on  his  forehead  hoar, 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust, 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


GEORGE   W.  DOANE. 


[Born,  1799.] 


THE  Right  Reverend  GEOHGE  WASHINGTON 
DOANE,  D.  D.,  LL.  D.,  was  born  in  Trenton, 
New  Jersey,  1799.  He  was  graduated  at  Union 
College,  Schenectady,  when  nineteen  years  old, 
and  immediately  after  commenced  the  study  of 
theology.  He  was  ordained  deacon  by  Bishop 
HOBAHT,  in  1821,  and  priest  by  the  same  prelate 
in  1823.  He  officiated  in  Trinity  Church,  New 
York,  three  years,  and,  in  1824,  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Belles  Lettres  and  Oratory  in  Wash- 
ington College,  Connecticut  He  resigned  that 
office  in  1828,  and  soon  after  was  elected  rector 
of  Trinity  Church,  in  Boston.  He  was  conse- 


ON  A  VERY  OLD  WEDDING-RING. 

THE  DEVICE— Two  hearts  united. 
THE  MOTTO—"  Dear  love  of  mine,  my  heart  is  thine." 

I  LIKE  that  ring — that  ancient  ring, 

Of  massive  form,  and  virgin  gold, 
As  firm,  as  free  from  base  alloy, 

As  were  the  sterling  hearts  of  old. 
I  like  it — for  it  wafts  me  back, 

Far,  far  along  the  stream  of  time, 
To  other  men,  and  other  days, 

The  men  and  days  of  deeds  sublime. 


But  most  I  like  it,  as  it  tells 

The  tale  of  well-requited  love ; 
How  youthful  fondness  persevered, 

And  youthful  faith  disdain'd  to  rove — 
How  warmly  he  his  suit  preferr'd, 

Though  she,  unpitying,  long  denied, 
Till,  soften'd  and  subdued,  at  last, 

He  won  his  «  fair  and  blooming  bride." — 

How,  till  the  appointed  day  arrived, 

They  blamed  the  lazy-footed  hours — 
How,  then,  the  white-robed  maiden  train 

Strew'd  their  glad  way  with  freshest  flowers — 
And  how,  before  the  holy  man, 

They  stood,  in  all  their  youthful  pride, 
And  spoke  those  words,  and  vow'd  those  vows, 

Which  bind  the  husband  to  his  bride : 

All  this  it  tells ;  the  plighted  troth — 

The  gift  of  every  earthly  thing — 
The  hand  in  hand — the  heart  in  heart — 

For  this  I  like  that  ancient  ring. 
I  like  its  old  and  quaint  device ; 

«  Two  blended  hearts" — though  time  may  wear 

them, 
No  mortal  change,  no  mortal  chance, 

«  Till  death,"  shall  e'er  in  sunder  tear  them. 


crated  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  of  New  Jersey, 
on  the  thirty-first  of  October,  1832.  The  church 
has  few  more  active,  efficient,  or  popular  pre- 
lates. 

Bishop  DOANE'S  "  Songs  by  the  Way,"  a  col- 
lection of  poems,  chiefly  devotional,  were  pub- 
lished in  1824,  and  appear  to  have  been  mostly 
produced  during  his  college-life.  He  has  since, 
from  time  to  time,  written  poetry  for  festival-days 
and  other  occasions;  but  he  has  published  no 
second  volume.  His  contributions  to  the  religious 
literature  of  the  country  are  more  numerous  and 
valuable. 


Year  after  year,  'neath  sun  and  storm, 

Their  hopes  in  heaven,  their  trust  in  GOD, 
In  changeless,  heartfelt,  holy  love, 

These  two  the  world's  rough  pathway  trod. 
Age  might  impair  their  youthful  fires, 

Their  strength  might  fail,  mid  life's  bleak  weather, 
Still,  hand  in  hand,  they  travell'd  on — 

Kind  souls !  they  slumber  now  together. 

I  like  its  simple  poesy  too : 

"  Mine  own  dear  love,  this  heart  is  thine !" 
Thine,  when  the  dark  storm  howls  along, 

As  when  the  cloudless  sunbeams  shine. 
"  This  heart  is  thine,  mine  own  dear  love !" 

Thine,  and  thine  only,  and  forever ; 
Thine,  till  the  springs  of  life  shall  fail, 

Thine,  till  the  cords  of  life  shall  sever. 

Remnant  of  days  departed  long, 

Emblem  of  plighted  troth  unbroken, 

Pledge  of  devoted  faithfulness, 
Of  heartfelt,  holy  love  the  token : 

What  varied  feelings  round  it  cling ! — 

For  these  I  like  that  ancient  ring. 


THE  VOICE  OF  RAMA. 

"  RACHEL  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be 
comforted." 

HEARD  ye,  from  Rama's  ruin'd  walls, 

That  voice  of  bitter  weeping ! — 
Is  it  the  moan  of  fetter'd  slave, 

His  watch  of  sorrow  keeping  ? 
Heard  ye,  from  Rama's  wasted  plains, 

That  cry  of  lamentation  ! — 
Is  it  the  wail  of  ISRAEL'S  sons, 

For  Salem's  devastation  1 


Ah,  no — a  sorer  ill  than  chains 
That  bitter  wail  is  waking, 


230 


GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 


237 


And  deeper  wo  than  Salem's  fall 
That  tortured  heart  is  breaking : 

'Tis  RACHEL,  of  her  sons  bereft, 
Who  lifts  that  voice  of  weeping ; 

And  childless  are  the  eyes  that  there 
Their  watch  of  grief  are  keeping. 

0  !  who  shall  tell  what  fearful  pangs 

That  mother's  heart  are  rending, 
As  o'er  her  infant's  little  grave 

Her  wasted  form  is  bending ; 
From  many  an  eye  that  weeps  to-day 

Delight  may  beam  to-morrow; 
But  she — her  precious  babe  is  not ! 

And  what  remains  but  sorrow  1 

Bereaved  one !  I  may  not  chide 

Thy  tears  and  bitter  sobbing — 
Weep  on  !  'twill  cool  that  burning  brow, 

And  still  that  bosom's  throbbing : 
But  be  not  thine  such  grief  as  theirs 

To  whom  no  hope  is  given — 
Snatch'd  from  the  world,  its  sins  and  snares, 

Thy  infant  rests  in  heaven. 


THAT  SILENT  MOON. 

THAT  silent  moon,  that  silent  moon, 
Careering  now  through  cloudless  sky, 

0  !  who  shall  tell  what  varied  scenes 
Have  pass'd  beneath  her  placid  eye, 

Since  first,  to  light  this  wayward  earth, 

She  walk'd  in  tranquil  beauty  forth  ! 

How  oft  has  guilt's  unhallow'd  hand, 
And  superstition's  senseless  rite, 

And  loud,  licentious  revelry 

Profaned  her  pure  and  holy  light  : 

Small  sympathy  is  hers,  I  ween, 

With  sights  like  these,  that  virgin  queen ! 

But  dear  to  her,  in  summer  eve, 
By  rippling  wave,  or  tufted  grove, 

When  hand  in  hand  is  purely  clasp'd, 
And  heart  meets  heart  in  holy  love, 

To  smile  in  quiet  loneliness, 

And  hear  each  whisper'd  vow,  and  bless. 

Dispersed  along  the  world's  wide  way, 
When  friends  are  far,  and  fond  ones  rove, 

How  powerful  she  to  wake  the  thought, 
And  start  the  tear  for  those  we  love, 

Who  watch  with  us  at  night's  pale  noon, 

And  gaze  upon  that  silent  moon. 

How  powerful,  too,  to  hearts  that  mourn, 
The  magic  of  that  moonlight  sky, 

To  bring  again  the  vanish'd  scenes — 
The  happy  eves  of  days  gone  by ; 

Again  to  bring,  mid  bursting  tears, 

The  loved,  the  lost  of  other  years. 

And  oft  she  looks,  that  silent  moon, 
On  lonely  eyes  that  wake  to  weep 

In  dungeon  dark,  or  sacred  cell, 

Or  couch,  whence  pain  has  banish'd  sleep : 

0  !  softly  beams  her  gentle  eye 

On  those  who  mourn,  and  those  who  die  ! 


But,  beam  on  whomsoe'er  she  will, 
And  fall  where'er  her  splendours  may, 

There's  pureness  in  her  chasten'd  light, 
There's  comfort  in  her  tranquil  ray : 

What  power  is  hers  to  soothe  the  heart— 

What  power,  the  trembling  tear  to  start ! 

The  dewy  morn  let  others  love, 
Or  bask  them  in  the  noontide  ray ; 

There's  not  an  hour  but  has  its  charm, 
From  dawning  light  to  dying  day : — 

But,  0 !  be  mine  a  fairer  boon — 

That  silent  moon,  that  silent  moon ! 


THERMOPYLAE. 

'TWAS  an  hour  of  fearful  issues, 

When  the  bold  three  hundred  stood, 
For  their  love  of  holy  freedom, 
By  that  old  Thessalian  flood ; 
When,  lifting  high  each  sword  of  flame, 
They  call'd  on  every  sacred  name, 
And  swore,  beside  those  dashing  waves, 
They  never,  never  would  be  slaves ! 

And,  O  !  that  oath  was  nobly  kept : 

From  morn  to  setting  sun 
Did  desperation  urge  the  fight 

Which  valour  had  begun ; 
Till,  torrent-like,  the  stream  of  blood 
Ran  down  and  mingled  with  the  flood, 
And  all,  from  mountain-clifT  to  wave, 
Was  Freedom's,  Valour's,  Glory's  grave. 

O,  yes,  that  oath  was  nobly  kept, 
Which  nobly  had  been  sworn, 
And  proudly  did  each  gallant  heart 

The  foeman's  fetters  spurn ; 
And  firmly  was  the  fight  maintain'd, 
And  amply  was  the  triumph  gain'd ; 
They  fought,  fair  Liberty,  for  thee : 
They  fell — TO  DIE  is  TO  BE  FREE. 


THE  WATERS  OF  MARAH. 

"  And  MOSES  cried  unto  the  LORD,  and  the  LORD  showed 
him  a  tree,  which,  when  he  had  cast  into  the  waters,  the 
waters  were  made  sweet." 

B  r  Marah's  stream  of  bitterness 

When  MOSES  stood  and  cried, 
JEHOVAH  heard  his  fervent  prayer, 

And  instant  help  supplied : 
The  prophet  sought  the  precious  tree 

With  prompt,  obedient  feet ; 
'T  was  cast  into  the  fount,  and  made 

The  bitter  waters  sweet. 

Whene'er  affliction  o'er  thee  sheds 

Its  influence  malign, 
Then,  sufferer,  be  the  prophet's  prayer 

And  prompt  obedience,  thine  : 
'Tis  but  a  Marah's  fount,  ordain'd 

Thy  faith  in  GOD  to  prove, 
And  prayer  and  resignation  shall 

Its  bitterness  remove. 


238 


GEORGE    W.    DOANE. 


"WHAT  IS  THAT,  MOTHER?" 

WHAT  is  that,  Mother? — The  lark,  my  child ! — 
The  morn  has  but  just  look'd  out,  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  his  humble  grassy  nest, 
And  is  up  and  away,  with  the  dew  on  his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  bright  sphere, 
To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear. 

Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  morn's  first  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise. 

What  is  that,  Mother  1 — The  dove,  my  son! — 
And  that  low,  sweet  voice,  like  a  widow's  moan, 
Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 
Constant  and  pure,  by  that  lonely  nest, 
As  the  wave  is  pour'd  from  some  crystal  um, 
For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return: 
Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove, 
In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love. 

What  is  that,  Mother? — The  eagle,  boy ! — 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy ; 
Firm,  on  his  own  mountain  vigour  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying, 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  the  sun, 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  on. 
Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine, 
Onward,  and  upward,  and  true  to  the  line. 

What  is  that,  Mother? — The  swan,  my  love! — 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove, 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh, 
He  is  floating  down,  by  himself  to  die ; 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
Yet  his  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 

Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  death  shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  waft  thee  home. 


A  CHERUB. 

"  Dear  Sir,  I  am  in  some  little  disorder  by  reason  of  the 
death  of  a  little  child  of  mine,  a  boy  that  lately  made  as 
very  glad;  but  now  he  rejoices  in  his  little  orbe,  while 
we  thinke,  and  sigh,  and  long  to  be  as  safe  as  he  is." — 
JEREMY  TAYLOR  to  EVELYN,  1656. 

BEAUTIFUL  thing,  with  thine  eye  of  light, 
And  thy  brow  of  cloudless  beauty  bright, 
Gazing  for  aye  on  the  sapphire  throne 
Of  Him  who  dwelleth  in  light  alone — 
Art  thou  hasting  now,  on  that  golden  wing, 
With  the  burning  seraph  choir  to  sing  ? 
Or  stooping  to  earth,  in  thy  gentleness, 
Our  darkling  path  to  cheer  and  bless? 

Beautiful  thing !  thou  art  come  in  love, 
With  gentle  gales  from  the  world  above, 
Breathing  of  purencss,  breathing  of  bliss, 
Bearing  our  spirits  away  from  this, 
To  the  better  thoughts,  to  the  brighter  skies, 
Where  heaven's  eternal  sunshine  lies ; 
Winning  our  hearts,  by  a  blessed  guile, 
With  that  Infant  look  and  angel  smile. 


Beautiful  thing !  thou  art  come  in  joy, 

With  the  look  and  the  voice  of  our  darling  boy — 

Him  that  was  torn  from  the  bleeding  hearts 

He  had  twined  about  with  his  infant  arts, 

To  dwell,  from  sin  and  sorrow  far, 

In  the  golden  orb  of  his  little  star: 

There  he  rejoiceth  in  light,  while  we 

Long  to  be  happy  and  safe  as  he. 

Beautiful  thing!  thou  art  come  in  peace, 
Bidding  our  doubts  and  our  fears  to  cease ; 
Wiping  the  tears  which  unbidden  start 
From  that  bitter  fount  in  the  broken  heart, 
Cheering  us  still  on  our  lonely  way, 
Lest  our  spirits  should  faint,  or  our  feet  should  stray, 
Till,  risen  with  CIIUIST,  we  come  to  be, 
Beautiful  thing,  with  our  boy  and  thee. 


LINES  BY  THE  LAKE  SIDE. 

THIS  placid  lake,  my  gentle  girl, 

Be  emblem  of  thy  life, 
As  full  of  peace  and  purity, 

As  free  from  care  and  strife ; 
No  ripple  on  its  tranquil  breast 

That  dies  not  with  the  day, 
No  pebble  in  its  darkest  depths, 

But  quivers  in  its  ray. 

And  see,  how  every  glorious  form 

And  pageant  of  the  skies, 
Reflected  from  its  glassy  face, 

A  mirror'd  image  lies ; 
So  be  thy  spirit  ever  pure, 

To  GOD  and  virtue  given, 
And  thought,  and  word,  and  action  bear 

The  imagery  of  heaven. 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  DEATH. 


LIFT  not  thou  the  wailing  voice, 
Weep  not,  'tis  a  Christian  dieth, — 

Up,  where  blessed  saints  rejoice, 
Ransom'd  now,  the  spirit  flieth ; 

High,  in  heaven's  own  light,  she  dwelleth, 

Full  the  song  of  triumph  swelleth; 

Freed  from  earth,  and  earthly  failing, 

Lift  for  her  ho  voice  of  wailing! 

Pour  not  thou  the  bitter  tear; 

Heaven  its  book  of  comfort  opeth; 
Bids  thee  sorrow  not,  nor  fear, 

But,  as  one  who  alway  hopeth, 
Humbly  here  in  faith  relying, 
Peacefully  in  JESUS  dying, 
Heavenly  joy  her  eye  is  flushing, — 
Wrhy  should  thine  with  tears  be  gushing? 

They  who  die  in  CHRIST  are  bless'd, — 
Ours  be,  then,  no  thought  of  grieving! 

Sweetly  with  their  Gon  they  rest, 
All  their  toils  and  troubles  leaving: 

So  be  ours  the  faith  that  saveth, 

Hope  that  every  trial  braveth, 

Love  that  to  the  end  endureth, 

And,  through  CHHIST,  the  crown  secureth! 


W.   B.   0.   PEABODY. 

(Born,  1799.] 


THE  Reverend  WILLIAK  B.  O.  PEABODY  was 
born  at  Exeter,  New  Hampshire,  in  1799.  He 
was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated 
in  1816.  In  1820,  he  was  established  as  a  minister 


in  the  village  of  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  and 
has  resided  there  since  that  time,  discharging  his 
professional  duties,  and  occasionally  writing  for  the 
North  American  Review  and  other  periodicals. 


HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

GOD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 

The  dark,  green  fields  contented  lie; 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky ; 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

GOD  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summon'd  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dash'd  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calm'd  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

GOD  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

GOD  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh, 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry, 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

GOD  of  the  fair  and  open  sky ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings  ! 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

GOP  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 


For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 
And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 

Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 
Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

GOD  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay ; 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


TO  WILLIAM. 

WRITTEN  BY  A  BEREAVED  FATHER. 

IT  seems  but  yesterday,  my  love, 

Thy  little  heart  beat  high  ; 
And  I  had  almost  scorn'd  the  voice 

That  told  me  thou  must  die. 
I  saw  thee  move  with  active  bound, 

With  spirits  wild  and  free ; 
And  infant  grace  and  beauty  gave 

Their  glorious  charm  to  thee. 

Far  on  the  sunny  plains,  I  saw 

Thy  sparkling  footsteps  fly, 
Firm,  light,  and  graceful,  as  the  bird 

That  cleaves  the  morning  sky ; 
And  often,  as  the  playful  breeze 

Waved  back  thy  shining  hah*, 
Thy  cheek  display'd  the  red  rose-tint 

That  health  had  painted  there. 

And  then,  in  all  my  thoughtfulness, 

I  could  not  but  rejoice 
To  hear,  upon  the  morning  wind, 

The  music  of  thy  voice, — 
Now,  echoing  in  the  rapturous  laugh, 

Now  sad,  almost  to  tears, 
'Twas  like  the  sounds  I  used  to  hear, 

In  old  and  happier  years. 

Thanks  for  that  memory  to  thee, 

My  little,  lovely  boy, — 
That  memory  of  my  youthful  bliss, 

Which  time  would  fain  destroy. 

939 


240 


W.   B.   O.   PEABODY. 


I  listen'd,  as  the  mariner 
Suspends  the  out-bound  oar, 

To  taste  the  farewell  gale  that  breathes 
From  off  his  native  shore. 

So  gentle  in  thy  loveliness ! — 

Alas !  how  could  it  be, 
That  death  would  not  forbear  to  lay 

His  icy  hand  on  thee ; 
Nor  spare  thee  yet  a  little  while, 

In  childhood's  opening  bloom, 
While  many  a  sad  and  weary  soul 

Was  longing  for  the  tomb ! 

Was  mine  a  happiness  too  pure 

For  erring  man  to  know  1 
Or  why  did  Heaven  so  soon  destroy 

My  paradise  below? 
Enchanting  as  the  vision  was, 

It  sunk  away  as  soon 
As  when,  in  quick  and  cold  eclipse, 

The  sun  grows  dark  at  noon. 

I  loved  thee,  and  my  heart  was  bless'd ; 

But,  ere  the  day  was  spent, 
I  saw  thy  light  and  graceful  form 

In  drooping  illness  bent, 
And  shudder'd  as  I  cast  a  look 

Upon  thy  fainting  head ; 
The  mournful  cloud  was  gathering  there, 

And  life  was  almost  fled. 

Days  pass'd ;  and  soon  the  seal  of  death 

Made  known  that  hope  was  vain ; 
I  knew  the  swiftly-wasting  lamp 

Would  never  burn  again ; 
The  cheek  was  pale ;  the  snowy  lips 

Were  gently  thrown  apart ; 
And  life,  in  every  passing  breath, 

Seem'd  gushing  from  the  heart. 

I  knew  those  marble  lips  to  mine 

Should  never  more  be  press'd, 
And  floods  of  feeling,  undefined, 

Roll'd  wildly  o'er  my  breast; 
Low,  stifled  sounds,  and  dusky  forms 

Seem'd  moving  in  the  gloom, 
As  if  death's  dark  array  were  come, 

To  bear  thee  to  the  tomb. 

And  when  I  could  not  keep  the  tear 

From  gathering  in  my  eye, 
Thy  little  hand  press'd  gently  mine, 

In  token  of  reply ; 
To  ask  one  more  exchange  of  love, 

Thy  look  was  upward  cast, 
And  in  that  long  and  burning  kiss 

Thy  happy  spirit  pass'd. 

I  never  trusted  to  have  lived 

To  bid  farewell  to  thee, 
And  almost  said,  in  agony, 

It  ought  not  so  to  be ; 
I  hoped  that  thou  within  the  grave 

My  weary  head  shouldst  lay, 
And  live,  beloved,  when  I  was  gone, 

For  many  a  happy  day. 


With  trembling  hand,  I  vainly  tried 

Thy  dying  eyes  to  close ; 
And  almost  envied,  in  that  hour, 

Thy  calm  and  deep  repose ; 
For  I  was  left  in  loneliness, 

With  pain  and  grief  oppress'd, 
And  thou  wast  with  the  sainted, 

Where  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Yes,  I  am  sad  and  weary  now ; 

But  let  me  not  repine, 
Because  a  spirit,  loved  so  well, 

Is  earlier  bless'd  than  mine ; 
My  faith  may  darken  as  it  will, 

I  shall  not  much  deplore, 
Since  thou  art  where  the  ills  of  life 

Can  never  reach  thee  more. 


MONADNOCK. 

UPOJT  the  far-off  mountain's  brow 

The  angry  storm  has  ceased  to  beat ; 
And  broken  clouds  are  gathering  now 

In  sullen  reverence  round  his  feet ; 
I  saw  their  dark  and  crowded  bands 

In  thunder  on  his  breast  descending; 
But  there  once  more  redeem'd  he  stands, 

And  heaven's  clear  arch  is  o'er  him  bending. 

I  've  seen  him  when  the  morning  sun 

Burn'd  like  a  bale-fire  on  the  height ; 
I  've  seen  him  when  the  day  was  done, 

Bathed  in  the  evening's  crimson  light. 
I  've  seen  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 

When  all  the  world  were  calmly  sleeping, 
Lake  some  stern  sentry  in  his  tower, 

His  weary  watch  in  silence  keeping. 

And  there,  forever  firm  and  clear, 

His  lofty  turret  upward  springs ; 
He  owns  no  rival  summit  near, 

No  sovereign  but  the  King  of  kings. 
Thousands  of  nations  have  pass'd  by, 

Thousands  of  years  unknown  to  story, 
And  still  his  aged  walls  on  high 

He  rears,  in  melancholy  glory. 

The  proudest  works  of  human  hands 

Live  but  an  age  before  they  fall ; 
While  that  severe  and  hoary  tower 

Outlasts  the  mightiest  of  them  all. 
And  man  himself,  more  frail,  by  far, 

Than  even  the  works  his  hand  is  raising, 
Sinks  downward,  like  the  falling  star 

That  flashes,  and  expires  in  blazing. 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  heart, 

Its  loves  and  sorrows,  joys  and  fears, 
Its  hopes  and  memories,  must  depart 

To  sleep  with  unremember'd  years. 
But  still  that  ancient  rampart  stands 

Unchanged,  though  years  are  passing  o'er  him; 
And  time  withdraws  his  powerless  hands, 

While  ages  melt  away  before  him. 


W.   B.    0.   PEABODY. 


241 


So  should  it  be — for  no  heart  beats 

Within  his  cold  and  silent  breast ; 
To  him  no  gentle  voice  repeats 

The  soothing  words  that  make  us  blest 
And  more  than  this — his  deep  repose 

Is  troubled  by  no  thoughts  of  sorrow ; 
He  hath  no  weary  eyes  to  close, 

No  cause  to  hope  or  fear  to-morrow. 

Farewell !  I  go  my  distant  way ; 

Perchance,  in  some  succeeding  years, 
The  eyes  that  know  no  cloud  to-day, 

May  gaze  upon  thee  dim  with  tears. 
Then  may  thy  calm,  unaltering  form 

Inspire  in  me  the  firm  endeavour — 
Like  thee,  to  meet  each  lowering  storm, 

Till  life  and  sorrow  end  forever. 


THE  WINTER  NIGHT. 

'Tis  the  high  festival  of  night ! 
The  earth  is  radiant  with  delight ; 
And,  fast  as  weary  day  retires, 
The  heaven  unfolds  its  secret  fires, 
Bright,  as  when  first  the  firmament 
Around  the  new-made  world  was  bent, 
And  infant  seraphs  pierced  the  blue, 
Till  rays  of  heaven  came  shining  through. 

And  mark  the  heaven's  reflected  glow 

On  many  an  icy  plain  below; 

And  where  the  streams,  with  tinkling  clash, 

Against  their  frozen  barriers  dash, 

Like  fairy  lances  fleetly  cast, 

The  glittering  ripples  hurry  past ; 

And  floating  sparkles  glance  afar, 

Like  rivals  of  some  upper  star. 

And  see,  beyond,  how  sweetly  still 
The  snowy  moonlight  wraps  th«  hill, 
And  many  an  aged  pine  receives 
The  steady  brightness  on  its  leaves, 
Contrasting  with  those  giant  forms, 
Which,  rifled  by  the  winter  storms, 
With  naked  branches,  broad  and  high, 
Are  darkly  painted  on  the  sky. 

From  every  mountain's  towering  head 
A  white  and  glistening  robe  is  spread, 
As  if  a  melted  silver  tide 
Were  gushing  down  its  lofty  side ; 
The  clear,  cold  lustre  of  the  moon 
Is  purer  t'uan  the  burning  noon ; 
And  day  hath  never  known  the  charm 
That  dwells  amid  this  evening  calm. 

The  idler,  on  his  silken  bed, 
May  talk  of  nature,  cold  and  dead ; 
But  we  will  gaze  upon  this  scene, 
Where  some  transcendent  power  hath  been, 
And  made  these  streams  of  beauty  flow 
In  gladness  on  the  world  below, 
Till  nature  breathes  from  every  part 
The  rapture  of  her  mighty  heart. 
31 


DEATH. 


LIFT  high  the  curtain's  drooping  fold. 

And  let  the  evening  sunlight  in ; 
I  would  not  that  my  heart  grew  cold 

Before  its  better  years  begin. 
'T  is  well ;  at  such  an  early  hour, 

So.  calm  and  pure,  a  sinking  ray 
Should  shine  into  the  heart,  with  power 

To  drive  its  darker  thoughts  away. 

The  bright,  young  thoughts  of  early  days 

Shall  gather  in  my  memory  now, 
And  not  the  later  cares,  whose  trace 

Is  stamp'd  so  deeply  on  my  brow. 
What  though  those  days  return  no  more  ? 

The  sweet  remembrance  is  not  vain, 
For  Heaven  is  waiting  to  restore 

The  childhood  of  my  soul  again. 

Let  no  impatient  mourner  stand 

In  hollow  sadness  near  my  bed, 
But  let  me  rest  upon  the  hand, 

And  let  me  hear  that  gentle  tread 
Of  her,  whose  kindness  long  ago, 

And  still,  unworn  away  by  years, 
Has  made  my  weary  eyelids  flow 

With  grateful  and  admiring  tears. 

I  go,  but  let  no  plaintive  tone 

The  moment's  grief  of  friendship  tell ; 
And  let  no  proud  and  graven  stone 

Say  where  the  weary  slumbers  well. 
A  few  short  hours,  and  then  for  heaven ! 

Let  sorrow  all  its  tears  dismiss ; 
For  who  would  mourn  the  warning  given 

Which  calls  us  from  a  world  like  this  1 


AUTUMN  EVENING. 

BEHOLD  the  western  evening  light ! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom ; 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away, 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  wind  breathes  low ;  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree ; 

So  gently  flows  the  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed  ! 
'T  is  like  the  peace  the  Christian  gives 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 

How  mildly  on  the  wandering  cloud 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast ! 
'T  is  like  the  memory  left  behind 

When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears ; 
So  faith  springs  in  the  heart  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glory  shall  restore; 
And  eyelids  that  are  seal'd  in  death 

Shall  wake,  to  close  no  more. 
X 


ROBERT   C.    SANDS. 


[Born,  1799.    Died,  1332.] 


THE  history  of  American  literature,  for  the  period 
which  has  already  passed,  will  contain  the  names 
of  few  men  of  greater  genius,  or  more  general 
learning,  than  ROBERT  O.  SANDS.  His  life  has 
been  written  so  well  by  his  intimate  friend,  Gu- 
LiAiy  C.  VERPLANCK,  LL.  D.,  that  I  shall  attempt 
only  to  present  an  abstract  of  the  narrative  of  that 
accomplished  scholar  and  critic. 

SANDS  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  (where 
his  father,  who  had  been  distinguished  for  his  pa- 
triotism during  the  revolutionary  struggle,  was  an 
eminent  merchant,)  on  the  eleventh  of  May,  1799. 
At  a  very  early  age  he  was  remarkable  for  great 
quickness  of  apprehension,  and  facility  of  acquir- 
ing knowledge.  When  seven  years  old,  he  began 
to  study  the  Latin  language,  and  at  thirteen  he 
was  admitted  to  the  sophomore  class  of  Columbia 
College.  He  had  already,  under  Mr.  FINDLAY, 
of  Newark,  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  WHELPLEY,  of 
New  York,  made  great  progress  in  classical  know- 
ledge ;  and  while  in  the  college,  which  had  long 
been  distinguished  for  sound  and  accurate  instruc- 
tion in  the  dead  languages,  he  excelled  all  his 
classmates  in  ancient  learning,  and  was  equally 
successful  in  the  mathematics  and  other  branches 
of  study.  In  his  second  collegiate  year,  in  con- 
junction with  his  friend  EASTBDRN,  and  some 
other  students,  he  established  a  periodical  entitled 
"The  Moralist,"  and  afterward  another,  called 
"  Academic  Recreations,"  of  both  of  which  he 
wrote  the  principal  contents.  He  was  graduated 
in  1815,  and  soon  after  became  a  student  in  the 
law-office  of  DAVID  B.  OGIIEX,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  advocates  of  the  time.  He  pursued 
his  legal  studies  with  great  ardour ;  his  course  of 
reading  was  very  extensive ;  and  he  became  not 
only  familiar  with  the  more  practical  part  of  pro- 
fessional knowledge,  but  acquired  a  relish  for  the 
abstruse  doctrines  and  subtle  reasonings  of  the 
ancient  common  law. 

Still  he  found  time  for  the  study  of  the  classics; 
and,  in  company  with  two  or  three  friends,  read 
several  of  the  most  difficult  of  the  Greek  authors, 
exactly  and  critically.  His  love  of  composition 
continued  to  grow  upon  him.  He  wrote  on  all 
subjects,  and  for  all  purposes ;  and,  in  addition  to 
essays  and  verses,  on  topics  of  his  own  choice, 
volunteered  to  write  orations  for  the  commence- 
ment displays  of  young  graduates,  verses  for  young 
lovers,  and  even  sermons  for  young  divines.  Seve- 
ral of  the  latter,  written  in  an  animated  style,  were 
much  admired,  when  delivered  in  the  pulpit  with 
good  emphasis  and  discretion,  to  congregations 
who  little  suspected  to  whom  they  were  indebted 
for  their  edification.  One  of  them,  at  least,  has 
been  printed  under  the  name  of  the  clergyman  by 
whom  it  was  delivered.  In  1817  he  published  a 


poem,  which  he  had  begun  and  in  great  part  writ- 
ten four  years  before.  It  was  called  "  The  Bridal 
of  Vaumond,"  and  was  a  metrical  romance,  founded 
on  the  same  legend  of  the  transformation  of  a  de- 
crepit and  miserable  wretch  into  a  youthful  hero, 
by  compact  with  the  infernal  powers,  which  forms 
the  groundwork  of  BYRON'S  "Deformed  Trans- 
formed." 

It  was  during  the  period  of  these  studies,  that 
he  and  three  of  his  friends,  of  as  many  different 
professions,  formed  an  association,  of  a  somewhat 
remarkable  character,  under  the  name  of  the  Lite- 
rary Confederacy.  The  number  was  limited  to 
four ;  and  they  bound  themselves  to  preserve  a 
friendly  communication  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
life,  and  to  endeavour,  by  all  proper  means,  to  ad- 
vance their  mutual  and  individual  interest,  to  advise 
each  other  on  every  subject,  and  to  receive  with 
good  temper  the  rebuke  or  admonition  which  might 
thus  be  given.  They  proposed  to  unite,  from  time 
to  time,  in  literary  publications,  covenanting  so- 
lemnly that  no  matter  hostile  to  the  great  principles 
of  religion  or  morals  should  be  published  by  any 
member.  This  compact  was  most  faithfully  kept 
to  the  time  of  SANDS'S  death,  though  the  primary 
objects  of  it  were  gradually  given  np,  as  other  duties 
engrossed  the  attention  of  its  members.  In  the 
first  year  of  its  existence,  the  confederacy  contri- 
buted largely  to  several  literary  and  critical  ga- 
zettes, besides  publishing  in  one  of  the  daily  papers 
of  the  city  a  series  of  essays,  under  the  title  of  the 
"  Amphilogist,"  and  a  second  under  that  of  the 
"  Neologist,"  which  attracted  much  attention,  and 
were  very  widely  circulated  and  repnblished  in 
the  newspapers  of  the  day.  SANDS  wrote  a  large 
portion  of  these,  both  in  prose  and  verse. 

His  friend  EASTBURJT  had  now  removed  to 
Bristol,  Rhode  Island,  where,  after  rtudying  divi- 
nity for  some  time  under  the  direction  of  Bishop 
GRISWOID,  he  took  orders,  and  soon  after  settled 
in  Virginia.  A  regular  correspondence  was  kept 
up  between  the  friends  ;  and  the  letters  that  have 
been  preserved  are  fdled  with  the  evidence  of  their 
literary  industry.  EASTIICRN  had  undertaken  a 
new  metrical  version  of  the  Psalms,  which  the 
pressure  of  his  clerical  duties  and  his  untimely 
death  prevented  him  from  ever  completing.  SANDS 
was  led  by  curiosity,  as  well  as  by  his  intimacy 
with  EASTIJURN,  to  acquire  some  knowledge  of 
the  Hebrew.  It  was  not  very  profound,  but  it 
enabled  him  to  try  his  skill  at  the  same  transla- 
tion ;  and  he  from  time  to  time  sent  his  friend  a 
Psalm  paraphrased  in  verse. 

But  amid  their  severer  studies  and  their  literary 
amusements,  they  were  engaged  in  a  bolder  poeti- 
cal enterprise.  This  was  a  romantic  poem,  founded 
on  the  history  of  PHILIP,  the  celebrated  sachem 

242 


ROBERT    C.    SANDS. 


243 


of  the  Pequods,  and  leader  of  the  great  Indian  wars 
against  the  New  England  colonists  in  1665  and 
1676.  It  was  planned  by  EASTBURX.  during  his 
residence  in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  in  Rhode 
Island,  the  ancient  capital  of  the  Pequod  race, 
where  the  scene  is  laid.  In  the  year  following, 
when  he  visited  New  York,  the  plan  of  the  story 
was  drawn  up  in  conjunction  with  his  friend.  "We 
had  then,"  said  SANDS,  "read  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject; and  our  plot  was  formed  from  a  hasty  glance 
into  a  few  pages  of  Hun  HARP'S  Narrative.  After 
EAST ii TUN'S  return  to  Bristol,  the  poem  was  writ- 
ten, according  to  the  parts  severally  assigned,  and 
transmitted,  reciprocally,  in  the  course  of  corre- 
spondence. It  was  commenced  in  November,  1817, 
and  finished  before  the  summer  of  1818,  except  the 
concluding  stanzas  of  the  sixth  canto,  which  were 
added  after  Mr.  EASTBCRX  left  Bristol.  As  the 
fable  was  defective,  from  our  ignorance  of  the  sub- 
ject, the  execution  was  also,  from  the  same  cause, 
and  the  hasty  mode  of  composition,  in  every  re- 
spect imperfect  Mr.  EASTBURX  was  then  pre- 
paring to  take  orders ;  and  his  studies,  with  that 
view,  engrossed  his  attention.  He  was  ordained 
in  October,  1818.  Between  that  time  and  the 
period  of  his  going  to  Accomack  county,  Virginia, 
whence  he  had  received  an  invitation  to  take  charge 
of  a  congregation,  he  transcribed  the  first  two  can- 
tos of  this  poem,  with  but  few  material  variations, 
from  the  first  collating  copy.  The  labours  of  his 
ministry  left  him  no  time  even  for  his  most  de- 
lightful amusement.  He  had  made  no  further 
progress  in  the  correction  of  the  work  when  he 
returned  to  New  York,  in  July,  1819.  His  health 
was  then  so  much  impaired,  that  writing  of  any 
kind  was  too  great  a  labour.  He  had  packed  up 
the  manuscripts,  intending  to  finish  his  second 
copy  in  Santa  Cruz,  wither  it  was  recommended 
to  him  to  go,  as  the  last  resource  to  recruit  his  ex- 
hausted constitution."  He  died  on  the  fourth  day 
of  his  passage,  on  the  second  of  December,  1819. 
The  work,  thus  left  imperfect,  was  revised,  ar- 
ranged, and  completed,  with  many  additions,  by 
SANDS.  It  was  introduced  by  a  proem,  in  which 
the  surviving  poet  mourned,  in  noble  and  touch- 
ing strains,  the  accomplished  friend  of  his  youth. 

The  work  was  published  under  the  title  of  "  Ya- 
moyden,"  at  New  York,  in  1820.  It  unquestion- 
ably shows  some  marks  of  the  youth  of  its  Authors, 
besides  other  imperfections  arising  from  the  mode 
of  its  composition,  which  could  not  fail  to  prove  a 
serious  impediment  to  a  clear  connection  of  the 
plot,  and  a  vivid  and  congruous  conception  of  all 
the  characters.  Yet  it  has  high  merit  in  various 
ways.  Its  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  are  alike 
accurate  anc'  beautiful.  Its  style  is  flexible,  flow- 
ing, and  poetical.  It  is  rich  throughout  with  histo- 
rical and  antiquarian  knowledge  of  Indian  history 
and  tradition;  and  every  thing  in  the  customs,  man- 
ners, superstitions,  and  story  of  the  aborigines  of 
New  England,  that  could  be  applied  to  poetical 
purposes,  is  used  with  skill,  judgment,  and  taste. 

In  1820,  SAXDS  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and 
opened  an  office  in  the  city  of  New  York.  He 
entered  upon  his  professional  career  with  high 


hopes  and  an  ardent  love  of  the  learning  of  the 
law.  His  first  attempt  as  an  advocate  was,  how- 
ever, unsuccessful,  and  he  was  disheartened  by  the 
result.  Though  he  continued  the  business  of  an 
attorney,  he  made  no  second  attempt  of  conse- 
quence before  a  jury,  and  after  a  few  years  he 
gradually  withdrew  himself  from  the  profession. 
During  this  period  he  persevered  in  his  law  read- 
ing, and  renewed  and  extended  his  acquaintance 
with  the  Latin  poets,  and  the  "grave,  lofty  trage- 
dians" of  Greece ;  acquiring  an  intimacy  such  as 
professors  might  have  envied,  with  the  ancient 
languages  and  learning.  He  had  early  learned 
French,  and  was  familiar  with  its  copious  and  ele- 
gant literature ;  but  he  never  much  admired  it,  and 
in  his  multifarious  literary  conversation  and  au- 
thorship, rarely  quoted  or  alluded  to  a  French 
author,  except  for  facts.  He  now  acquired  the 
Italian,  and  read  carefully  and  with  great  admira- 
tion all  its  great  writers,  from  DAXTE  to  ALFIF.RI. 
His  versions  and  imitations  of  POLITIAX,  MONTI, 
and  METASTASIO,  attest  how  fully  he  entered  into 
their  spirit.  Some  time  after  he  acquired  the  Spa- 
nish language  very  critically,  and,  after  study  ing  its 
more  celebrated  writers,  read  very  largely  all  the 
Spanish  historians  and  documents  he  could  find 
touching  American  history.  In  order  to  complete 
his  acquaintance  with  the  cognate  modern  lan- 
guages of  Latin  origin,  he  some  years  later  ac- 
quired the  Portuguese,  and  read  such  of  its  authors 
as  he  could  procure. 

In  1822  and  1823  he  wrote  many  articles  for 
"The  Literary  Review,"  a  monthly  periodical  then 
published  in  New  York,  which  received  great  in- 
crease of  reputation  from  his  contributions.  In 
the  winter  of  1823-4,  he  and  some  friends  pub- 
lished seven  numbers  of  a  sort  of  mock-magazine, 
entitled  «  The  St.  Tammany  Magazine."  Here  he 
gave  the  reins  to  his  most  extravagant  and  happi- 
est humour,  indulging  in  parody,  burlesque,  and 
grotesque  satire,  thrown  off  in  the  gayest  mood 
and  with  the  greatest  rapidity,  but  as  good-natured 
as  satire  and  parody  could  well  be.  In  May,  1824, 
"The  Atlantic  Magazine"  was  established  in  New 
York,  and  placed  under  his  charge.  At  the  end 
of  six  months  he  gave  up  this  work ;  but  when  it 
changed  its  name,  and  in  part  its  character,  and 
became  the  New  York  Review,  he  was  ree'ngaged 
as  an  editor,  and  assisted  in  conducting  it  until 
1827.  During  this  same  period  he  assisted  in 
preparing  and  publishing  a  digest  of  equity  cases, 
and  also  in  editing  some  other  legal  compilations, 
enriching  them  with  notes  of  the  American  deci- 
sions. These  publications  were,  it  is  true,  not  of 
a  high  class  of  legal  authorship ;  but  they  show 
professional  reading  and  knowledge,  as  well  as  the 
ready  versatility  of  his  mind.  He  had  now  become 
an  author  by  profession,  and  looked  to  his  pen  for 
support,  as  heretofore  for  fame  or  for  amusement. 
When,  therefore,  an  offer  of  a  liberal  salary  was 
made  him  as  an  assistant  editor  of  the  "New  York 
j  Commercial  Advertiser,"  a  long-established  and 
i  well-known  daily  evening  pnper.  he  accepted  it, 
and  continued  his  connection  with  that  journal 
until  his  death. 


244 


ROBERT    C.   SANDS. 


His  daily  task  of  political  or  literary  discussion 
was  far  from  giving  him  sufficient  literary  employ- 
ment. His  mind  overflowed  in  all  directions  into 
other  journals,  even  some  of  different  political 
opinions  from  those  which  he  supported.  He  had 
a  propensity  for  innocent  and  playful  literary  mis- 
chief. It  was  his  sport  to  excite  public  curiosity 
by  giving  extracts,  highly  spiced  with  fashionable 
allusions  and  satire,  "from  the  forthcoming  novel,-" 
which  novel,  in  truth,  was,  and  is  yet  to  be  writ- 
ten ;  or  else  to  entice  some  unhappy  wight  into  a 
literary  or  historical  newspaper  discussion,  then  to 
combat  him  anonymously,  or,  under  the  mask  of 
a  brother  editor,  to  overwhelm  him  with  history, 
facts,  quotations,  and  authorities,  all,  if  necessary, 
manufactured  for  the  occasion ;  in  short,  like 
SHAKSPEARE'S  "merry  wanderer  of  the  night,"  to 
lead  his  unsuspecting  victim  around  "through  bog, 
through  bush,  through  brier."  One  instance  of 
this  sportive  propensity  occurred  in  relation  to  a 
controversy  about  the  material  of  the  Grecian  crown 
of  victory,  which  arose  during  the  excitement  in 
favour  of  Grecian  liberty  some  years  ago.  Several 
ingenious  young  men,  fresh  from  their  college 
studies,  had  exhausted  all  the  learning  they  could 
procure  on  this  grave  question,  either  from  their 
own  acquaintance  with  antiquity,  or  at  second 
hand  from  the  writers  upon  Grecian  antiquities, 
LEWPRIERE,  POTTER,  BARTHELEM:I,  or  the  more 
erudite  Paschalis  de  Corona,-  till  SANDS  grew 
tired  of  seeing  so  much  scholarship  wasted,  and 
ended  the  controversy  by  an  essay  filled  with  ex- 
cellent learning,  chiefly  fabricated  by  himself  for 
the  occasion,  and  resting  mainly  on  a  passage  of 
PAUSANIUS,  quoted  in  the  original  Greek,  for  which 
it  is  in  vain  to  look  in  any  edition  of  that  author, 
ancient  or  modern.  He  had  also  other  and  graver 
employments.  In  1828,  some  enterprising  print- 
ers proposed  to  supply  South  America  with  Spa- 
nish books  suited  to  that  market,  and  printed  in 
New  York.  Among  the  works  selected  for  this 
purpose  were  the  original  letters  of  CORTES,  the 
conqueror  of  Mexico.  No  good  life  of  CORTES 
then  existing  in  the  English  or  Spanish  language, 
SANDS  was  employed  by  the  publishers  to  prepare 
one,  which  was  to  be  translated  into  Spanish,  and 
prefixed  to  the  edition.  He  was  fortunately  re- 
lieved from  any  difficulty  arising  from  the  want  of 
materials,  by  finding  in  the  library  of  the  New 
York  Historical  Society  a  choice  collection  of  ori- 
ginal Spanish  authorities,  which  afforded  him  all 
that  he  desired.  His  manuscript  was  translated 
into  Spanish,  and  prefixed  to  the  letters  of  the  Con- 
quistador, of  which  a  large  edition  was  printed, 
while  the  original  remained  in  manuscript  until 
SANDS'S  writings  were  collected,  after  his  death, 
by  Mr.  VEHPLANCK.  Thus  his  work  had  the  sin- 
gular fortune  of  being  read  throughout  Spanish 
America,  in  another  language,  while  it  was  totally 
unknown  in  its  own  country  and  native  tongue. 
Soon  after  completing  this  piece  of  literary  labour, 
he  became  accidentally  engaged  in  another  under- 
taking which  afforded  him  much  amusement  and 
gratification.  The  fashion  of  decorated  literary 
annuals,  which  the  English  and  French  had  bor- 


rowed some  years  before  from  the  literary  alma- 
nacs, so  long  the  favourites  of  Germany,  had 
reached  the  United  States,  and  the  booksellers  in 
the  principal  cities  were  ambitiously  vieing  with 
each  other  in  the  "  Souvenirs,"  « Tokens,"  and 
other  annual  volumes.  Mr.  BLISS,  a  bookseller 
of  New  York,  desirous  to  try  his  fortune  in  the 
same  way,  pressed  Mr.  SANDS  to  undertake  the 
editorship  of  a  work  of  this  sort.  This  he  at  first 
declined ;  but  it  happened  that,  in  conversation 
with  his  two  friends,  Mr.  VKTIPI.AXCK  and  Mr. 
BUT  A  XT,  a  regret  was  expressed  that  the  old 
fashion  of  Queen  ANNE'S  time,  of  publishing  vo- 
lumes of  miscellanies  by  two  or  three  authors 
together,  had  gone  out  of  date.  They  had  the 
advantage,  it  was  said,  over  our  ordinary  maga- 
zines, of  being  more  select  and  distinctive  in  the 
characters  and  subjects,  and  yet  did  not  impose 
upon  the  authors  the  toil  or  responsibility  of  a 
regular  and  separate  work.  In  this  way  POPE  and 
SWIFT  had  published  their  minor  pieces,  as  had 
other  writers  of  that  day,  of  no  small  merit  and 
fame.  One  of  the  part)1  proposed  to  publish  a 
little  volume  of  their  own  miscellanies,  in  humble 
imitation  of  the  English  wits  of  the  last  century. 
It  occurred  to  SANDS  to  combine  this  idea  with 
the  form  and  decorations  of  the  annual.  The  ma- 
terials of  a  volume  were  hastily  prepared,  nmid 
other  occupations  of  the  several  authors,  without 
any  view  to  profit,  and  more  for  amusement  than 
reputation ;  the  kindness  of  several  artists,  with 
whom  SANDS  was  in  habits  of  intimacy,  furnished 
some  respectable  embellishments ;  and  thus  a  mis- 
cellany which,  with  the  exception  of  two  short  poeti- 
cal contributions,  was  who'ly  written  by  Mr.  SANDS 
and  his  two  friends  above  named,  was  published 
with  the  title  of  "  The  Talisman,"  and  under  the 
name  and  character  of  a^ima  Binary  author,  FRAN- 
CIS HERBERT,  Esq.  It  was  favourably  received, 
and,  on  the  solicitation  of  the  publisher,  a  second 
volume  was  as  hastily  prepared  in  the  following 
year,  by  the  same  persons.  Of  this  publication 
about  one-fourth  was  entirely  from  SAXDS'S  pen, 
and  about  as  much  more  was  his  joint  work  with 
one  or  another  of  his  friends.  This,  as  the  reader 
must  have  remarked,  was  a  favourite  mode  of  au- 
thorship with  him.  He  composed  with  ease  and 
rapidity,  and,  delighting  in  the  work  of  composi- 
tion, it  gave  him  additional  pleasure  to  make  it  a 
social  enjoyment.  He  had  this  peculiarity,  that 
the  presence  of  others,  in  which  most  authors  find 
a  restraint  upon  the  free  course  of  their  thoughts 
and  fancies,  was  to  him  a  source  of  inspiration 
and  excitement.  This  was  peculiarly  visible  in 
gay  or  humorous  writing.  In  social  compositions 
of  this  nature,  his  talent  for  ludicrous  description 
and  character  and  incident  rioted  and  revelled,  so 
that  it  generally  became  more  the  business  of  his 
coadjutor  to  chasten  and  sober  his  thick-coming 
fancies,  than  to  furnish  any  thing  like  an  equal 
contingent  of  thought  or  invention.  For  the  pur- 
pose of  such  joint-stock  authorship  it  is  necessary 
that  one  of  the  associates  should  possess  SANDS'S 
unhesitating  and  rapid  fluency  of  written  style, 
and  his  singular  power  of  seizing  the  ideas  and 


ROBERT    C.   SANDS. 


245 


images  of  his  friends,  and  assimilating  them  per- 
fectly to  his  own. 

His  "Dream  of  PAPA^TZIN,"*  a  poem,  one  of 
the  fruits  of  his  researches  into  Mexican  history, 

*  "  PAPAKTZIN,  a  Mexican  princess,  sister  of  MOTEUC- 
7<)MA,  and  widow  of  the  governor  of  Tlatelolco,  died,  as 
was  supposed,  in  the  palace  of  the  latter,  in  1509.  Her 
funeral  rites  were  celebrated  with  the  usual  pomp;  her 
brother  and  all  the  nobility  attending.  She  was  buried 
in  a  cave,  or  subterranean  grotto,  in  the  gardens  of  the 
same  palace,  near  a  reservoir  in  which  she  usually  bathed. 
The  entrance  of  the  cave  was  closed  with  a  stone  of  no 
great  size.  Off  the  day  after  the  funeral,  a  little  girl,  five 
or  six  years  old,  who  lived  in  the  palace,  was  going  from 
her  mother's  house  to  the  residence  of  the  princess's 
m  tjor-domo,  in  a  farther  part  of  the  garden  ;  and  passing 
by,  she  heard  the  princess  calling  to  \\ereoeoton,  a  phrase 
used  to  call  and  coax  children,  &c.  &c.  The  princess  sent 
the  little  girl  to  call  her  mother,  anM  much  alarm  was  of 
course  excited.  At  length  the  King  of  Tezcuco  was  noti- 
fied of  her  resurrection  ;  and,  jn  his  representation,  Mo- 
TEUCZOMA  himself,  full  of  terror,  visited  her  with  his  chief 
nobility.  He  asked  her  if  she  was  his  sister.  'I  am, 'said 
slip,  'the  same  whom  you  buried  yesterday.  I  am  alive, 
and  desire  to  tell  you  what  I  have  seen,  as  it  imports  to 
know  it.'  Then  the  kings  sat  down,  and  the  others  re- 
nnined  standing,  marvelling  at  what  they  heard. 

"Then  the  princess,  resuming  her  discourse,  said: — 
'  After  my  life,  or,  if  that  is  possible,  after  sense  and  the 
power  of  motion  departed,  incontinently  I  found  myself 
in  a  vast  plain,  to  which  there  was  no  bound  in  any  direc- 
tion. In  the  midst  I  discerned  a  road,  which  divided  into 
various  paths,  and  on  one  side  was  a  great  river,  whose 
waters  made  a  frightful  rushing  noise.  Being  minded  to 
leap  into  it  to  cross  to  the  opposite  side,  a  fair  youth  stood 
before  my  eyes,  of  noble  presence,  clad  in  long  robes, 
white  as  snow,  and  resplendent  as  the  sun.  He  had  two 
wings  of  beautiful  plum.tge,  and  bore  this  sign  on  his  fore- 
head, (so  saying,  the  princess  made  with  her  fingers  the 
sign  of  the  cross;)  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  said,  'Stay, 
it  is  not  yet  time  to  pass  this  river.  God  lo'ves  thee,  al- 
though thou  dost  not  know  it.'  Thence  he  led  me  along 
the  shores  of  the  river,  wh^re  I  saw  many  skulls  and 
human  bones,  and  heard  such  doleful  groans,  that  they 
moved  me  to  compassion.  Then,  turning  my  eyes  to  the 
river,  I  saw  in  it  divers  great  burks,  and  in  them  many 
men,  different  from  those  of  these  regions  in  dress  and 
complexion.  They  were  white  and  bearded,  having 
standards  in  their  hands,  and  helmets  on  their  heads. 
Then  the  young  man  said  to  me,  'GoD  wills  that  you 
should  live,  that  you  may  bear  testimony  of  the  revolu- 
tions which  are  to  occur  in  these  countries.  The  cla- 
mours thou  hast  heard  on  these  banks  are  those  of  the 
souls  of  thine  ancestors,  which  are  and  ever  will  be  tor- 
mented in  punishment  of  their  sins.  The  men  whom 
thon  seest  parsing  in  the  barks,  are  those  who  with  arms 
will  make  themselves  masters  of  this  country;  and  with 
them  will  come  also  an  annunciation  of  the  true  GOD, 
Creator  of  heaven  and  earth.  When  the  war  is  finished, 
and  thy  ablution  promulgated  which  washes  away  sin, 
thou  slmlt  be  Arst  to  receive  it,  and  guide  by  thine  exam- 
ple all  the  inhabitants  of  this  land."  Thus  having  said, 
the  young  man  disappeared  ;  and  I  found  myself  restored 
to  life — rose  from  the  place  on  which  I  lay — lifted  the 
stone  from  the  sepulchre,  and  issued  forth  from  the  gar- 
den, where  the  servants  found  me.' 

"  MOTEUCZOMA  went  to  his  house  of  mourning,  full  of 
heavy  thoughts,  saying  nothing  to  his  sister,  (whom  he 
would  never  see  again,)  nor  to  the  King  of  Tezcuco,  nor 
to  his  courtiers,  who  tried  to  persuade  him  that  it  was  a 
feverish  fantasy  of  the  princess.  She  lived  many  years 
afterward,  and  in  1524  was  baptized." 

This  incident,  says  CLAVIGERO,  was  universally  known, 
and  made  a  great  noise  at  the  time.  It  is  described  in 
several  Mexican  pictures,  and  affidavits  of  its  truth  were 
sent  to  the  court  of  Spain. — The  Talisman. 


is  remarkable  for  the  religious  solemnity  of  the 
thoughts,  the  magnificence  of  the  imagery,  and 
the  flow  of  the  versification.  It  was  first  published 
in  "The  Talisman,"  for  the  year  1839. 

His  next  literary  employment  was  the  publi- 
cation of  a  new  "Life  of  PAUL  JOXES,"  from  ori- 
ginal letters  and  printed  and  manuscript  materials 
furnished  him  by  a  niece  of  the  commodore.  He 
at  first  meditated  an  entirely  original  work,  as 
attractive  and  discursive  as  he  could  make  it ;  but 
various  circumstances  limited  him  in  great  part  to 
compilation  and  correction  of  the  materials  fur- 
nished him,  or,  as  he  termed  it  in  one  of  his  letters, 
in  his  accustomed  quaintness  of  phrase,  "upsetting 
some  English  duodecimos,  together  with  all  the 
manuscripts,  into  an  American  octavo,  without 
worrying  his  brains  much  about  the  matter."  This 
biography  was  printed  in  1831,  in  a  closely-printed 
octavo,  and  is  doubtless  the  best  and  most  authen- 
tic narrative  of  the  life  of  this  gallant,  chivalrous, 
and  erratic  father  of  the  American  navy. 

In  the  close  of  the  year  1832,  a  work,  entitled 
"  Tales  of  the  Glauber  Spa,"  was  published  in  New 
York.  This  was  a  series  of  original  tales  by  dif- 
ferent authors — BRTANT,  PAULDING,  LEGGZTT, 
and  Miss  SEDGWICK.  To  this  collection  SASJJS 
contributed  the  introduction,  which  is  tinged  with 
his  peculiar  humour,  and  two  of  the  tales,  both  of 
which  are  written  in  his  happiest  vein. 

The  last  finished  composition  of  SAXDS  was  a 
little  poem  entitled  "The  Dead  of  1832,"  which 
appeared  anonymously  in  "The  Commercial  Ad- 
vertiser," about  a  week  before  his  own  death.  He 
was  destined  to  join  those  whom  he  mourned 
within  the  few  remaining  days  of  the  same  year. 
CHARLES  F.  HOFFMAN  had  then  just  established 
"The  Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  and  SANDS,  on 
the  seventeenth  of  December,  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  sat  down  to  finish  an  article  on 
"  Esquimaux  Literature,"  which  he  had  engaged 
to  furnish  for  that  periodical.  After  writing  with 
a  pencil  the  following  line,  suggested,  probably,  by 
some  topic  in  the  Greenland  mythology, 

"O,  think  not  my  spirit  among  you  abides," 
he  was  suddenly  struck  with  the  disease  which 
removed  his  own  spirit  from  its  material  dwelling. 
Below  this  line,  on  the  original  manuscript,  were 
observed,  after  his  death,  several  irregular  pencil- 
marks,  extending  nearly  across  the  page,  as  if 
traced  by  a  hand  that  moved  in  darkness,  or  no 
longer  obeyed  the  impulse  of  the  will.  He  rose, 
opened  the  door,  and  attempted  to  pass  out  of  the 
room,  but  fell  on  the  threshold.  On  being  assisted 
to  his  chamber,  and  placed  on  the  bed,  he  was 
observed  to  raise  his  powerless  right  arm  with  the 
other,  and  looking  at  it,  to  shed  tears.  He  shortly 
after  relapsed  into  a  lethargy,  from  which  he  never 
awoke,  and  in  less  than  four  hours  from  the  attack, 
expired  without  a  struggle.  He  died  in  his  thirty- 
fourth  year,  when  his  talents,  enriched  by  study 
and  the  experience  of  life,  and  invigorated  by  con- 
stant exercise,  were  fully  matured  for  greater  and 
bolder  literary  enterprise  than  any  he  had  yet 
essayed.  His  death  was  deeply  mourned  by  many 
friends,  and  most  deeply  b v  those  who  knew  him  best. 


246 


ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 


PROEM   TO  YAMOYDEN. 


Go  forth,  sad  fragments  of  a  broken  strain, 
The  last  that  cither  bard  shall  e'er  essay ! 
The  hand  can  ne'er  attempt  the  chords  again, 
That  first  awoke  them,  in  a  happier  day  : 
Where  sweeps  the  ocean  breeze  its  desert  way, 
His  requiem  murmurs  o'er  the  moaning  wave ; 
And  he  who  feebly  now  prolongs  the  lay, 
Shall  ne'er  the  minstrel's  hallow'd  honours  crave ; 
His  harp  lies  buried  deep,  in  that  untimely  grave ! 

Friend  of  my  youth,  with  thee  began  the  love 
Of  sacred  song ;  the  wont,  in  golden  dreams, 
Mid  classic  realms  of  splendours  past  to  rove, 
O'er  haunted  steep,  and  by  immortal  streams ; 
Where  the  blue  wave,  with  sparkling  bosom,  gleams 
Round  shores,  the  mind's  eternal  heritage, 
Forever  lit  by  memory's  twilight  beams ; 
Where  the  proud  dead,  that  live  in  storied  page, 
Beckon,  with  awful  port,  to  glory's  earlier  age. 

There  would  we  linger  oft,  entranced,  to  hear, 
O'er  battle  fields,  the  epic  thunders  roll ; 
Or  list,  where  tragic  wail  upon  the  ear, 
Through  Argive  palaces  shrill  echoing,  stole ; 
There  would  we  mark,  uncurb'd  by  all  control, 
In  central  heaven,  the  Theban  eagle's  flight ; 
Or  hold  communion  with  the  musing  soul 
Of  sage  or  bard,  who  sought,  mid  pagan  night, 
In  loved  Athenian  groves,  for  truth's  eternal  light. 

Homeward  we  turn'd,  to  that  fair  land,  but  late 
Redeem'd  from  the  strong  spell  that  bound  it  fast, 
Where  mystery,  brooding  o'er  the  waters,  sate 
And  kept  the  key,  till  three  millenniums  pass'd ; 
When,  as  creation's  noblest  work  was  last ; 
Latest,  to  man  it  was  vouchsafed,  to  see 
Nature's  great  wonder,  long  by  clouds  o'ercast, 
And  veiled  in  sacred  awe,  that  it  might  be 
An  empire  and  a  home,  most  worthy  for  the  free. 

And  here,  forerunners  strange  and  meet  were 

found, 

Of  that  bless'd  freedom,  only  dream'd  before ; — 
Dark  were  the  morning  mists,  that  linger'd  round 
Their  birth  and  story,  as  the  hue  they  bore. 
"Earth  was  their  mother;" — or  they  knew  no 

more, 

Or  would  not  that  their  secret  should  be  told ; 
For  they  were  grave  and  silent;  and  such  lore, 
To  stranger  ears,  they  loved  not  to  unfold, 
The  long-transmitted  tales  their  sires  were  taught 

of  old. 

Kind  nature's  commoners,  from  her  they  drew 
Their  needful  wants,  and  learn'd  not  how  to  hoard ; 
And  him  whom  strength  and  wisdom  crown'd 

they  knew, 

But  with  no  servile  reverence,  as  their  Iprd. 
And  on  their  mountain  summits  they  adored 
One  great,  good  Spirit,  in  his  high  abode, 
And  thence  their  incense  and  orisons  pour'd 
To  his  pervading  presence,  that  abroad 
They  felt  through  all  his  works, — their  Father, 

King,  and  GOD. 


And  in  the  mountain  mist,  the  torrent's  spray, 
The  quivering  forest,  or  the  glassy  flood, 
Soft-falling  showers,  or  hues  of  orient  day, 
They  imaged  spirits  beautiful  and  good  ; 
But  when  the  tempest  roar'd,  with  voices  rude, 
Or  fierce  red  lightning  fired  the  forest  pine, 
Or  withering  heats  untimely  sear'd  the  wood, 
The  angry  forms  they  saw  of  powers  malign ; 
These  they  besought  to  spare,  those  bless'd  for  aid 
divine. 

As  the  fresh  sense  of  life,  through  t^ery  vein, 
With  the  pure  air  they  drank,  inspiring  came, 
Comely  they  grew,  patient  of  toil  and  pain, 
And  as  the  fleet  deer's,  agile  was  their  frame ; 
Of  meaner  vices  scarce  they  knew  the  name ; 
These  simple  truths  went  down  from  sire  to  son, — 
To  reverence  age, — the  sluggish  hunter's  shame 
And  craven  ^warrior's  infamy  to  shun, —     [done. 
And  still  avenge  each  wrong,  to  friends  or  kindred 

From  forest  shades,  they  peer'd,  with  awful  dread, 
When,  uttering  flame  arid  thunder  from  its  side, 
The  ocean-monster,  with  broad  wings  outspread, 
Came  ploughing  gallantly  the  virgin  tide. 
Few  years  have  pass'd,  and  all  their  forests'  pride 
From  shores  and  hills  has  vanish'd,  with  the  race, 
Their  tenants  erst,  from  memory  who  have  died, 
Like  airy  shapes,  which  eld  was  wont  to  trace, 
In  each  green  thicket's  depths,  and  lone,  seques- 
ter'd  place. 

And  many  a  gloomy  tale,  tradition  yet 
Saves  from  oblivion,  of  their  struggles  vain, 
Their  prowess  and  their  wrongs,  for  rhymer  meet, 
To  people  scenes  where  still  their  names  remain ; 
And  so  began  our  young,  delighted  strain, 
That  would  evoke  the  plumed  chieftains  brave, 
And  bid  their  martial  hosts  arise  again, 
Where  Narraganset's  tides  roll  by  their  grave, 
And  Haup's  romantic  steeps  are  piled  above  the 
wave. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  with  thee  began  my  song, 
And  o'er  thy  bier  its  latest  accents  die ; 
Misled  in  phantom-peopled  realms  too  long, — 
Though  not  to  me  the  muse  adverse  deny, 
Sometimes,  perhaps,  her  visions  to  descry, 
Such  thriftless  pastime  should  with  youth  be  o'er; 
And  he  who  loved  with  thee  his  notes  to  try, 
But  for  thy  sake,  such  idlesse  would  deplore, 
And  swears  to  meditate  the  thankless  muse  no  more. 

But,  no !  the  freshness  of  the  past  shall  still 
Sacred  to  memory's  holiest  musings  be ; 
When  through  the  ideal  fields  of  song,  at  will, 
He  roved  and  gather'd  chaplets  wild  with  thee ; 
When,  reckless  of  the  world,  alone  and  free, 
Like  two  proud  barks,  we  kept  our  careless  way, 
That  sail  by  moonlight  o'er  the  tranquil  sea; 
Their  white  apparel  and  their  streamers  gay 
Bright  gleaming  o'er  the  main,  beneath  the  ghostly 
ray; — 

And  downward,  far,  reflected  in  the  clear 
Blue  depths,  the  eye  their  fairy  tackling  sees ; 
So  buoyant,  they  do  seem  to  float  in  air, 
And  silently  obey  the  noiseless  breeze ; 


ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 


247 


Till,  all  too  soon,  as  the  rude  winds  may  please, 
They  part  for  distant  ports :  the  gales  benign 
Swift  wafting,  bore,  by  Heaven's  all-wise  decrees, 
To  its  own  harbour  sure,  where  each  divine 
And  joyous  vision,  seen  before  in  dreams,  is  thine. 

Muses  of  Helicon !  melodious  race 
Of  JOVE  and  golden-hair' d  MNEMOSYXE  ; 
Whose  art  from  memory  blots  each  sadder  trace, 
And  drives  each  scowling  form  of  grief  away ! 
Who,  round  the  violet  fount,  your  measures  gay 
Once  trod,  and  round  the  altar  of  great  JOVE  ; 
Whence,  wrapt  in  silvery  clouds,  your  nightly  way 
Ye  held,  and  ravishing  strains  of  music  wove, 
That  soothed  the  Thunderer's  soul,  and  fill'd  his 
courts  above. 

Bright  choir !  with  lips  untempted,  and  with  zone 
Sparkling,  and  unapproach'd  by  touch  profane ; 
Ye,  to  whose  gladsome  bosoms  ne'er  was  known 
The  blight  of  sorrow,  or  the  throb  of  pain ; 
Rightly  invoked, — if  right  the  elected  swain, 
On  your  own  mountain's  side  ye  taught  of  yore, 
Whose  honour'd  hand  took  not  your  gift  in  vain, 
Worthy  the  budding  laurel-bough  it  bore, — 
Farewell !  a  long  farewell !  I  worship  you  no  more. 


DREAM  OF  THE  PRINCESS  PAPANTZIN. 

MEXITLIS'  power  was  at  its  topmost  pride ; 
The  name  was  terrible  from  sea  to  sea ; 
From  mountains,  where  the  tameless  Ottomite 
Maintain'd  his  savage  freedom,  to  the  shores 
Of  wild  Higueras.     Through  the  nations  pass'd, 
As  stalks  the  angel  of  the  pestilence,         [young, 
The  great  king's  messengers.     They  marked  the 
The  brave  and  beautiful,  and  bore  them  on 
For  their  foul  sacrifices.     Terror  went 
Before  the  tyrant's  heralds.     Grief  and  wrath 
Remain'd  behind  their  steps ;  but  they  were  dumb. 

He  was  as  GOD.     Yet  in  his  capital 
Sat  MOTEUCZOMA,  second  of  that  name, 
Trembling  with  fear  of  dangers  long  foretold 
In  ancient  prophecies,  and  now  announced 
By  signs  in  heaven  and  portents  upon  earth ; 
By  the  reluctant  voices  of  pale  priests  ; 
By  the  grave  looks  of  solemn  counsellors ; 
But  chief,  by  sickening  heaviness  of  heart 
That  told  of  evil,  dimly  understood, 
But  evil  which  must  come.    With  face  obscured, 
And  robed  in  night,  the  giant  phantom  rose, 
Of  his  great  empire's  ruin,  and  his  own. 
Happier,  though  guiltier,  he,  before  whose  glance 
Of  reckless  triumph,  moved  the  spectral  hand 
That  traced  fhe  unearthly  characters  of  fate. 

'T  was  then,  one  eve,  when  o'er  the  imperial  lake 
And  all  its  cities,  glittering  in  thrir  pomp, 
The  lord  of  glory  threw  his  parting  smiles, 
In  TLATELOT.CO'S  palace,  in  her  bower, 
PAPAXTZIX  lay  reclined  ;  sister  of  him 
At  whose  name  monarchs  trembled.    Yielding  there 
To  musings  various,  o'er  her  senses  crept 
Or  sleep,  or  kindred  death.     It  seem'd  she  stood 
In  an  illimitable  plain,  that  stretch'd 


Its  desert  continuity  around, 
Upon  the  o'erwearied  sight ;  in  contrast  strange 
With  that  rich  vale,  where  only  she  had  dwelt, 
Whose  everlasting  mountains,  girdling  it, 
As  in  a  chalice  held  a  kingdom's  wealth ; 
Their  summits  freezing,  where  the  eagle  tired, 
But  found  no  resting-place.     PAPANTZIX  look'd 
On  endless  barrenness,  and  walk'd  perplex'd 
Through  the  dull  haze,  along  the  boundless  heath, 
Like  some  lone  ghost  in  Mictlan's  cheerless  gloom 
Debarred  from  light  and  glory.     Wandering  thus, 
She  came  where  a  great  sullen  river  pour'd 
Its  turbid  waters  with  a  rushing  sound 
Of  painful  moans ;  as  if  the  inky  waves 
Were  hastening  still  on  their  complaining  course 
To  escape  the  horrid  solitudes.     Beyond 
What  seem'd  a  highway  ran,  with  branching  paths 
Innumerous.    This  to  gain,  she  sought  to  plunge 
Straight  in  the  troubled  stream.   For  well  she  knew 
To  shun  with  agile  limbs  the  current's  force, 
Nor  fear'd  the  noise  of  waters.     She  had  play'd 
From  infancy  in  her  fair  native  lake, 
Amid  the  gay  plumed  creatures  floating  round, 
Wheeling  or  diving,  with  their  changeful  hues 
As  fearless  and  as  innocent  as  they. 

A  vision  stay'd  her  purpose.     By  her  side 
Stood  a  bright  youth;  and  startling,  as  she  gazed 
On  his  effulgence,  every  sense  was  bound 
In  pleasing  awe  and  in  fond  reverence. 
For  not  TEZCATLIPOCA,  as  he  shone 
Upon  her  priest-led  fancy,  when  from  heaven 
By  filmy  thread  sustain'd  he  came  to  earth, 
In  his  resplendent  mail  reflecting  all 
Its  images,  with  dazzling  portraiture, 
Was,  in  his  radiance  and  immortal  youth, 
A  peer  to  this  new  god. — His  stature  was 
Like  that  of  men ;  but  match'd  with  his,  the  port 
Of  kings  all  dreaded  was  the  crouching  mien 
Of  suppliants  at  their  feet.     Serene  the  light 
That  floated  round  him,  as  the  lineaments 
It  cased  with  its  mild  glory.     Gravely  sweet 
The  impression  of  his  features,  which  to  scan 
Their  lofty  loveliness  forbade:  His  eyes 
She  felt,  but  saw  not :  only,  on  his  brow — 
From  over  which,  encircled  by  what  seem'd 
A  ring  of  liquid  diamond,  in  pure  light 
Revolving  ever,  backward  flow'd  his  locks 
In  buoyant,  waving  clusters— on  his  brow 
She  mark'd  a  cross  described ;  and  lowly  bent, 
She  knew  not  wherefore,  to  the  sacred  sign. 
From  either  shoulder  mantled  o'er  his  front 
Wings  dropping  feathery  silver;  and  his  robe, 
Snow-white,  in  the  still  air  was  motionless, 
As  that  of  chisell'd  god,  or  the  pale  shroud 
Of  some  fear-conjured  ghost.     Her  hand  he  took 
And  led  her  passive  o'er  the  naked  banks 
Of  that  black  stream,  still  murmuring  angrily. 
But,  as  he  spoke,  she  heard  its  moans  no  more ; 
His  voice  seem'd  sweeter  than  the  hymnings  raised 
By  brave  and  gentle  souls  in  Paradise, 
To  celebrate  the  outgoing  of  the  sun, 
On  his  majestic  progress  over  heaven.  [yet 

"  Stay,  princess,"  thus  he  spoke,  « thou  mayst  not 
O'erpass  these  waters.  Though  thou  know'st  it  not, 
Nor  him,  GOD  loves  thee."  So  he  led  her  on, 


248 


ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 


Unfainting,  amid  hideous  sights  and  sounds  : 
For  now,  o'er  scatter'd  skulls  and  grisly  bones 
They  walk'd ;  while  underneath,  before,  behind, 
Rise  dolorous  wails  and  groans  protracted  long, 
Sobs  of  deep  anguish,  screams  of  agony, 
And  melancholy  sighs,  and  the  fierce  yell 
Of  hopeless  and  intolerable  pain. 

Shuddering,  as,  in  the  gloomy  whirlwind's  pause, 
Through  the  malign,  distemper'd  atmosphere, 
The  second  circle's  purple  blackness,  pass'd 
The  pitying  Florentine,  who  saw  the  shades 
Of  poor  FRANCESCA  and  her  paramour, — 
The  princess  o'er  the  ghastly  relics  stepp'd, 
Listening  the  frightful  clamour ;  till  a  gleam, 
Whose  sickly  and  phosphoric  lustre  seem'd 
Kindled  from  these  decaying  bones,  lit  up 
The  sable  river.     Then  a  pageant  came 
Over  its  obscure  tides,  of  stately  barks, 
Gigantic,  with  their  prows  of  quaint  device, 
Tall  masts,  and  ghostly  canvass,  huge  and  high, 
Hung  in  the  unnatural  light  and  lifeless  air. 
Grim,  bearded  men,  with  stern  and  angry  looks, 
Strange  robes,  and  uncouth  armour,  stood  behind 
Their  galleries  and  bulwarks.     One  ship  bore 
A  broad  sheet-pendant,  where,  inwrought  with  gold, 
She  mark'd  the  symbol  that  adorned  the  brow 
Of  her  mysterious  guide.     Down  the  dark  stream 
Swept  on  the  spectral  fleet,  in  the  false  light 
Flickering  and  fading.     Louder  then  uprose 
The  roar  of  voices  from  the  accursed  strand, 
Until  in  tones,  solemn  and  sweet,  again 
Her  angel-leader  spoke.     "  Princess,  GOD  wills 
That  thou  shouldst  live,  to  testify  on  earth 
What  changes  are  to  come :  and  in  the  world 
Where  change  comes  never,  live,  when  earth  and  all 
Its  changes  shall  have  pass'd  like  earth  away. 
The  cries  that  pierced  thy  soul  and  chill'd  thy  veins 
Are  those  of  thy  tormented  ancestors. 
Nor  shall  their  torment  cease ;  for  GOD  is  just. 
Foredoom'd, — since  first  from  Aztlan  led  to  rove, 
Following,  in  quest  of  change,  their  kindred  tribes — 
Where'er  they  rested,  with  foul  sacrifice 
They  stain'd  the  shuddering  earth.     Their  monu- 
Ey  blood  cemented,  after  ages  pass'd,         [ments, 
With  idle  wonder  of  fantastic  guess 
The  traveller  shall  behold.     For,  broken,  then, 
Like  their  own  ugly  idols,  buried,  burn'd, 
Their  fragments  spurn'd  for  every  servile  use, 
Trampled  and  scatter'd  to  the  reckless  winds, 
The  records  of  their  origin  shall  be. 
Still  in  their  cruelty  and  untamed  pride, 
They  lived  and  died  condemn'd;  whether  they 
Outcasts,  upon  a  soil  that  was  not  theirs,     [dwelt 
All  sterile  as  it  was,  and  won  by  stealth 
Food  from  the  slimy  margent  of  the  lake, 
And  digg'd  the  earth  for  roots  and  unclean  worms ; 
Or  served  in  bondage  to  another  race, 
Who  loved  them  not.   Driven  forth,  they  wander'd 
In  miserable  want,  until  they  came  [then 

Where  from  the  thriftless  rock  the  nopal  grew, 
On  which  the  hungry  eagle  perch'd  and  screarn'd, 
And  founded  Tenochtitlan  ;  rearing  first, 
With  impious  care,  a  cabin  for  their  god 
HUITZIIOPOCHTLI,  and  with  murderous  rites 
Devoting  to  his  guardianship  themselves 


And  all  their  issue.     Quick  the  nopal  climb'd, 

Its  harsh  and  bristly  growth  towering  o'er  all 

The  vale  of  Anahuac.     Far  for  his  prey, 

And  farther  still  the  ravenous  eagle  flew ; 

And  still  with  dripping  beak,  but  thirst  unslaked, 

With  savage  cries  wheel'd  home.    Nine  kings  have 

reign'd, 

Their  records  blotted  and  besmear'd  with  blood 
So  thick  that  none  may  read  them.    Down  the  stairs 
And  o'er  the  courts  and  winding  corridors 
Of  their  abominable  piles,  uprear'd 
In  the  face  of  heaven,  and  naked  to  the  sun, 
More  blood  has  flow'd  than  would  have  fill'd  the  lakes 
O'er  which,  enthroned  midst  carnage,  they  have  sat, 
Heaping  their  treasures  for  the  stranger's  spoil. 
Prodigious  cruelty  and  waste  of  life, 
Unnatural  riot  and  blaspheming  pride, — 
All  that  GOD  hates, — and  all  that  tumbles  down 
Great  kingdoms  and  luxurious  commonwealths, 
After  long  centuries  waxing  all  corrupt, — 
In  their  brief  annals  aggregated,  forced, 
And  monstrous,  are  compress'd.    And  now  the  cup 
Of  wrath  is  full ;  and  now  the  hour  has  come. 
Nor  yet  unwarn'd  shall  judgment  overtake 
The  tribes  of  Aztlan,  and  in  chief  their  lords, 
MEXITLIS'  blind  adorers.     As  to  one 
Who  feels  his  inward  malady  remain, 
Howe'er  health's  seeming  mocks  his  destiny, 
In  gay  or  serious  mood  the  thought  of  death 
Still  comes  obtrusive ;  so  old  prophecy, 
From  age  to  age  preserved,  has  told  thy  race 
How  strangers,  from  beyond  the  rising  sun, 
Should  come  with  thunder  arm'd,  to  overturn 
Their  idols,  to  possess  their  lands,  and  hold 
Them  and  their  children  in  long  servitude. 

«  Thou  shalt  bear  record  that  the  hour  is  nigh. 
The  white  and  bearded  men  whose  grim  array 
Swept  o'er  thy  sight,  are  those  who  are  to  come, 
And  with  strong  arms,  and  wisdom  stronger  far, 
Strange  beasts,  obedient  to  their  masters'  touch, 
And  engines  hurling  death,  with  Fate  to  aid, 
Shall  wrest  the  sceptre  from  the  Azteques'  line, 
And  lay  their  temples  flat.     Horrible  war, 
Rapine,  and  murder,  and  destruction  wild 
Shall  hurry  like  the  whirlwind  o'er  the  land. 
Yet  with  the  avengers  come  the  word  of  peace ; 
With  the  destroyers  comes  the  bread  of  life ; 
And,  as  the  wind-god,  in  thine  idle  creed, 
Opens  a  passage  with  his  boisterous  breath 
Through  which  the  genial  waters  over  earth 
Shed  their  reviving  showers ;  so,  when  the  storm 
Of  war  has  pass'd,  rich  dews  of  heavenly  grace 
Shall  fall  on  flinty  hearts.    And  thou,  the  flower, — 
Which,  when  huge  cedars  and  most  ancient  pines, 
Coeval  with  the  mountains,  are  uptorn, 
The  hurricane  shall  leave  unharm'd, — thou,  then, 
Shalt  be  the  first  to  lift  thy  drooping  head 
Renew'd,  and  cleansed  from  every  former  stain. 
"  The  fables  of  thy  people  teach,  that  when 
The  deluge  drown'd  mankind,  and  one  sole  pair 
In  fragile  bark  preserved,  escaped  and  climb'd 
The  steeps  of  Colhuacan,  daughters  and  sons 
Were  born  to  them,  who  knew  not  how  to  frame 
Their  simplest  thoughts  in  speech ;  till  from  the 
A  dove  pour'd  forth,  in  regulated  sounds,      [grove 


ROBEKT   C.  SANDS. 


249 


Bach  varied  form  of  language.    Then  they  spake, 
Though  neither  by  another  understood. 
But  thou  shalt  then  hear  of  that  holiest  Dove, 
Which  is  the  Spirit  of  the  eternal  GOD. 
When  all  was  void  and  dark,  he  moved  above 
Infinity;  and  from  beneath  his  wings 
Earth  and  the  waters  and  the  islands  rose ; 
The  air  was  quicken'd,  and  the  world  had  life. 
Then  all  the  lamps  of  heaven  began  to  shine, 
And  man  was  made  to  gaze  upon  their  fires. 

"Among  thy  fathers'  visionary  tales, 
Thou'st  heard,  how  once  near  ancient  Tula  dwelt 
A  woman,  holy  and  devout,  who  kept 
The  temple  pure,  and  to  its  platform  saw 
A  globe  of  emerald  plumes  descend  from  heaven. 
Placing  it  in  her  bosom  to  adorn 
Her  idol's  sanctuary,  (so  the  tale 
Runs,)  she  conceived,  and  bore  MEXITII.     He, 
When  other  children  had  assail'd  her  life, 
Sprang  into  being,  all  equipp'd  for  war ; 
His  green  plumes  dancing  in  their  circlet  bright, 
Like  sheaf  of  sun-lit  spray  cresting  the  bed 
Of  angry  torrents.     Round,  as  Tonatiuh 
Flames  in  mid-heaven,  his  golden  buckler  shone ; 
Like  nimble  lightning  flash'd  his  dreadful  lance ; 
And  unrelenting  vengeance  in  his  eyes 
Blazed  with  its  swarthy  lustre.     He,  they  tell, 
Led  on  their  ancestors ;  and  him  the  god 
Of  wrath  and  terror,  with  the  quivering  hearts 
And  mangled  limbs  of  myriads,  and  the  stench 
Of  blood-wash'd  shrines  and  altars  they  appease. 
But  then  shall  be  reveal'd  to  thee  the  name 
And  vision  of  a  virgin  undefiled, 
Embalm'd  in  holy  beauty,  in  whose  eyes, 
Downcast  and  chaste,  such  sacred  influence  lived, 
That  none  might  gaze  in  their  pure  spheres  and  feel 
One  earth-born  longing.     Over  her  the  Dove 
Hung,  and  the  Almighty  power  came  down.    She 
In  lowliness,  and  as  a  helpless  babe,  [bore 

Heir  to  man's  sorrows  and  calamities, 
His  great  Deliverer,  Conqueror  of  Death ; 
And  thou  shalt  learn,  how  when  in  years  he  grew 
Perfect,  and  fairer  than  the  sons  of  men, 
And  in  that  purifying  rite  partook 
Which  thou  shalt  share,  as  from  his  sacred  locks 
The  glittering  waters  dropp'd,  high  over  head 
The  azure  vault  was  open'd,  and  that  Dove 
Swiftly,  serenely  floating  downwards,  stretch'd 
His  silvery  pinions  o'er  the  anointed  Lonn, 
Sprinkling  celestial  dews.     And  thou  shalt  hear 
How,  when  the  sacrifice  for  man  had  gone 
In  glory  home,  as  his  chief  messengers 
Were  met  in  council,  on  a  mighty  wind 
The  Dove  was  borne  among  them ;  on  each  brow 
A  forked  tongue  of  fire  unquenchable  lit; 
And,  as  the  lambent  points  shot  up  and  waved, 
Strange  speech  came  to  them ;  thence  to  every  land, 
In  every  tongue,  they,  with  untiring  steps. 
Bore  the  glad  tidings  of  a  world  redeem'd." 

Much  more,  which  now  it  suits  not  to  rehearse, 
The  princess  heard.     The  historic  prophet  told 
Past,  present,  future, — things  that  since  have  been, 
And  things  that  are  to  come.     And,  as  he  ceased, 
O'er  the  black  river,  and  the  desert  plain, 
As  o'er  the  close  of  counterfeited  scenes, 
32 


Shown  by  the  buskin'd  muse,  a  veil  came  down, 

Impervious ;  and  his  figure  faded  swift 

In  the  dense  gloom.     But  then,  in  starlike  light, 

That  awful  symbol  which  adorn'd  his  brow 

In  size  dilating  show'd :  and  up,  still  up, 

In  its  clear  splendour  still  the  same,  though  still 

Lessening,  it  mounted ;  and  PAPANTZIX  woke. 

She  woke  in  darkness  and  in  solitude. 
Slow  pass'd  her  lethargy  away,  and  long 
To  her  half-dreaming  eye  that  brilliant  sign 
Distinct  appear'd.    Then  damp  and  close  she  felt 
The  air  around,  and  knew  the  poignant  smell 
Of  spicy  herbs  collected  and  confined. 
As  those  awakening  from  a  troubled  trance 
Are  wont,  she  would  have  learn'd  by  touch  if  yet 
The  spirit  to  the  body  was  allied. 
Strange  hindrances  prevented.     O'er  her  face 
A  mask  thick-plated  lay :  and  round  her  swathed 
Was  many  a  costly  and  encumbering  robe, 
Such  as  she  wore  on  some  high  festival, 
O'erspread  with  precious  gems,  rayless  and  cold, 
That  now  press'd  hard  and  sharp  against  her  touch. 
The  cumbrous  collar  round  her  slender  neck, 
Of  gold,  thick  studded  with  each  valued  stone 
Earth  and  the  sea-depths  yield  for  human  pride — 
The  bracelets  and  the  many  twisted  rings 
That  girt  her  taper  limbs,  coil  upon  coil — 
What  were  they  in  this  dungeon's  solitude  1 
The  plumy  coronal  that  would  have  sprung 
Light  from  her  fillet  in  the  purer  air, 
Waving  in  mockery  of  the  rainbow  tints, 
Now  drooping  low,  and  steep'd  in  clogging  dews, 
Oppressive  hung.     Groping  in  dubious  search, 
She  found  the  household  goods,  the  spindle,  broom, 
GICALLI  quaintly  sculptured,  and  the  jar 
That  held  the  useless  beverage  for  the  dead. 
By  these,  and  by  the  jewel  to  her  lip 
Attach'd,  the  emerald  symbol  of  the  soul, 
In  its  green  life  immortal,  soon  she  knew 
Her  dwelling  was  a  sepulchre.     She  loosed 
The  mask,  and  from  her  feathery  bier  uprose, 
Casting  away  the  robe,  which  like  long  alb 
Wrapp'd  her ;  and  with  it  many  an  aloe  leaf, 
Inscribed  with  Azteck  characters  and  signs, 
To  guide  the  spirit  where  the  serpent  hiss'd, 
Hills  tower'd,  and  deserts  spread,  and  keen  winds 

blew, 
And  many  a  "  Flower  of  Death ;"  though  their 

frail  leaves 

Were  yet  unwither'd.     For  the  living  warmth 
Which  in  her  dwelt,  their  freshness  had  preserved ; 
Else,  if  corruption  had  begun  its  work, 
The  emblems  of  quick  change  would  have  survived 
Her  beauty's  semblance.     What  is  beauty  worth, 
If  the  cropp'd  flower  retains  its  tender  bloom 
When  foul  decay  has  stolen  the  latest  lines 
Of  loveliness  in  death  1     Yet  even  now 
PAPAXTZIN  knew  that  her  exuberant  locks — 
Which,  unconfinccl,  had  round  her  flow'd  to  earth, 
Like  a  stream  rushing  uown  some  rocky  steep, 
Threading  ten  thousand  channels — had  been  shorn 
Of  half  their  waving  length, — and  liked  it  not. 

But  through  a  crevice  soon  she  mark'd  a  gleam 
Of  rays  uncertain ;  and,  with  staggering  steps, 
But  strong  in  reckless  dreaminess,  while  still 


250 


ROBERT   C.   SANDS. 


Presided  o'er  the  chaos  of  her  thoughts 

The  revelation  that  upon  her  soul 

Dwelt  with  its  power,  she  gain'd  the  cavern's  throat, 

And  push'd  the  quarried  stone  aside,  and  stood 

In  the  free  air,  and  in  her  own  domain. 

But  now,  obscurely  o'er  her  vision  swam 
The  beauteous  landscape,  with  its  thousand  tints 
And  changeful  views ;  long  alleys  of  bright  trees 
Bending  beneath  their  fruits ;  espaliers  gay 
With  tropic  flowers  and  shrubs  that  fill'd  the  breeze 
With  odorous  incense,  basins  vast,  where  birds 
With  shining  plumage  sported,  smooth  canals 
Leading  the  glassy  wave,  or  towering  grove 
Of  forest  veterans.     On  a  rising  bank, 
Her  seat  accustom'd,  near  a  well  hewn  out 
From  ancient  rocks,  into  which  waters  gush'd 
From  living  springs,  where  she  was  wont  to  bathe, 
She  threw  herself  to  muse.     Dim  on  her  sight 
The  imperial  city  and  its  causeways  rose, 
With  the  broad  lake  and  all  its  floating  isles 
And  glancing  shallops,  and  the  gilded  pomp 
Of  princely  barges,  canopied  with  plumes 
Spread  fanlike,  or  with  tufted  pageantry 
Waving  magnificent.     Uninark'd  around 
The  frequent  huitzilin,  with  murmuring  hum 
Of  ever-restless  wing,  and  shrill,  sweet  note, 
Shot  twinkling,  with  the  ruby  star  that  glow'd 
Over  his  tiny  bosom,  and  all  hues 
That  loveliest  seem  in  heaven, with  ceaseless  change, 
Flashing  from  his  fine  films.     And  all  in  vain 
Untiring,  from  the  rustling  branches  near, 
Pour'd  the  centzontli  all  his  hundred  strains 
Of  imitative  melody.     Not  now 
She  heeded  them.     Yet  pleasant  was  the  shade 
Of  palms  and  cedars ;  and  through  twining  boughs 
And  fluttering  leaves,  the  subtle  god  of  air, 
The  serpent  arm'd  with  plumes,  most  welcome  crept, 
And  fann'd  her  cheek  with  kindest  ministry. 

A  dull  and  dismal  sound  came  booming  on ; 
A  solemn,  wild,  and  melancholy  noise, 
Shaking  the  tranquil  air ;  and  afterward 
A  clash  and  jangling,  barbarously  prolonged, 
Torturing  the  unwilling  ear,  rang  dissonant 
Again  the  unnatural  thunder  roll'd  along, 
Again  the  crash  and  clamour  follow'd  it. 
Shuddering  she  heard,  who  knew  that  every  peal 
From  the  dread  gong  announced  a  victim's  heart 
Torn  from  his  breast,  and  each  triumphant  clang, 
A  mangled  corse,  down  the  great  temple's  stairs 
Hurl'd  headlong ;  and  she  knew,  as  lately  taught, 
How  vengeance  was  ordain'd  for  cruelty ; 
How  pride  would  end ;  and  uncouth  soldiers  tread 
Through  bloody  furrows  o'er  her  pleasant  groves 
And  gardens ;  and  would  make  themselves  a  road 
Over  the  dead,  choking  the  silver  lake, 
And  cast  the  batter'd  idols  down  the  steps 
That  climb'd  their  execrable  towers,  and  raze 
Sheer  from  the  ground  AHUITZOL'S  mighty  pile. 

There  had  been  wail  for  her  in  Mexico, 
And  with  due  rites  and  royal  obsequies, 
Not  without  blood  at  devilish  altars  shed, 
She  had  been  number'd  with  her  ancestry. 
Here  when  beheld,  revisiting  the  light, 
Great  marvel  rose,  and  greater  terror  grew, 
Until  the  kings  came  trembling,  to  receive 


The  foreshown  tidings.     To  his  house  of  wo 
Silent  and  mournful,  MOTETJCZOMA  went. 

Few  years  had  pass'd,  when  by  the  rabble  hands 
Of  his  own  subjects,  in  ignoble  bonds 
He  fell ;  and  on  a  hasty  gibbet  rear  d 
By  the  road-side,  with  scorn  and  obloquy 
The  brave  and  gracious  GUATF.MOTZIX  hung; 
While  to  Honduras,  thirsting  for  revenge, 
And  gloomier  after  all  his  victories, 
Stern  CORTES  stalked.    Such  was  the  will  of  GOD. 

And  then,  with  holier  rites  and  sacred  pomp, 
Again  committed  to  the  peaceful  grave, 
PAPANTZIN  slept  in  consecrated  earth. 


MONODY  ON  SAMUEL  PATCH.* 
By  water  shall  he  die,  and  take  his  end.— SHAKSPEARE. 

TOLL  for  SAM  PATCH  !     SAM  PATCH,  who  jumps 
no  more, 

This  or  the  world  to  come.  SAM  PATCH  is  dead ! 
The  vulgar  pathway  to  the  unknown  shore 

Of  dark  futurity,  he  would  not  tread. 

No  friends  stood  sorrowing  round  his  dying  bed ; 
Nor  with  decorous  wo,  sedately  stepp'd 

Behind  his  corpse,  and  tears  by  retail  shed ; — 
The  mighty  river,  as  it  onward  swept, 
In  one  great,  wholesale  sob,  his  body  drown'd  and 
kept. 

Toll  for  SAM  PATCH  !  he  scorn'd  the  common  way 
That  leads  to  fame,  up  heights  of  rough  ascent, 

And  having  heard  POPE  and  LOXGINUS  say, 
That  some  great  men  had  risen  to  falls,  he  went 
And  jump'd,  where  wild  Passaic's  waves  had  rent 

The  antique  rocks ; — the  air  free  passage  gave, — 
And  graciously  the  liquid  element 

Upbore  him,  like  some  sea-god  on  its  wave ; 

And  all  the  people  said  that  SAM  was  very  brave. 

Fame,  the  clear  spirit  that  doth  to  heaven  upraise, 

Led  SAM  to  dive  into  what  BTKOS  calls 
The  hell  of  waters.     For  the  sake  of  praise, 

He  woo'd  the  bathos  down  great  waterfalls ; 

The  dizzy  precipice,  which  the  eye  appals 
Of  travellers  for  pleasure,  SAMUEL  found 

Pleasant,  as  are  to  women  lighted  halls, 
Cramm'd  full  of  fools  and  fiddles ;  to  the  sound 
Of  the  eternal  roar,  he  timed  his  desperate  bound. 

SAM  was  a  fool.     But  the  large  world  of  such 
Has  thousands — better  taught,  alike  absurd, 

And  less  sublime.     Of  fame  he  soon  got  much, 
Where  distant  cataracts  spout,  of  him  men  heard. 

*  SAMUEL  "PATCH  was  a  boatman  on  the  Erie  Canal,  in 
New  York.  He  made  himself  notorious  by  leaping  from 
the  masts  of  ships,  from  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  and  from 
the  Falls  in  the  Genesee  River,  at  Rochester.  His  last 
feat  was  in  the  summer  of  1831,  when,  in  the  presence 
of  many  thousands,  he  jumped  from  above  the  highest 
rock  over  which  the  water  falls  in  the  Genesee,  and  was 
lost.  He  had  become  intoxicated,  before  going  upon  the 
scaffold,  and  lost  his  balance  in  descending.  The  above 
verses  were  written  a  few  days  after  this  event. 


ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 


251 


Alas  for  SAM  !     Had  he  aright  preferr'd 
The  kindly  element,  to  which  he  gave 

Himself  so  fearlessly,  we  had  not  heard 
That  it  was  now  his  winding-sheet  and  grave, 
Nor  sung,  'twixt  tears  and  smiles,  our  requiem  for 
the  brave. 

He  soon  got  drunk,  with  rum  and  with  renown, 
As  many  others  in  high  places  do ; — 

Whose  fall  is  like  SAM'S  last — for  down  and  down, 
By  one  mad  impulse  driven,  they  flounder  through 
The  gulf  that  keeps  the  future  from  our  view, 

And  then  are  found  not.  May  they  rest  in  peace ! 
We  heave  the  sigh  to  human  frailty  due — 

And  shall  not  SAM  have  his  7    The  muse  shall  cease 

To  keep  the  heroic  roll,  which  she  began  in  Greece — 

With  demigods,  who  went  to  the  Black  Sea 
For  wool,  (and,  if  the  best  accounts  be  straight, 

Came  back,  in  negro  phraseology, 

With  the  same  wool  each  upon  his  pate,) 
In  which  she  chronicled  the  deathless  fate 

Of  him  who  jump'd  into  the  perilous  ditch 
Left  by  Rome's  street  commissioners,  in  a  state 

Which  made  it  dangerous,  and  by  jumping  which 

He  made  himself  renown'd,  and  the  contractors 
rich — 

I  say,  the  muse  shall  quite  forget  to  sound 
The  chord  whose  music  is  undying,  if 

She  do  not  strike  it  when  SAM  PATCH  is  drown'd. 
LEAXDER  dived  for  love.     Leucadia's  cliff 
The  Lesbian  SAPPHO  leap'd  from  in  a  miff, 

To  punish  PHAOX  ;  ICARUS  went  dead, 
Because  the  wax  did  not  continue  stiff; 

And,  had  he  minded  what  his  father  said, 

He  had  not  given  a  name  unto  his  watery  bed. 

And  HELLE'S  case  was  all  an  accident, 

As  everybody  knows.     Why  sing  of  these  7 

Nor  would  I  rank  with  SAM  that  man  who  went 
Down  into  ^Etna's  womb — EMPEDOCLES, 
I  think  he  call'd  himself.    Themselves  to  please, 

Or  else  unwillingly,  they  made  their  springs ; 
For  glory  in  the  abstract,  SAM  made  his, 

To  prove  to  all  men,  commons,  lords,  and  kings, 

That  "  some  things  may  be  done,  as  well  as  other 
things." 

I  will  not  be  fatigued,  by  citing  more 

Who  jump'd  of  old,  by  hazard  or  design, 

Nor  plague  the  weary  ghosts  of  boyish  lore, 
VULCAX,  APOLLO,  PHAETON — in  fine, 
All  TOOKE'S  Pantheon.    Yet  they  grew  divine 

By  their  long  tumbles ;  and  if  we  can  match 
Their  hierarchy,  shall  we  not  entwine 

One  wreath  1    Who  ever  came  "  up  to  the  scratch," 

And,  for  so  little,  jump'd  so  bravely  as  SAM  PATCH  I 

To  long  conclusions  many  men  have  jump'd 

In  logic,  and  the  safer  course  they  took ; 
By  any  other,  they  would  have  been  stump'd, 

Unable  to  argue,  or  to  quote  a  book,       [brook ; 

And  quite    dumb-founded,  which  they  cannot 
They  break  no  bones,  and  suffer  no  contusion, 

Hiding  their  woful  fall,  by  hook  and  crook, 
In  slang  and  gibberish,  sputtering  and  confusion ; 
But  that  was  not  the  way  SAM  came  to  his  conclusion. 


He  jump'd  in  person.     Death  or  Victory 

Was  his  device,  "  and  there  was  no  mistake," 
Except  his  last ;  and  then  he  did  but  die, 

A  blunder  which  the  wisest  men  will  make. 

Aloft,  where  mighty  floods  the  mountains  break, 
To  stand,  the  target  of  ten  thousand  eyes, 

And  down  into  the  coil  and  water-quake 
To  leap,  like  MAIA'S  offspring,  from  the  skies — 
For  this,  all  vulgar  flights  he  ventured  to  despise. 

And  while  Niagara  prolongs  its  thunder, 

Though  still  the  rocl^  primeval  disappears, 
And  nations  change  their  bounds — the  theme  of 
wonder 

Shall  SAM  go  down  the  cataract  of  long  years; 

And  if  there  be  sublimity  in  tears, 
Those  shall  be  precious  which  the  adventurer  shed 

When  his  frail  star  gave  way,  and  waked  his  fears 
Lest  by  the  ungenerous  crowd  it  might  be  said, 
That  he  was  all  a  hoax,  or  that  his  pluck  had  fled. 

Who  would  compare  the  maudlin  ALEXANDER, 
Blubbering,  because  he  had  no  job  hi  hand, 

Acting  the  hypocrite,  or  else  the  gander, 

With  SAM,  whose  grief  we  all  can  understand  1 
His  crying  was  not  womanish,  nor  plann'd 

For  exhibition  ;  but  his  heart  o'erswell'd 
With  its  own  agony,  when  he  the  grand 

Natural  arrangements  for  a  jump  beheld, 

And,  measuring  the  cascade,  found  not  his  courage 
quell'd. 

His  last  great  failure  set  the  final  seal 
Unto  the  record  Time  shall  never  tear, 

While  bravery  has  its  honour, — while  men  feel 
The  holy,  natural  sympathies  which  are 
First,  last,  and  mightiest  in  the  bosom.    Where 

The  tortured  tides  of  Genessee  descend, 
He  came — his  only  intimate  a  bear, — 

(We  know  not  that  he  had  another  friend,) 

The  martyr  of  renown,  his  wayward  course  to  end. 

The  fiend  that  from  the  infernal  rivers  stole 

Hell-draughts  for  man,  too  much  tormented  him : 
With  nerves  unstrung,  but  steadfast  in  his  soul, 

He  stood  upon  the  salient  current's  brim ; 

His  head  was  giddy,  and  his  sight  was  dim ; 
And  then  he  knew  this  leap  would  be  his  last, — 

Saw  air,  and  earth,  and  water  wildly  swim, 
With  eyes  of  many  multitudes,  dense  and  vast, 
That  stared  in  mockery ;  none  a  look  of  kindness 
cast. 

Beat  down,  in  the  huge  amphitheatre 
"  I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie," 

And  tier  on  tier,  the  myriads  waiting  there 
The  bow  of  grace,  without  one  pitying  eye — 
He  was  a  slave — a  captive  hired  to  die ; — 

SAM  was  born  free  as  CJESAR  ;  and  he  might 
The  hopeless  issue  have  refused  to  try ; 

No !  with  true  leap,  but  soon  with  faltering  flight, — 

"  Deep  in  the  roaring  gulf,  he  plunged  to  endless 
night." 

But,  ere  he  leap'd,  he  begg'd  of  those  who  made 
Money  by  his  dread  venture,  that  if  he 

Should  perish,  such  collection  should  be  paid 
As  might  be  pick'd  up  from  the  "  company 


252 


ROBERT    C.   SANDS. 


To  his  mother.  This,  his  last  request,  shall  be, — 
Though  she  who  bore  him  ne'er  his  fate  should 

An  iris,  glittering  o'er  his  memory,  [know — 
When  all  the  streams  have  worn  their  barriers  low, 
And,  by  the  sea  drunk  up,  forever  cease  to  flow. 

On  him  who  chooses  to  jump  down  cataracts, 

Why  should  the  sternest  moralist  be  severe  1 
Judge  not  the  dead  by  prejudice — but  facts, 

Such  as  in  strictest  evidence  appear ; 

Else  were  the  laurels  of  all  ages  sere. 
Give  to  the  brave,  who  have  pass'd  the  final  goal, — 

The  gates  that  ope  not  back, — the  generous  tear ; 
And  let  the  muse's  clerk  upon  her  scroll,  [roll. 
In  coarse,  but  honest  verse,  make  up  the  judgment- 

T/ierefore  it  is  considered,  that  SAM  PATCH 
Shall  never  be  forgot  in  prose  or  rhyme ; 

His  name  shall  be  a  portion  in  the  batch 
Of  the  heroic  dough,  which  baking  Time 
Kneads  for  consuming  ages — and  the  chime 

Of  Fame's  old  bells,  long  as  they  truly  ring, 
Shall  tell  of  him ;  he  dived  for  the  sublime, 

And  found  it     Thou,  who  with  the  eagle's  wing, 

Being  a  goose,  wouldst  fly, — dream  not  of  such  a 
thing ! 


EVENING.* 

HAIL  !  sober  evening !  thee  the  harass'd  brain 
And  aching  heart  with  fond  orisons  greet ; 
The  respite  thou  of  toil ;  the  balm  of  pain ; 
To  thoughtful  mind  the  hour  for  musing  meet : 
'Tis  then  the  sage,  from  forth  his  lone  retreat, 
The  rolling  universe  around  espies ; 
'T  is  then  the  bard  may  hold  communion  sweet 
With  lovely  shapes,  unkenn'd  by  grosser  eyes, 
And  quick  perception  comes  of  finer  mysteries. 

The  silent  hour  of  bliss  !  when  in  the  west 
Her  argent  cresset  lights  the  star  of  love : — 
The  spiritual  hour !  when  creatures  bless'd 
Unseen  return  o'er  former  haunts  to  rove ; 
While  sleep  his  shadowy  mantle  spreads  above, 
Sleep,  brother  of  forgetfulness  and  death, 
Round  well-known  couch,  with  noiseless  tread 

they  rove, 

In  tones  of  heavenly  music  comfort  breathe, 
And  tell  what  weal  or  bale  shall  chance  the  moon 

beneath. 

Hour  of  devotion !  like  a  distant  sea, 
The  world's  loud  voices  faintly  murmuring  die ; 
Responsive  to  the  spheral  harmony, 
While  grateful  hymns  are  bornefrom  earth  on  high. 
O !  who  can  gaze  on  yon  unsullied  sky, 
And  not  grow  purer  from  the  heavenward  view  7 
As  those,  the  Virgin  Mother's  meek,  full  eye, 
Who  met,  if  uninspired  lore  be  true, 
Felt  a  new  birth  within,  and  sin  no  longer  knew. 

Let  others  hail  the  oriflamme  of  morn, 
O'er  kindling  hills  unfurl'd  with  gorgeous  dyes  ! 
O,  mild,  blue  Evening !  still  to  thee  I  turn, 
With  holier  thought,  and  with  undazzled  eyes; — 

*  From  "  Yamoyden." 


Where  wealth  and  power  with  glare  and  splen- 
dour rise, 

Let  fools  and  slaves  disgustful  incense  burn ! 
Stilt  Memory's  moonlight  lustre  let  me  prize ; 
The  great,  the  good,  whose  course  is  o'er,  discern, 
And,  from  their  glories  past,  time's  mighty  lessons 
learn ! 


WEEHAWKEN. 

EVE  o'er  our  path  is  stealing  fast; 
Yon  quivering  splendours  are  the  last 
The  sun  will  fling,  to  tremble  o'er 
The  waves  that  kiss  the  opposing  shore ; 
His  latest  glories  fringe  the  height 
Behind  us,  with  their  golden  light. 

The  mountain's  mirror'd  outline  fades 
Amid  the  fast-extending  shades ; 
Its  shaggy  bulk,  in  sterner  pride, 
Towers,  as  the  gloom  steals  o'er  the  tide; 
For  the  great  stream  a  bulwark  meet 
That  leaves  its  rock-encumber'd  feet. 

River  and  mountain  !  though  to  song 
Not  yet,  perchance,  your  names  belong ; 
Those  who  have  loved  your  evening  hues 
Will  ask  not  the  recording  muse 
What  antique  tales  she  can  relate, 
Your  banks  and  steeps  to  consecrate. 

Yet,  should  the  stranger  ask,  what  lore 
Of  by-gone  days,  this  winding  shore, 
Yon  cliffs  and  fir-clad  steeps  could  tell, 
If  vocal  made  by  Fancy's  spell, — 
The  varying  legend  might  rehearse 
Fit  themes  for  high,  romantic  verse. 

O'er  yon  rough  heights  and  moss-clad  sod 
Oft  hath  the  stalworth  warrior  trod ; 
Or  pcer'd,  with  hunter's  gaze,  to  mark 
The  progress  of  the  glancing  bark. 
Spoils,  strangely  won  on  distant  waves, 
Have  lurk'd  in  yon  obstructed  caves. 

When  the  great  strife  for  Freedom  rose, 
Here  scouted  oft  her  friends  and  foes, 
Alternate,  through  the  changeful  war, 
And  beacon-fires  flash'd  bright  and  far; 
And  here,  when  Freedom's  strife  was  won, 
Fell,  in  sad  feud,  her  favour'd  son  ; — 

Her  son, — the  second  of  the  band, 
The  Romans  of  the  rescued  land. 
Where  round  yon  capes  the  banks  ascend, 
Long  shall  the  pilgrim's  footsteps  bend  ; 
There,  mirthful  hearts  shall  pause  to  sigh, 
There,  tears  shall  dim  the  patriot's  eye. 

There  last  he  stood.     Before  his  sight 
Flow'd  the  fair  river,  free  and  bright; 
The  rising  mart,  and  isles,  and  bay, 
Before  him  in  their  glory  lay, — 
Scenes  of  his  love  and  of  his  fame, — 
The  instant  ere  the  death-shot  came. 


ROBERT   C.   SANDS. 


253 


THE  GREEN  ISLE  OF  LOVERS. 

THF.T  say  that,  afar  in  the  land  of  the  west, 
Where  the  bright  golden  sun  sinks  in  glory  to  rest, 
Mid  fens  where  the  hunter  ne'er  ventured  to  tread, 
A  fair  lake  unruffled  and  sparkling  is  spread ; 
Where,  lost  in  his  course,  the  rapt  Indian  discovers, 
In  distance  seen  dimly,  the  green  Isle  of  Lovers. 

There  verdure  fades  never ;  immortal  in  bloom, 
Soft  waves  the  magnolia  its  groves  of  perfume ; 
And  low  bends  the  branch  with  rich  fruitage  de- 

press'd, 

All  glowing  like  gems  in  the  crowns  of  the  east ; 
There  the  bright  eye  of  nature,  in  mild  glory  hovers : 
'Tis  the  land  of  the  sunbeam, — the  green  Isle  of 

Lovers ! 

Sweet  strains  wildly  float  on  the  breezes  that  kiss 
The  calm-flowing  lake  round  that  region  of  bliss 
Where,  wreathing  their  garlands  of  amaranth,  fair 

choirs 

Glad  measures  still  weave  to  the  sound  that  inspires 
The  dance  and  the  revel,  mid  forests  that  cover 
Onhighwith  their  shade  the  green  Isle  of  the  Lover. 

But  fierce  as  the  snake,  with  his  eyeballs  of  fire, 
When  his  scales  are  all  brilliant  and  glowingwith  ire, 
Are  the  warriors  to  all,  save  the  maids  of  their  isle, 
Whose  law  is  their  will,  and  whose  life  is  their  smile ; 
From  beauty  there  valour  and  strength  are  not 

rovers, 
And  peace  reigns  supreme  in  the  green  Isle  of 

Lovers. 

And  he  who  has  sought  to  set  foot  on  its  shore, 

In  mazes  perplcx'd,  has  beheld  it  no  more ; 

It  fleets  on  the  vision,  deluding  the  view, 

Its  banks  still  retire  as  the  hunters  pursue ; 

O  !  who  in  this  vain  world  of  wo  shall  discover 

The  home  undisturb'd,  the  green  Isle  of  the  Lover ! 


THE  DEAD  OF  1832. 

O,  TIME  and  Death !  with  certain  pace, 
Though  still  unequal,  hurrying  on, 

O'erturning,  in  your  awful  race, 
The  cot,  the  palace,  and  the  throne ! 

Not  always  in  the  storm  of  war, 
Nor  by  the  pestilence  that  sweeps 

From  the  plague-smitten  realms  afar, 
Beyond  the  old  and  solemn  deeps : 

In  crowds  the  good  and  mighty  go, 
And  to  those  vast,  dim  chambers  hie : 

Where,  mingled  with  the  high  and  low, 
Dead  CAESARS  and  dead  SHAKSPF.AHES  lie  ! 

Dread  ministers  of  Gon  !  sometimes 

Ye  smite  at  once  to  do  his  will, 
In  all  earth's  ocean-sever'd  climes, 

Those — whose  renown  ye  cannot  kill ! 


When  all  the  brightest  stars  that  burn 
At  once  are  banish'd  from  their  spheres, 

Men  sadly  ask,  when  shall  return 
Such  lustre  to  the  coming  years ! 

For  where  is  he* — who  lived  so  long — 
Who  raised  the  modern  Titan's  ghost, 

And  show'd  his  fate  in  powerful  song, 
Whose  soul  for  learning's  sake  was  lost  7 

Where  he — who  backward  to  the  birth 
Of  Time  itself,  adventurous  trod, 

And  in  the  mingled  mass  of  earth 
Found  out  the  handiwork  of  GOD  ?| 

Where  he — who  in  the  mortal  head,^ 
Ordain'd  to  gaze  on  heaven,  could  trace 

The  soul's  vast  features,  that  shall  tread 
The  stars,  when  earth  is  nothingness  1 

Where  he — who  struck  old  Albyn's  lyre,§ 
Till  round  the  world  its  echoes  roll, 

And  swept,  with  all  a  prophet's  lire, 
The  diapason  of  the  soul  ? 

Where  he — who  read  the  mystic  lorej 
Buried  where  buried  PHAHAOHS  sleep ; 

And  dared  presumptuous  to  explore 
Secrets  four  thousand  years  could  keep  ? 

Where  he — who,  with  a  poet's  eye^ 
Of  truth,  on  lowly  nature  gazed, 

And  made  even  sordid  Poverty 

Classic,  when  in  his  numbers  glazed  ? 

Where — that  old  sage  so  hale  and  staid,** 
The  «  greatest  good"  who  sought  to  find ; 

Who  in  his  garden  mused,  and  made 
All  forms  of  rule  for  all  mankind  1 

And  thou — whom  millions  far  removed-j-f- 
Revered — the  hierarch  meek  and  wise, 

Thy  ashes  sleep,  adored,  beloved, 

Near  where  thy  WESLEY'S  coffin  lies. 

He,  too — the  heir  of  glory — whereat 
Hath  great  NAPOLEON'S  scion  fled  1 

Ah !  glory  goes  not  to  an  heir  ! 
Take  him,  ye  noble,  vulgar  dead ! 

But  hark  !  a  nation  sighs !  for  he,§§ 
Last  of  the  brave  who  perill'd  all 

To  make  an  infant  empire  free, 
Obeys  the  inevitable  call ! 

They  go — and  with  them  is  a  crowd, 
For  human  rights  who  thought  and  did : 

We  rear  to  them  no  temples  proud, 
Each  hath  his  mental  pyramid. 

All  earth  is  now  their  sepulchre, 

The  mind,  their  monument  sublime — 

Young  in  eternal  fame  they  are — 

Such  are  your  triumphs,  Death  and  Time. 


*  Goethe  and  his  Faust.  f  Cnvier. 

t  Spurzheim.  J  Scntt. 

||  Champollion.  ^   Crahbe. 

**  Jeremy  Bentham.  ft  Adam  Clarke. 

It  The  Duke  of  Reichstadt.  &}  Charles  Carroll. 


254 


ROBERT    C.   SANDS. 


PARTING. 

SAT,  when  afar  from  mine  thy  home  shall  be, 
Still  will  thy  soul  unchanging  turn  to  me  1 
When  other  scenes  in  beauty  round  thee  lie, 
Will  these  be  present  to  thy  mental  eye  1 
Thy  form,  thy  mind,  when  others  fondly  praise, 
Wilt  thou  forget  thy  poet's  humbler  lays  1 
Ah  me !  what  is  there,  in  earth's  various  range, 
That  time  and  absence  may  not  sadly  change  ! 
And  can  the  heart,  that  still  demands  new  ties, 
New  thoughts,  for  all  its  thousand  sympathies — 
The  waxen  heart,  where  every  seal  may  set, 
In  turn,  its  stamp — remain  unalter'd  yet, 
While  nature  changes  with  each  fleeting  day, 
And  seasons  dance  their  varying  course  away? 
Ah !  shouldst  thou  swerve  from  truth,  all  else  must 

part, 

That  yet  can  feed  with  life  this  wither'd  heart ! 
Whate'er  its  doubts,  its  hopes,  its  fears  may  be, 
'T  were,  even  in  madness,  faithful  still  to  thee ; 
And  shouldst  thou  snap  that  silver  chord  in  twain, 
The  golden  bowl  no  other  links  sustain ; 
Crush'd  in  the  dust,  its  fragments  then  must  sink, 
And  the  cold  earth  its  latest  life-drops  drink. 
Blame  not,  if  oft,  in  melancholy  mood, 
This  theme,  too  far,  sick  fancy  hath  pursued ; 
And  if  the  soul,  which  high  with  hope  should  beat, 
Turns  to  the  gloomy  grave's  unbless'd  retreat. 

Majestic  nature  !  since  thy  course  began, 
Thy  features  wear  no  sympathy  for  man  ; 
The  sun  smiles  loveliest  on  our  darkest  hours ; 
O'er  the  cold  grave  fresh  spring  the  sweetest  flowers, 
And  man  himself,  in  selfish  sorrows  bound, 
Heeds  not  the  melancholy  ruin  round. 
The  crowd's  vain  roar  still  fills  the  passing  breeze 
That  bends  above  the  tomb  the  cypress-trees. 
One  only  heart,  still  true  in  joy  or  wo, 
Is  all  the  kindest  fates  can  e'er  bestow. 
If  frowning  Heaven  that  heart  refuse  to  give, 
O,  who  would  ask  the  ungracious  boon — to  live  1 
Then  better  'twere,  if  longer  doom'd  to  prove 
The  listless  load  of  life,  unbless'd  with  love, 
To  seek  midst  ocean's  waste  some  island  fair, — 
And  dwell,  the  anchorite  of  nature,  there ; — 
Some  lonely  isle,  upon  whose  rocky  shore 
No  sound,  save  curlew's  scream,  or  billow's  roar, 
Hath  echoed  ever ;  in  whose  central  woods, 
With  the  quick  spirit  of  its  solitudes, 
In  converse  deep,  strange  sympathies  untried, 
The  soul  might  find,  which  this  vain  world  denied. 

But  I  will  trust  that  heart,  where  truth  alone, 
In  loveliest  guise,  sits  radiant  on  her  throne ; 
And  thus  believing,  fear  not  all  the  power 
Of  absence  drear,  or  time's  most  tedious  hour. 
If  e'er  I  sigh  to  win  the  wreaths  of  fame, 
And  write  on  memory's  scroll  a  deathless  name, 
'Tis  but  thy  loved,  approving  smile  to  meet, 
And  lay  the  budding  laurels  at  thy  feet. 
If  e'er  for  worldly  wealth  I  heave  a  sigh, 
And  glittering  visions  float  on  fancy's  eye, 
'T  is  but  with  rosy  wreaths  thy  path  to  spread, 
And  place  the  diadem  on  beauty's  head. 
Queen  of  my  thoughts,  each  subject  to  thy  sway, 
Thy  ruling  presence  lives  but  to  obey  ; 


And  shouldst  thou  e'er  their  bless'd  allegiance  slight, 
The  mind  must  wander,  lost  in  endless  night. 
Farewell !  forget  me  not,  when  others  gaze 
Enamour'd  on  thee,  with  the  looks  of  praise ; 
When  weary  leagues  before  my  view  are  cast, 
And  each  dull  hour  seems  heavier  than  the  last, 
Forget  me  not.     May  joy  thy  steps  attend, 
And  mayst  thou  find  in  every  form  a  friend ; 
With  care  unsullied  be  thy  every  thought ; 
And  in  thy  dreams  of  home,  forget  me  not ! 


CONCLUSION  TO  YAMOYDEN. 

SAD  was  the  theme,  which  yet  to  try  we  chose, 
In  pleasant  moments  of  communion  sweet ; 
When  least  we  thought  of  earth's  unvarnish'd 

woes, 

And  least  we  dream'd,  in  fancy's  fond  deceit, 
That  either  the  cold  grasp  of  death  should  meet, 
Till  after  many  years,  in  ripe  old  age ; 
Three  little  summers  flew  on  pinions  fleet, 
And  thou  art  living  but  in  memory's  page, 
And  earth  seems  all  to  me  a  worthless  pilgrimage. 

Sad  was  our  theme ;  but  well  the  wise  man  sung, 
«  Better  than  festal  halls,  the  house  of  wo ;" 
'Tis  good  to  stand  destruction's  spoils  among, 
And  muse  on  that  sad  bourne  to  which  we  go. 
The  heart  grows  better  when  tears  freely  flow ; 
And,  in  the  many-colour'd  dream  of  earth, 
One  stolen  hour,  wherein  ourselves  we  know, 
Our  weakness  and  our  vanity, — is  worth 

Years  of  unmeaning  smiles,  and  lewd,  obstrepe- 
rous mirth. 

'Tis  good  to  muse  on  nations  pass'd  away, 
Forever,  from  the  land  we  call  our  own  ; 
Nations,  as  proud  and  mighty  in  their  day, 
Who  deem'd  that  everlasting  was  their  throne. 
An  age  went  by,  and  they  no  more  were  known 
Sublimer  sadness  will  the  mind  control, 
Listening  time's  deep  and  melancholy  moan ; 
And  meaner  griefs  will  less  disturb  the  soul ; 

And  human  pride  falls  low,  at  human  grandeur's 

goal. 

PHILIP  !  farewell !  thee  King,  in  idle  jest, 
Thy  persecutors  named ;  and  if  indeed] 
The  jewell'd  diadem  thy  front  had  press'd, 
It  had  become  thee  better,  than  the  breed 
Of  palaces,  to  sceptres  that  succeed, 
To  be  of  courtier  or  of  priest  the  tool, 
Satiate  dull  sense,  or  count  the  frequent  bead, 
Or  pamper  gormand  hunger ;  thou  wouldst  rule 

Better  than  the  worn  rake,  the  glutton,  or  the  fool ! 

I  would  not  wrong  thy  warrior  shade,  could  I 
Aught  in  my  verse  or  make  or  mar  thy  fame ; 
As  the  light  carol  of  a  bird  flown  by         [name : 
Will  pass  the  youthful  strain  that  breathed  thy 
But  in  that  land  whence  thy  destroyers  came, 
A  sacred  bard  thy  champion  shall  be  found ; 
He  of  the  laureate  wreath  for  thee  shall  claim 
The  hero's  honours,  to  earth's  farthest  bound, 
Where  Albion's  tongue  is  heard,  or  Albion's  songs 
resound. 


ROBERT    C.    SAIVDS. 


255 


INVOCATION. 

OH  quick  for  me  the  goblet  fill, 
From  bright  Castalia's  sparkling  rill ; 
Pluck  the  young  laurel's  flexile  bough, 
And  let  its  foliage  wreathe  my  brow ; 
And  bring  the  lyre  with  sounding  shell, 
The  four-string'd  lyre  I  loved  so  well ! 

Lo !  as  I  gaze,  the  picture  flies 

Of  weary  life's  realities ; 

Behold  the  shade,  the  wild  wood  shade, 

The  mountain  steeps,  the  checker1  d  glade; 

And  hoary  rocks  and  bubbling  rills, 

And  painted  waves  and  distant  hills. 

Oh  !  for  an  hour,  let  me  forget 
How  much  of  life  is  left  me  yet ; 
Recall  the  visions  of  the  past, 
Fair  as  these  tints  that  cannot  last, 
That  all  the  heavens  and  waters  o'er 
Their  gorgeous,  transient  glories  pour. 

Ye  pastoral  scenes,  by  fancy  wrought ! 
Ye  pageants  of  the  loftier  thought ! 
Creations  proud  !  majestic  things  ! 
Heroes,  and  demigods,  and  kings ! 
Return,  with  all  of  shepherds'  lore, 
Or  old  romance  that  pleased  before  ! 
Ye  forms  that  are  not  of  the  earth, 
Of  grace,  of  valour,  and  of  worth  ! 
Ye  bright  abstractions,  by  the  thought 
Like  the  great  master's  pictures,  wrought 
To  the  ideal's  shadowy  mien, 
From  beauties  fancied,  dreamt  or  seen  ! 

Ye  speaking  sounds,  that  poet's  ear 
Alone  in  nature's  voice  can  hear! 
Thou  full  conception,  vast  and  wide, 
flour  of  the  lonely  minstrel's  pride, 
As  when  projection  gave  of  old 
Alchymy's  visionary  gold ! 

Return  !  return  !  oblivion  bring 

Of  cares  that  vex,  and  thoughts  that  sting! 

The  hour  of  gloom  is  o'er  my  soul ; 

Disperse  the  shades,  the  fiends  control, 

As  David's  harp  had  power  to  do, 

If  sacred  chronicles  be  true. 

Oh  come !  by  every  classic  spell, 
By  old  Pieria's  haunted  well ; 
By  revels  on  the  Olmeian  height 
Held  in  the  moon's  religious  light; 
By  virgin  forms  that  wont  to  lave, 
Permessus  !  in  thy  lucid  wave  ! 

In  vain !  in  vain !  the  strain  has  pass'd  ; 
The  laurel  leaves  upon  the  blast 
Float,  wither'd,  ne'er  again  to  bloom, 
The  cup  is  drain'd — the  song  is  dumb— 
And  spell  and  rhyme  alike  in  vain 
Would  woo  the  genial  muse  again. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

GOOD  night  to  all  the  world !  there's  none, 
Beneath  the  «  over-going"  sun, 
To  whom  I  feel  or  hate  or  spite, 
And  so  to  all  a  fair  good-night. 


Would  I  could  say  good  night  to  pain, 
Good  night  to  conscience  and  her  train, 
To  cheerless  poverty,  and  shame 
That  I  am  yet  unknown  to  fame ! 

Would  I  could  say  good  night  to  dreams 
That  haunt  me  with  delusive  gleams, 
That  through  the  sable  future's  veil 
Like  meteors  glimmer,  but  to  fail. 

Would  I  could  say  a  long  good-night 
To  halting  between  wrong  and  right, 
And,  like  a  giant  with  new  force, 
Awake  prepared  to  run  my  course ! 

But  time  o'er  good  and  ill  sweeps  on, 
And  when  few  years  have  come  and  gone, 
The  past  will  be  to  me  as  naught, 
Whether  remember'd  or  forgot. 

Yet  let  me  hope  one  faithful  friend, 
O'er  my  last  couch  shall  tearful  bend ; 
And,  though  no  day  for  me  was  bright, 
Shall  bid  me  then  a  long  good-night. 


FROM  A  MONODY  ON  J.  W.  EASTBURN. 

BUT  now,  that  cherish'd  voice  was  near ; 

And  all  around  yet  breathes  of  him ; — 
We  look,  and  we  can  only  hear 

The  parting  wings  of  cherubim  ! 
Mourn  ye,  whom  haply  nature  taught 

To  share  the  bard's  communion  high ; 
To  scan  the  ideal  world  of  thought, 

That  floats  before  the  poet's  eye ; — 
Ye,  who  with  ears  o'ersated  long, 

From  native  bards  disgusted  fly, 
Expecting  only,  in  their  song, 

The  ribald  strains  of  calumny ; — 
Mourn  ye  a  minstrel  chaste  as  sweet, 

Who  caught  from  heaven  no  doubtful  fire, 
But  chose  immortal  themes  as  meet 

Alone  for  an  immortal  lyre. 
O  silent  shell !  thy  chords  are  riven  ! 

That  heart  lies  cold  before  its  prime ! 
Mute  are  those  lips,  that  might  have  given 

One  deathless  descant  to  our  clime !     . 
No  laurel  chaplet  twines  he  now  ; 

He  sweeps  a  harp  of  heavenly  tone, 
And  plucks  the  amaranth  for  his  brow 

That  springs  beside  the  eternal  throne. 
Mourn  ye,  whom  friendship's  silver  chain 

Link'd  with  his  soul  in  bonds  refined ; 
That  earth  had  striven  to  burst  in  vain, — 

The  sacred  sympathy  of  mind. 
Still  long  that  sympathy  shall  last : 

Still  shall  each  object,  like  a  spell, 
Recall  from  fate  the  buried  past, 

Present  the  mind  beloved  so  well. 
That  pure  intelligence — Oh  where 

Now  is  its  onward  progress  won  1 
Through  what  new  regions  does  it  dare 

Push  the  bold  quest  on  earth  begun  1 
In  realms  with  boundless  glory  fraught, 

Where  fancy  can  no  trophies  raise — 
In  blissful  vision,  where  the  thought 

Is  whelm'd  in  wonder  and  in  praise! 


256 


ROBERT    C.    SANDS. 


Till  life's  last  pulse,  O  triply  dear, 
A  loftier  strain  is  due  to  thee ; 

But  constant  memory's  votive  tear 
Thy  sacred  epitaph  must  be. 


TO  THE  MANITTO  OF  DREAMS. 

SPIRIT  !  THOU  SPIRIT  of  subtlest  air, 

Whose  power  is  upon  the  brain, 
When  wondrous  shapes,  and  dread  and  fair, 

As  the  film  from  the  eyes 

At  thy  bidding  flies, 
To  sight  and  sense  are  plain ! 

Thy  whisper  creeps  where  leaves  are  stirr'd ; 

Thou  sighest  in  woodland  gale; 
Where  waters  are  gushing  thy  voice  is  heard ; 

And  when  stars  are  bright, 

At  still  midnight, 
Thy  symphonies  prevail ! 

Where  the  forest  ocean,  in  quick  commotion, 

Is  waving  to  and  fro, 
Thy  form  is  seen,  in  the  masses  green, 

Dimly  to  come  and  go. 
From  thy  covert  peeping,  where  thou  layest  sleeping 

Beside  the  brawling  brook, 
Thou  art  seen  to  wake,  and  thy  flight  to  take 

Fleet  from  thy  lonely  nook. 

Where  the  moonbeam  has  kiss'd 

The  sparkling  tide, 

In  thy  mantle  of  mist 

Thou  art  seen  to  glide. 

Far  o'er  the  blue  waters 

Melting  away, 

On  the  distant  billow, 

As  on  a  pillow, 

Thy  form  to  lay. 

Where  the  small  clouds  of  even 

Are  wreathing  in  heaven 

Their  garland  of  roses, 

O'er  the  purple  and  gold, 

Whose  hangings  enfold 

The  hall  that  encloses 

The  couch  of  the  sun, 

Whose  empire  is  done, —  i 

There  thou  art  smiling, 

For  thy  away  is  begun ; 

Thy  shadowy  sway, 

The  senses  beguiling, 

When  the  light  fades  away, 
And  thy  vapour  of  mystery  o'er  nature  ascending, 

The  heaven  and  the  earth, 

The  things  that  have  birth, 
And  the  embryos  that  float  in  the  future  are  blending. 

From  the  land,  on  whose  shores  the  billows  break 
The  sounding  waves  of  the  mighty  lake ; 
From  the  land  where  boundless  meadows  be, 
Where  the  bullalo  ranges  wild  and  free ; 
With  silvery  coat  in  his  liltle  isle, 
Where  the  beaver  plies  his  ceaseless  toil ; 
The  land  where  pigmy  forms  abide, 
Thou  leadest  thy  train  at  the  eventide ; 


And  the  wings  of  the  wind  are  left  behind, 
So  swiil  through  the  pathless  air  they  glide. 

Then  to  the  chief  who  has  fasted  long, 
When  the  chains  of  his  slumber  are  heavy  and  strong 
SPIRIT  !  thou  coinest;  he  lies  as  dead, 
His  weary  lids  are  with  heaviness  weigh 'd ; 
But  his  soul  is  abroad  on  the  hurricane's  pinion, 
Where  foes  are  met  in  the  rush  of  fight, 
In  the  shadowy  world  of  thy  dominion 
Conquering  and  slaying,  till  morning  light ! 

Then  shall  the  hunter  who  waits  for  thee, 
The  land  of  the  game  rejoicing  see ; 
Through  the  leafless  wood, 
O'er  the  frozen  flood, 
And  the  trackless  snows  his  spirit  goes, 
Along  the  sheeted  plain, 
Where  the  hermit  bear,  in  his  sullen  lair, 
Keeps  his  long  fast,  till  the  winter  hath  pass'd 
And  the  boughs  have  budded  again. 
SPIRIT  OF  DHEAMS  !  all  thy  visions  are  true, 
Who  the  shadow  hath  seen,  he  the  substance  shall 
view ! 

Thine  the  riddle,  strange  and  dark, 
Woven  in  the  dreamy  brain  : — 
Thine  to  yield  the  power  to  mark 
Wandering  by,  the  dusky  train ; 
W'arrior  ghosts  for  vengeance  crying, 
Scalped  on  the  lost  battle's  plain, 
Or  who  died  their  foes  defying, 
Slow  by  lingering  tortures  slain. 

Thou,  the  war-chief  hovering  near, 
Breathest  language  on  his  ear ; 
When  his  winged  words  depart, 
Swift  as  arrows  to  the  heart ; 
When  his  eye  the  lightning  leaves; 
When  each  valiant  bosom  heaves; 
Through  the  veins  when  hot  and  glowing 
Rage  like  liquid  fire  is  flowing ; 
Round  and  round  the  war  pole  whirling, 
Furious  when  the  dancers  grow ; 
When  the  maces  swift  are  hurling 
Promised  vengeance  on  the  foe  • 
Thine  assurance,  SPIRIT  true  ! 
Glorious  victory  gives  to  view ! 

When  of  thought  and  strength  despoil'd, 

Lies  the  brave  man  like  a  child ; 

When  discolour'd  visions  fly, 

Painful  o'er  his  glazing  eye, 

And  wishes  wild  through  his  darkness  rove, 

Like  flitting  wings  through  the  tangled  grove, — 

Thine  is  the  wish  ;  the  vision  thine, 

And  thy  visits,  SPIRIT  !  are  all  divine ! 

When  the  dizzy  senses  spin, 

And  the  brain  is  madly  reeling, 

Like  the  P6w-wah,  when  first  within 

The  present  spirit  feeling ; 

When  rays  are  flashing  athwart  the  gloom, 

Like  the  dancing  lights  of  the  northern  heaven, 

When  voices  strange  of  tumult  come 

On  the  ear,  like  the  roar  of  battle  driven, — 

The  Initiate  then  shall  thy  wonders  see, 

And  thy  priest,  O  SPIRIT  !  is  full  of  thee ! 


GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 


[Born,  1799.    Died,  1841.] 


GRENVILLE  MELLEV  was  the  third  son  of  the 
Lite  Chief  Justice  PREXTISS  MELLEX,  LL.  D.,  of 
Maine,  and  was  born  in  the  town  of  Biddeford,  in 
that  state,  on  the  nineteenth  day  of  June,  1799. 
He  was  educated  at  Harvard  College,  and  after 
1  iving  that  seminary  became  a  law-student  in  the 
(•I'ice  of  his  father,  who  had  before  that  time~re- 
moved  to  Portland.  Soon  after  being  admitted  to 
the  bar,  he  was  married,  and  commenced  the  prac- 
tice of  his  profession  at  North  Yarmouth,  a  plea- 
sant village  near  his  native  town.  Within  three 
y'.>nrs — in  October,  1828 — his  wife,  to  whom  he  was 
devotedly  attached,  died,  and  his  only  child  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  grave  in  the  succeeding  spring. 
From  this  time  his  character  was  changed.  He 
had  before  been  an  ambitious  and  a  happy  man. 
Tiie  remainder  of  his  life  was  clouded  with  melan- 
choly. 

I  believe  Mr.  MELLEV  did  not  become  known 
as  a  writer  until  he  was  about  twenty-five  years 
old.  He  was  then  one  of  the  contributors  to  the 
Cambridge  "United  States  Literary  Gazette."  In 
the  early  part  of  1827,  he  published  a  satire  en- 
titled "  Our  Chronicle  of  Twenty-six,"  and  two 
years  afterward,  "  Glad  Tales  and  Sad  Tales,"  a 
collection  of  prose  sketches,  which  had  previously 
been  printed  in  the  periodicals.  "The  Martyr's 
Triumph,  Buried  Valley,  and  other  Poems,"  ap- 
peared in  1834.  The  principal  poem  in  this  volume 
is  founded  on  the  history  of  Saint  Alban,  the  first 
Christian  martyr  in  England.  It  is  in  the  measure 
of  the  "  Faery  Queene,"  and  has  some  creditable 
passages ;  but,  as  a  whole,  it  hardly  rises  above 
mediocrity.  In  the  "Buried  Valley"  he  describes 
the  remarkable  avalanche  near  the  Notch  in  the 
White  Mountains,  by  which  the  Willey  family 
were  destroyed,  many  years  ago.  In  a  poem  enti- 
tled "The  Rest  of  Empires."  in  the  same  collection, 
he  laments  the  custom  of  the  elder  bards  to  immor- 
talize the  deeds  of  conquerors  alone,  and  contrasts 
their  prostitution  of  the  influence  of  poetry  with 
the  nobler  uses  to  which  it  is  applied  in  later  days, 
in  the  following  lines,  which  are  characteristic  of 
his  best  manner : — 

"  We  have  been  taught,  in  oracles  of  old, 
Of  the  enskied  divinity  of  song; 
That  Poetry  and  Music,  hand  in  hand, 
Came  in  the  light  of  inspiration  forth, 
And  claim'd  alliance  with  the  rolling  heavens. 
And  were  those  peerless  hards,  whose  strains  have  come 
In  an  undying  echo  to  the  world, 
Whose  numbers  floated  round  the  Grecian  isles, 
And  made  melodious  all  the  hills  of  Rome, — 
Were  they  inspired  1 — Alas,  for  Poetry! 
That  her  great  ministers,  in  early  time, 
Sung  for  the  brave  alone — and  hade  the  soul 
Battle  for  heaven  in  the  ranks  of  war! 
It  was  the  treason  of  the  godlike  art 
That  pointed  glory  to  the  sword  and  spear, 
And  left  the  heart  to  moulder  in  its  mail! 
33 


It  was  the  menial  service  of  the  bard — 

It  was  the  basest  bondage  of  his  powers, 

In  later  times  to  consecrate  a  feast, 

And  sing  of  gallantry  in  hall  and  bower,  -,  _ 

To  courtly  knights  and  ladies 

"But  other  times  have  strung  new  lyres  again, 
And  other  music  greets  us.    Poetry 
Comes  robed  in  smiles,  and,  in  low  breathing  sounds, 
Takes  counsel,  like  a  friend,  in  our  still  hours, 
And  points  us  to  the  stars — the  waneless  stars — 
That  whisper  an  hereafter  to  our  souls. 
It  breathes  upon  our  spirits  a  rich  balm, 
And,  with  its  tender  tones  and  melody, 
Draws  mercy  from  the  warrior — and  proclaims 
A  morn  of  bright  and  universal  love 
To  those  who  journey  with  us  through  the  vale; 
It  points  to  moral  greatness — deeds  of  mind, 
And  the  high  struggles,  worthy  of  a  man. 
Have  we  no  minstrels  in  our  echoing  halls, 
No  wild  CADWALLON,  with  his  wilder  strain, 
Pouring  his  war-songs  upon  helmed  ears? 
We  have  sounds  stealing  from  the  far  retreats 
Of  the  bright  company  of  gifted  men," 
Who  pour  their  mellow  music  round  our  age, 
And  point  us  to  our  duties  and  our  hearts; 
The  poet's  constellation  beams  around — 
A  pensive  COWPER  lives  in  all  his  lines, 
And  MILTON  hymns  us  on  to  hope  and  heaven !" 
After  spending  five  or  six  years  in  Boston,  Mr. 
MELLEX  removed  to  New  York,  where  he  resided 
nearly  all  the  remainder  of  his   life.     He  wrote 
much  for  the  literary  magazines,  and  edited  seve- 
ral works  for  his  friend,  Mr.  COLMAX,  the  pub- 
lisher.    In  1839,  he  established  a  Monthly  Mis- 
cellany, but  it  was  abandoned  after  the  publication 
of  a  few  numbers.    His  health  had  been  declining 
for  several  years ;  his  disease  finally  assumed  the 
form  of  consumption,  and  he  made  a  voyage  to 
Cuba,  in  the  summer  of  1840,  in  the  hope  that  he 
would  derive  advantage  from  a  change  of  climate, 
and  the  sea  air.    He  was  disappointed ;  and  learn- 
ing of  the  death  of  his  father,  in  the  following 
spring,  he  returned  to  New  York,  where  he  died, 
on  the  fifth  of  September,  1841. 

Mr.  MELLEX  was  a  gentle-hearted,  amiable  man, 
social  in  his  feelings,  and  patient  and  resigned  in 
the  long  period  of  physical  suffering  which  pre- 
ceded his  death.  As  a  poet,  he  enjoyed  a  higher 
reputation  in  his  lifetime  than  his  works  will  pre- 
serve. They  are  without  vigour  of  thought  or 
language,  and  are  often  dreamy,  mystic,  and  un- 
intelligible. In  his  writings  there  is  no  evidence 
of  creative  genius ;  no  original,  clear,  and  manly 
thought ;  no  spirited  and  natural  descriptions  of 
life  or  nature ;  no  humour,  no  pathos,  no  passion ; 
nothing  that  appeals  to  the  common  sympathies 
of  mankind.  The  little  poem  entitled  "  The  Bu- 
gle," although  "  it  whispers  whence  it  stole  its 
spoils,"  is  probably  superior  to  any  thing  else  he 
wrote.  It  is  free  from  the  affectations  and  un- 
meaning epithets  which  distinguish  nearly  all  his 
works. 

T2  257 


258 


GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 


ENGLISH  SCENERY. 

THE  woods  and  vales  of  England ! — is  there  not 
A  magic  and  a  marvel  in  their  names  1 
Is  there  not  music  in  the  memory 
Of  their  old  glory  ? — is  there  not  a  sound, 
As  of  some  watchword,  that  recalls  at  night 
All  that  gave  light  and  wonder  to  the  day  1 
In  these  soft  words,  that  breathe  of  loveliness, 
And  summon  to  the  spirit  scenes  that  rose 
Rich  on  its  raptured  vision,  as  the  eye 
Hung  like  a  tranced  thing  above  the  page 
That  genius  had  made  golden  with  its  glow — 
The  page  of  noble  story — of  high  towers, 
And  castled  halls,  envista'd  like  the  line 
Of  heroes  and  great  hearts,  that  centuries 
Had  led  before  their  hearths  in  dim  array — 
Of  lake  and  lawn,  and  gray  and  cloudy  tree, 
That  rock'd  with  banner'd  foliage  to  the  storm 
Above  the  walls  it  shadow'd,  and  whose  leaves, 
Rustling  in  gather'd  music  to  the  winds, 
Seem'd  voiced  as  with  the  sound  of  many  seas ! 

The  woods  and  vales  of  England !  O,  the  founts, 
The  living  founts  of  memory  !  how  they  break 
And  gush  upon  my  stirr'd  heart  as  I  gaze ! 
I  hear  the  shout  of  reapers,  the  far  low 
Of  herds  upon  the  banks,  the  distant  bark 
Of  the  tired  dog,  stretch'd  at  some  cottage  door, 
The  echo  of  the  axe,  mid  forest  swung, 
And  the  loud  laugh,  drowning  the  faint  halloo. 

Land  of  our  fathers !  though  'tis  ours  to  roam 
A  land  upon  whose  bosom  thou  mightst  lie, 
Like  infant  on  its  mother's — though  'tis  ours 
To  gaze  upon  a  nobler  heritage 
Than  thou  couldst  e'er  unshadow  to  thy  sons, — 
Though  ours  to  linger  upon  fount  and  sky, 
Wilder,  and  peopled  with  great  spirits,  who 
Walk  with  a  deeper  majesty  than  thine, — 
Yet,  as  our  father-land,  O,  who  shall  tell 
The  lone,  mysterious  energy  which  calls 
Upon  our  sinking  spirits  to  walk  forth 
Amid  thy  wood  and  mount,  where  every  hill 
Is  eloquent  with  beauty,  and  the  tale 
And  song  of  centuries,  the  cloudless  years 
When  fairies  walk'd  thy  valleys,  and  the  turf 
Rung  to  their  tiny  footsteps,  and  quick  flowers 
Sprang  with  the  lifting  grass  on  which  they  trod — 
When  all  the  landscape  murmur'd  to  its  rills, 
And  joy  with  hope  slept  in  its  leafy  bowers ! 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

MOTTNT  of  the  clouds,  on  whose  Olympian  height 
The  tall  rocks  brighten  in  the  ether  air, 
And  spirits  from  the  skies  come  down  at  night, 
To  chant  immortal  songs  to  Freedom  there ! 
Thine  is  the  rock  of  other  regions,  where 
The  world  of  life,  which  blooms  so  far  below, 
Sweeps  a  wide  waste :  no  gladdening  scenes  appear, 
Save  where,  with  silvery  flash,  the  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  far-ofl'mountain,  distant,  calm,  andslow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or,  eddying  wildly,  round  thy  cliffs  are  borne; 


When  Tempest  mounts  his  rushingcar,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home  ! 
Far  down  the  deep  ravine  the  whirlwinds  come, 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along; 
While,  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb, 
The  storms  come  forth,  and,  hurrying  darkly  on, 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks  the  revelry  prolong! 

And  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled, 
And  quench'd  in  silence  all  the  tempest  flame, 
There  come  the  dim  forms  of  the  mighty  dead, 
Around  the  steep  which  bears  the  hero's  name: 
The  stars  look  down  upon  them ;  and  the  same 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave 
Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 
And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave, 
The  richest,  purest  tear  that  memory  ever  gave  ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds!  when  winter  round  thee 
The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year,        [throws 
Sublime  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows, 
Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  appear ! 
'T  is  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  fear, 
Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue ; 
When,  lo !  in  soften'd  grandeur,  far,  yet  clear, 
Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  heaven's  own  hue, 
To  swell  as  Freedom's  home  on  man's  unbounded 


view! 


THE  BUGLE. 


O  !  WILD,  enchanting  horn ! 
Whose  music  up  the  deep  and  dewy  air 
Swells  to  the  clouds,  and  calls  on  Echo  there, 

Till  a  new  melody  is  born — 

Wake,  wake  again,  the  night 
Is  bending  from  her  throne  of  beauty  down, 
With  still  stars  burning  on  her  azure  crown, 

Intense  and  eloquently  bright 

Night,  at  its  pulseless  noon ! 
When  the  far  voice  of  waters  mourns  in  song, 
And  some  tired  watch-dog,  lazily  and  long 

Barks  at  the  melancholy  moon. 

Hark !  how  it  sweeps  away, 
Soaring  and  dying  on  the  silent  sky, 
As  if  some  sprite  of  sound  went  wandering  by, 

With  lone  halloo  and  roundelay ! 

Swell,  swell  in  glory  out ! 
Thy  tones  come  pouring  on  my  leaping  heart, 
And  my  stirr'd  spirit  hears  thee  with  a  start 

As  boyhood's  old  remember'd  shout. 

O  !  have  ye  heard  that  peal, 
From  sleeping  city's  moon-bathed  battlements, 
Or  from  the  guarded  field  and  warrior  tents, 

Like  some  near  breath  around  you  steal  1 

Or  have  ye  in  the  roar 
Of  sea,  or  storm,  or  battle,  heard  it  rise, 
Shriller  than  eagle's  clamour,  to  the  skies, 

Where  wings  and  tempests  never  soar  7 

Go,  go — no  other  sound, 
No  music  that  of  air  or  earth  is  born, 
Can  match  the  mighty  music  of  that  horn, 

On  midnight's  fathomless  profound ! 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 


259 


ON  SEEING  AN  EAGLE  PASS  NEAR  ME 
IN  AUTUMN  TWILIGHT. 

SATI  on,  them  lone,  imperial  bird, 

Of  quenchless  eye  and  tireless  wing ; 
How  is  thy  distant  coming  heard, 

As  the  night's  breezes  round  thee  ring! 
Thy  course  was  'gainst  the  burning  sun 

In  his  extremest  glory.     How ! 
Is  thy  unequall'd  daring  done, 

Thou  stoop'st  to  earth  so  lowly  now  1 

Or  hast  thou  left  thy  rocking  dome, 

Thy  roaring  crag,  thy  lightning  pine, 
To  find  some  secret,  meaner  home, 

Less  stormy  and  unsafe  than  thine  ? 
Else  why  thy  dusky  pinions  bend 

So  closely  to  this  shadowy  world, 
And  round  thy  searching  glances  send, 

As  wishing  thy  broad  pens  were  furl'd  ? 

Yet  lonely  is  thy  shatter'd  nest, 

Thy  eyry  desolate,  though  high ; 
And  lonely  thou,  alike  at  rest, 

Or  soaring  in  the  upper  sky. 
The  golden  light  that  bathes  thy  plumes 

On  thine  interminable  flight, 
Falls  cheerless  on  earth's  desert  tombs, 

And  makes  the  north's  ice-mountains  bright. 

So  come  the  eagle-hearted  down, 

So  come  the  high  and  proud  to  earth, 
When  life's  night-gathering  tempests  frown 

Over  their  glory  and  their  mirth  r 
So  quails  the  mind's  undying  eye, 

That  bore,  unveil'd,  fame's  noontide  sun ; 
So  man  seeks  solitude,  to  die, 

His  high  place  left,  his  triumphs  done. 

So,  round  the  residence  of  power, 

A  cold  and  joyless  lustre  shines, 
And  on  life's  pinnacles  will  lower 

Clouds,  dark  as  bathe  the  eagle's  pines. 
But,  O,  the  mellow  light  that  pours 

From  GOD'S  pure  throne — the  light  that  saves! 
It  warms  the  spirit  as  it  soars, 

And  sheds  deep  radiance  round  our  graves. 


THE  TRUE  GLORY  OF  AMERICA. 

ITAIIA'S  vales  and  fountains, 

Though  beautiful  ye  be, 
I  love  my  soaring  mountains 

And  forests  more  than  ye ; 
And  though  a  dreamy  greatness  rise 

From  out  your  cloudy  years, 
Like  hills  on  distant  stormy  skies, 

Seem  dim  through  Nature's  tears, 
Still,  tell  me  not  of  years  of  old, 

Of  ancient  heart  and  clime ; 
Ours  is  the  land  and  age  of  gold, 

And  ours  the  hallow'd  tune ! 


The  jewell'd  crown  and  sceptre 

Of  Greece  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  none,  of  all  who  wept  her, 

Could  bid  her  splendour  stay. 
The  world  has  shaken  with  the  tread 

Of  iron-sandall'd  crime — 
And,  lo !  o'ershadowing  all  the  dead, 

The  conqueror  stalks  sublime ! 
Then  ask  I  not  for  crown  and  plume 

To  nod  above  my  land; 
The  victor's  footsteps  point  to  doom, 

Graves  open  round  his  hand ! 

Rome  !  with  thy  pillar'd  palaces, 

And  sculptured  heroes  all, 
Snatch'd,  in  their  wann,  triumphal  days, 

To  Art's  high  festival ; 
Rome !  with  thy  giant  sons  of  power, 

Whose  pathway  was  on  thrones,     • 
Who  built  their  kingdoms  of  an  hour 

On  yet  unburied  bones, — 
I  would  not  have  my  land  like  thee, 

So  lofty — yet  so  cold  ! 
Be  hers  a  lowlier  majesty, 

In  yet  a  nobler  mould. 

Thy  marbles — works  of  wonder ! 

In  thy  victorious  days, 
Whose  lips  did  seem  to  sunder 

Before  the  astonish'd  gaze ; 
When  statue  glared  on  statue  there, 

The  living  on  the  dead, — 
And  men  as  silent  pilgrims  were 

Before  some  sainted  head ! 
O,  not  for  faultless  marbles  yet 

Would  I  the  light  forego 
That  beams  when  other  lights  have  set, 

And  Art  herself  lies  low ! 

0,  ours  a  holier  hope  shall  be 

Than  consecrated  bust, 
Some  loftier  mean  of  memory 

To  snatch  us  from  the  dust. 
And  ours  a  sterner  art  than  this, 

Shall  fix  our  image  here, — 
The  spirit's  mould  of  loveliness — 

A  nobler  BELVIDERE  ! 

Then  let  them  bind  with  bloomless  flowers 

The  busts  and  urns  of  old, — 
A  fairer  heritage  be  ours, 

A  sacrifice  less  cold ! 
Give  honour  to  the  great  and  good, 

And  wreathe  the  living  brow, 
Kindling  with  Virtue's  mantling  blood, 

And  pay  the  tribute  now ! 

So,  when  the  good  and  great  go  down, 

Their  statues  shall  arise, 
To  crowd  those  temples  of  our  own, 

Our  fadeless  memories ! 
And  when  the  sculptured  marble  falls, 

And  Art  goes  in  to  die, 
Our  forms  shall  live  in  holier  halls, 

The  Pantheon  of  the  sky ! 


GEORGE    HILL. 


[Bom,  1800.] 


GEOHGE  HILL  is  a  native  of  Guilford,  on  Long 
Island  Sound,  near  New  Haven.  He  was  ad- 
mitted to  Yale  College  in  his  fifteenth  year,  and, 
when  he  graduated,  took  the  Berkeleian  prize,  as 
the  best  classic.  He  was  subsequently  attached 
to  the  navy,  as  Professor  of  Mathematics ;  and 
visited  in  this  capacity  the  Mediterranean,  its  storied 
islands,  and  classic  shores.  After  his  return,  he 
was  appointed  librarian  to  the  State  Department, 
at  Washington:  a  situation  which  he  at  length 
resigned  on  account  of  ill  health,  and  was  ap- 
pointed Consul  of  the  United  States  for  the  south- 
western portion  of  Asia  Minor.  The  climate  disa- 


greeing with  him,  he  returned  to  Washington; 
and  he  is  now  attached  again  to  one  of  the  bureaus 
in  the  Department  of  State. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Hill's  poetry  is  severe,  and  some- 
times so  elliptical  as  to  embarrass  his  meaning ;  this 
is  especially  true  of  his  more  elaborate  production, 
"  The  Ruins  of  Athens,"  written  in  the  S|>enserian 
stanza.  He  is  most  successful  in  his  lyrics,  where 
he  has  more  freedom,  without  a  loss  of  energy. 
His  « Titania,"  a  dramatic  piece,  is  perhaps  the 
most  original  of  his  productions.  It  is  wild  and 
fanciful,  and  graced  with  images  of  much  beauty 
and  freshness. 


FROM  "  THE  RUINS  OF  ATHENS." 

THE  daylight  fades  o'er  old  Cyllene's  hill, 
And  broad  and  dun  the  mountain  shadows  fall ; 
The  stars  are  up  and  sparkling,  as  if  still 
Smiling  upon  their  altars ;  but  the  tall, 
Dark  cypress,  gently,  as  a  mourner,  bends — 
Wet  with  the  drops  of  evening  as  with  tears — 
Alike  o'er  shrine  and  worshipper,  and  blends, 
All  dim  and  lonely,  with  the  wrecks  of  years, 
As  of  a  world  gone  by  no  coming  morning  cheers. 

There  sits  the  queen  of  temples — gray  and  lone. 
She,  like  the  last  of  an  imperial  line, 
Has  seen  her  sister  structures,  one  by  one, 
To  Time  their  gods  and  worshippers  resign ; 
And  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  weeds  that  twine 
Their  roofless  capitals ;  and,  through  the  night, 
Heard  the  hoarse  drum  and  the  exploding  mine, 
The  clash  of  arms  and  hymns  of  uncouth  rite, 
From  their  dismantled  shrines  the  guardian  powers 
affright. 

Go !  thou  from  whose  forsaken  heart  are  reft 
The  ties  of  home ;  and,  where  a  dwelling-place 
Not  JOVE  himself  the  elements  have  left, 
The  grass-grown,  undefined  arena  pace !      [hear 
Look  on  its  rent,  though  tower-like  shafts,  and 
The  loud  winds  thunder  in  their  aged  face ; 
Then  slowly  turn  thine  eye,  where  moulders  near 
A  CJESAR'S  arch,  and  the  blue  depth  of  space 
Vaults  like  a  sepulchre  the  wrecks  of  a  past  race. 

Is  it  not  better  with  the  Eremite, 

Where  the  weeds  rustle  o'er  his  airy  cave, 

Perch'd  on  their  summit,  through  the  long,  still 

night 
To  sit  and  watch  their  shadows  slowly  wave — 


While  oft  some  fragment,  sapp'd  by  dull  decay, 
In  thunder  breaks  the  silence,  and  the  fowl 
Of  Ruin  hoots — and  turn  in  scorn  away 
Of  all  man  builds,  time  levels,  and  the  cowl 
Awards  her  moping  sage  in  common  with  the  owl  ? 

Or,  where  the  palm,  at  twilight's  holy  hour, 
By  THESEUS'  fane  her  lonely  vigil  keeps: 
Gone  are  her  sisters  of  the  leaf  and  flower, 
With  them  the  living  crop  earth  sows  and  reaps, 
But  these  revive  not :  the  weed  with  them  sleeps, 
But  clothes  herself  in  beauty  from  their  clay, 
And  leaves  them  to  their  slumber ;    o'er  them 

weeps 
Vainly  the  Spring  her  quickening  dews  awaj, 

And  Love  as  vainly  mourns,  and  mourns,  alas ! 

for  aye. 

Or,  more  remote,  on  Nature's  haunts  intrude, 
Where,  since  creation,  she  has  slept  on  flowers, 
Wet  with  the  noonday  forest-dew,  and  woo'd 
By  untamed  choristers  in  unpruned  bowers : 
By  pathless  thickeWock  that  time-worn  towers 
O'er  dells  untrodderray  the  hunter,  piled 
Ere  by  its  shadow  measured  were  the  hours 
To  human  eye,  the  rampart  of  the  wild, 

Whose  banner  is  the  cloud,  by  carnage  undefined. 

The  weary  spirit  that  forsaken  plods 
The  world's  wide  wilderness,  a  home  may  find 
Here,  mid  the  dwellings  of  long-banish'd  gods, 
And  thoughts  they  bring,  the  mourners  of  the 

mind; 

The  spectres  that  no  spell  has  power  to  bind, 
The  loved,  but  lost,  whose  soul's  life  is  in  ours, 
As  incense  in  sepulchral  urns,  enshrined, 
The  sense  of  blighted  or  of  wasted  powers, 
The  hopes  whose  promised  fruits  have  perish'd 

with  their  flowers. 

260 


GEORGE   HILL. 


261 


There  is  a  small,  low  cape — there,  where  the  moon 
Breaks  o'er  the  shatter'd  and  now  shapeless  stone ; 
The  waters,  as  a  rude  but  fitting  boon, 
Weeds  and  small    shells   have,  like  a  garland, 

thrown 

Upon  it,  and  the  wind's  and  wave's  low  moan, 
And  sighing  grass,  and  cricket's  plaint,  are  heard 
To  steal  upon  the  stillness,  like  a  tone 
Remember'd.     Here,  by  human  foot  unstirr'd, 
Its  seed  the  thistle  sheds,  and  builds  the  ocean-bird. 

Lurks  the  foul  toad,  the  lizard  basks  secure 
Within  the  sepulchre  of  him  whose  name 
Had  scatter'd  navies  like  the  whirlwind.     Sure, 
If  aught  ambition's  fiery  wing  may  tame, 
'Tis  here ;  the  web  the  spider  weaves  where  Fame 
Planted  her  proud  but  sunken  shaft,  should  be 
To  it  a  fetter,  still  it  springs  the  same, 
Glory's  fool-worshipper !  here  bend  thy  knee ! 
The  tomb  thine  altar-stone,  thine  idol  Mockery: 

A  small,  gray  elf,  all  sprinkled  o'er  with  dust 
Of  crumbling  catacomb,  and  mouldering  shred 
Of  banner  and  embroider'd  pall,  and  rust 
Of  arms,  time-worn  monuments,  that  shed 
A  canker'd  gleam  on  dim  escutcheons,  where 
The  groping  antiquary  pores  to  spy — 
A  what  1  a  name — perchance  ne'er  graven  there ; 
At  whom  the  urchin,  with  his  mimic  eye, 
Sits  peering  through  a  skull,  and  laughs  continually. 


THE  MOUNTAIN-GIRL. 

THE  clouds,  that  upward  curling  from 

Nevada's  summit  fly, 
Melt  into  air :  gone  are  the  showers, 
And,  deck'd,  as  'twere  with  bridal  flowers, 

Earth  seems  to  wed  the  sky. 

All  hearts  are  by  the  spirit  that 

Breathes  in  the  sunshine  stirr'd ; 
And  there 's  a  girl  that,  up  and  dtfwn, 
A  merry  vagrant,  through  the  town, 
Goes  singing  like  a  bird. 

A  thing  all  lightness,  life,  and  glee ; 

One  of  the  shapes  we  seem 
To  meet  in  visions  of  the  night ; 
And,  should  they  greet  our  waking  sight, 

Imagine  that  we  dream. 

With  glossy  ringlet,  brow  that  is 

As  falling  snow-flake  white, 
Half-hidden  by  its  jetty  braid, 
And  eye  like  dewdrop  in  the  shade, 

At  once  both  dark  and  bright ; 

And  cheek  whereon  the  sunny  clime 

Its  brown  tint  gently  throws, 
Gently,  as  it  reluctant  were 
To  leave  its  print  on  thing  so  fair — 

A  shadow  on  a  rose. 

She  stops,  looks  up — what  does  she  see  1 

A  flower  of  crimson  dye, 
Whose  vase,  the  work  of  Moorish  hands, 
A  lady  sprinkles,  as  it  stands 

Upon  a  balcony : 


High,  leaning  from  a  window  forth, 

From  curtains  that  half-shroud 
Her  maiden  form  with  tress  of  gold, 
And  brow  that  mocks  their  snow-white  fold, 
Like  DIAN  from  a  cloud. 

Nor  flower,  nor  lady  fair  she  sees — 

That  mountain-girl — but  dumb 
And  motionless  she  stands,  with  eye 
That  seems  communing  with  the  sky : 
Her  visions  are  of  home. 

That  flower  to  her  is  as  a  tone 

Of  some  forgotten  song, 
One  of  a  slumbering  thousand,  struck 
From  an  old  harp-string ;  but,  once  woke, 

It  brings  the  rest  along. 

She  sees  beside  the  mountain-brook, 

Beneath  the  old  cork  tree 
And  toppling  crag,  a  vine-thatch'd  shed, 
Perch'd,  like  the  eagle,  high  o'erhead, 

The  home  of  liberty ; 

The  rivulet,  the  olive  shade, 

The  grassy  plot,  the  flock ; 
Nor  does  her  simple  thought  forget, 
Haply,  the  little  violet, 

That  springs  beneath  the  rock. 

Sister  and  mate,  they  may  not  from 

Her  dreaming  eye  depart ; 
And  one,  the  source  of  gentler  fears, 
More  dear  than  all,  for  whom  she  wears 

The  token  at  her  heart 

And  hence  her  eye  is  dim,  her  cheek 

Has  lost  its  livelier  glow ; 
Her  song  has  ceased,  and  motionless 
She  stands,  an  image  of  distress : — 

Strange,  what  a  flower  can  do ! 


THE  MIGHT  OF  GREECE.* 

THE  might  of  Greece !  whose  story  has  gone  forth, 

Like  the  eternal  echo  of  a  lyre 

Struck  by  an  angel,  to  the  bounds  of  earth, 

A  marvel  and  a  melody ;  a  fire 

Unquench'd,  unquenchable.     Castalia's  choir 

Mourn  o'er  their  altars  worshipless  or  gone ; 

But  the  free  mountain-air  they  did  respire 

Has  borne  their  music  onward,  with  a  tone 

Shaking  earth's  tyrant  race  through  every  distant 

zone ! 

A  never-dying  music,  borne  along  [fraught 

The  stream  of  years,  that  else  were  mute,  and 
— A  boundless  echo,  thunder  peal'd  in  song — 
With  the  unconquerable  might  of  thought  : 
The  Titan  that  shall  rive  the  fetters  wrought 
By  the  world's  god,  Opinion,  and  set  free 
The  powers  of  mind, giants  from  darkness  brought; 
The  trophies  of  whose  triumph-march  shall  be 

Thrones,  dungeons  swept  away,  as  rampires  by  the 
sea. 

*  From  "  The  Ruins  of  Athens." 


262 


GEORGE   HILL. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  OAK. 

A  GLoniors  tree  is  the  old  gray  oak : 
He  has  stood  for  a  thousand  years, 
Has  stood  and  frown'd 
On  the  trees  around, 
Like  a  king  among  his  peers ; 
As  round  their  king  they  stand,  so  now, 

When  the  flowers  their  pale  leaves  fold, 
The  tall  trees  round  him  stand,  array'd 
In  their  robes  of  purple  and  gold. 

He  has  stood  like  a  tower 

Through  sun  and  shower, 
And  dared  the  winds  to  battle ; 

He  has  heard  the  hail, 

As  from  plates  of  mail, 
From  his  own  limbs  shaken,  rattle ; 
He  has  toss'd  them  about,  and  shorn  the  tops 

(When  the  storm  had  roused  his  might) 
Of  the  forest  trees,  as  a  strong  man  doth 
The  heads  of  his  foes  in  fight. 

The  autumn  sun  looks  kindly  down, 
But  the  frost  is  on  the  lea, 

And  sprinkles  the  horn 

Of  the  owl  at  morn, 
As  she  hies  to  the  old  oak  tree. 

Not  a  leaf  is  stirr'd ; 

Not  a  sound  is  heard 
But  the  thump  of  the  thresher's  flail, 

The  low  wind's  sigh, 

Or  the  distant  cry 
Of  the  hound  on  the  fox's  trail. 

The  forester  he  has  whistling  plunged 
With  his  axe,  in  the  deep  wood's  gloom, 
That  shrouds  the  hill, 
Where  few  and  chill 
The  sunbeams  struggling  come : 
His  brawny  arm  he  has  bared,  and  laid 
His  axe  at  the  root  of  the  tree, 
The  gray  old  oak, 
And,  with  lusty  stroke, 
He  wields  it  merrily : — 

With  lusty  stroke, — 
And  the  old  gray  oak, 
Through  the  folds  of  his  gorgeous  vest 
You  may  see  him  shake, 
And  the  night-owl  break 
From  her  perch  in  his  leafy  crest. 
She  will  come  but  to  find  him  gone  from  where 

He  stood  at  the  break  of  day ; 
Like  a  cloud  that  peals  as  it  melts  to  air, 
He  has  pass'd,  with  a  crash,  away. 

Though  the  spring  in  the  bloom  and  the  frost  in  gold 
No  more  his  limbs  attire, 

On  the  stormy  wave 
He  shall  float,  and  brave 
The  blast  and  the  battle-fire ! 
Shall  spread  his  white  wings  to  the  wind, 
And  thunder  on  the  deep, 

As  he  thunder'd  when 
His  bough  was  green, 
On  the  high  and  stormy  steep. 


LIBERTY. 

THERE  is  a  spirit  working  in  the  world, 

Like  to  a  silent  subterranean  fire  ; 
Yet,  ever  and  anon,  some  monarch  hurl'd 

Aghast  and  pale,  attests  its  fearful  ire. 

The  dungeon'd  nations  now  once  more  respire 
The  keen  and  stirring  air  of  Liberty. 
The  straggling  giant  wakes,  and  feels  he 's  free. 

By  Delphi's  fountain-cave,  that  ancient  choir 
Resume  their  song;  the  Greek  astonish'd  hears, 
And  the  old  altar  of  his  worship  rears. 

Sound  on,  fair  sisters !  sound  your  boldest  lyre, — 
Peal  your  old  harmonies  as  from  the  spheres. 

Unto  strange  gods  too  long  we  've  bent  the  knee, 

The  trembling  mind,  too  long  and  patiently. 


TO  A  YOUNG  MOTHER. 

WHAT  things  of  thee  may  yield  a  semblance  meet, 

And  him,  thy  fairy  portraiture  1  a  flower 
And  bud,  moon  and  attending  star,  a  sweet 

Voice  and  its  sweeter  echo.  Time  has  small  power 
O'er  features  the  mind  moulds ;  and  such  are  thine, 

Imperishably  lovely.     Roses,  where 
They  once  have  bloom'd,  a  fragrance  leave  behind ; 
And  harmony  will  linger  on  the  wind ; 

And  suns  continue  to  light  up  the  air, 
When  set ;  and  music  -from  the  broken  shrine 

Breathes,  it  is  said,  around  whose  altar-stone 
His  flower  the  votary  has  ceased  to  twine : — 

Types  of  the  beauty  that,  when  youth  is  gone, 
Beams  from   the  soul  whose  brightness   mocks 
decline. 


SPRING. 

Now  Heaven  seems  one  bright,  rejoicing  eye, 
And  Earth  her  sleeping  vesture  flings  aside, 
And  with  a  blush  awakes  as  does  a  bride ; 

And  Nature  speaks,  like  thee,  in  melody. 

The  forest,  sunward,  glistens,  green  and  high ; 
The   ground   each  moment,  as  some  blossom 
springs, 

Puts  forth,  as  does  thy  cheek,  a  lovelier  dye, 
And  each  new  morning  some  new  songster  brings. 

And,  hark !  the  brooks  their  rocky  prisons  break, 

And  echo  calls  on  echo  to  awake, 

Like  nymph  to  nymph.  The  air  is  rife  with  wings, 

Rustling  through  wood  or  dripping  over  lake. 
Herb,  bud,  and  bird  return — but  not  to  me 
With  song  or  beauty,  since  they  bring  not  thee. 


NOBILITY. 

Go,  then,  to  heroes,  sages  if  allied, 
Go !  trace  the  scroll,  but  not  with  eye  of  pride, 
Where  Truth  depicts  their  glories  as  they  shone, 
And  leaves  a  blank  where  should  have  been  your 
own. 

Mark  the  pure  beam  on  yon  dark  wave  impress'd  ; 
So  shines  the  star  on  that  degenerate  breast — 
Each  twinkling  orb.that  burns  with  borrow'd  fires, — 
So  ye  reflect  the  glory  of  your  sires. 


JAMES   G.   BROOKS. 


CBorn,  1801.    Died,  1841.] 


THE  late  JAMES  Gonnow  BROOKS  was  born  at 
Red  Hook,  near  the  city  of  New  York,  on  the 
third  day  of  September,  1801.  His  father  was 
an  officer  in  the  revolutionary  army,  and,  after  the 
achievement  of  our  independence,  a  member  of 
the  national  House  of  Representatives.  Our 
author  was  educated  at  Union  College,  in  Sche- 
nectady,  and  was  graduated  in  1819.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year  he  commenced  studying  the  law  with 
Mr.  Justice  EMOTT,  of  Poughkeepsie ;  but,  though 
he  devoted  six  or  seven  years  to  the  acquisition 
of  legal  knowledge,  he  never  sought  admission  to 
the  bar.  In  1823,  he  removed  to  New  York, 
where  he  was  for  several  years  an  editor  of  the 
Morning  Courier,  one  of  the  most  able  and  influ- 
ential journals  in  this  country. 

Mr.  BROOKS  began  to  write  for  the  press  in 
1817.  Two  years  afterward  he  adopted  the  sig- 
nature of  "Florio,"  by  which  his  contributions 
to  the  periodicals  were  from  that  time  known.  In 
1828,  he  was  married.  His  wife,  under  the  signa- 
ture of  "Norna,"  had  been  for  several  years  a 


writer  for  the  literary  journals,  and,  in  1829,  a 
collection  of  the  poetry  of  both  was  published, 
entitled  "The  Rivals  of  E.ste,  and  other  Poems, 
by  James  G.  and  Mary  E.  Brooks."  The  poem 
which  gave  its  title  to  the  volume  was  by  Mrs. 
BROOKS.  The  longest  of  the  pieces  by  her  hus- 
band was  one  entitled  "  Genius,"  which  he  had 
delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of 
Yale  College,  in  1827.  He  wrote  but  little  po- 
etry after  the  appearance  of  this  work. 

In  1830  or  1831,  he  removed  to  Winchester, 
in  Virginia,  where,  for  four  or  five  years,  he  edited 
a  political  and  literary  gazette.  He  returned  to  the 
state  of  New  York,  in  1838,  and  established  him- 
self in  Albany,  where  he  remained  until  the  20th 
day  of  February,  1841,  when  he  died. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  BROOKS  are  spirited  and 
smoothly  versified,  but  diffuse  and  carelessly  writ- 
ten. He  was  imaginative,  and  composed  with 
remarkable  ease  and  rapidity ;  but  was  too  indif- 
ferent in  regard  to  his  reputation  ever  to  rewrite 
or  revise  his  productions. 


GREECE— 1832. 

LAWD  of  the  brave !  where  lie  inurn'd 

The  shrouded  forms  of  mortal  clay, 
In  whom  the  fire  of  valour  burn'd, 

And  blazed  upon  the  battle's  fray : 
Land,  where  the  gallant  Spartan  few 

Bled  at  Thermopylm  of  yore, 
When  death  his  purple  garment  threw 

On  Helle's  consecrated  shore ! 

Land  of  the  Muse !  within  thy  bowers 

Her  soul-entrancing  echoes  rung, 
While  on  their  course  the  rapid  hours 

Paused  at  the  melody  she  sung — 
Till  every  grove  and  every  hill, 

And  every  stream  that  flow'd  along, 
From  morn  to  night  repeated  still 

The  winning  harmony  of  song. 

Land  of  dead  heroes  !  living  slaves ! 

Shall  glory  gild  thy  clime  no  more  ] 
Her  banner  float  above  thy  waves 

Where  proudly  it  hath  swept  before  1 
Hath  not  remembrance  then  a  charm 

To  break  the  fetters  and  the  chain, 
To  bid  thy  children  nerve  the  arm, 

And  strike  for  freedom  once  again  1 

No !  coward  souls,  the  light  which  shone 
On  Leuctra's  war-empurpled  day, 

The  light  which  beam'd  on  Marathon 
Hath  lost  its  splendour,  ceased  to  play; 


And  thou  art  but  a  shadow  now, 

With  helmet  shatter'd — spear  in  rust — 

Thy  honour  but  a  dream — and  thou 
Despised — degraded  in  the  dust ! 

Where  sleeps  the  spirit,  that  of  old 

Dash'd  down  to  earth  the  Persian  plume, 
When  the  loud  chant  of  triumph  told 

How  fatal  was  the  despot's  doom  ? — 
The  bold  three  hundred — where  are  they, 

Who  died  on  battle's  gory  breast ! 
Tyrants  have  trampled  on  the  clay 

Where  death  hath  hush'd  them  into  rest. 

Yet,  Ida,  yet  upon  thy  hill 

A  glory  shines  of  ages  fled ; 
And  fame  her  light  is  pouring  still, 

Not  on  the  living,  but  the  dead ! 
But  'tis  the  dim,  sepulchral  light, 

Which  sheds  a  faint  and  feeble  ray, 
As  moonbeams  on  the  brow  of  night, 

When  tempests  sweep  upon  their  way. 

Greece !  yet  awake  thee  from  thy  trance, 

Behold,  thy  banner  waves  afar ; 
Behold,  the  glittering  weapons  glance 

Along  the  gleaming  front  of  war! 
A  gallant  chief,  of  high  emprizc, 

I'i  urging  foremost  in  the  field, 
Who  calls  upon  thee  to  arise 

In  might — in  majesty  reveal'd. 

263 


264 


JAMES   G.    BROOKS. 


In  vain,  in  vain  the  hero  calls — 

In  vain  he  sounds  the  trumpet  loud ! 
His  banner  totters — see  !  it  falls 

In  ruin,  Freedom's  battle-shroud : 
Thy  children  have  no  soul  to  dare 

Such  deeds  as  glorified  their  sires ; 
Their  valour's  but  a  meteor's  glare, 

Which  gleams  a  moment,  and  expires. 

Lost  land !  where  Genius  made  his  reign, 

And  rear'd  his  golden  arch  on  high ; 
Where  Science  raised  her  sacred  fane, 

Its  summits  peering  to  the  sky ; 
Upon  thy  clime  the  midnight  deep 

Of  ignorance  hath  brooded  long, 
And  in  the  tomb,  forgotten,  sleep 

The  sons  of  science  and  of  song. 

Thy  sun  hath  set — the  evening  storm 

Hath  pass'd  in  giant  fury  by, 
To  blast  the  beauty  of  thy  form, 

And  spread  its  pall  upon  the  sky ! 
Gone  is  thy  glory's  diadem, 

And  freedom  never  more  shall  cease 
To  pour  her  mournful  requiem 

O'er  blighted,  lost,  degraded  Greece ! 


TO  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

THOU  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Emblem  of  transitory  man, 
Whose  wearisome  and  wild  career, 

Like  thine,  is  bounded  to  a  span ; 
It  seems  but  as  a  little  day 

Since  nature  smiled  upon  thy  birth, 
And  Spring  came  forth  in  fair  array, 

To  dance  upon  the  joyous  earth. 

Sad  alteration  !  now  how  lone, 

How  verdureless  is  nature's  breast, 
Where  ruin  makes  his  empire  known, 

In  autumn's  yellow  vesture  dress'd ; 
The  sprightly  bird,  whose  carol  sweet 

Broke  on  the  breath  of  early  day, 
The  summer  flowers  she  loved  to  greet ; 

The  bird,  the  flowers,  O !  where  are  they  ? 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Yet  lovely  in  thy  lifelessness 
As  beauty  stretch'd  upon  the  bier, 

In  death's  clay-cold  and  dark  caress ; 
There's  loveliness  in  thy  decay, 

Which  breathes,  which  lingers  on  thee  still, 
Like  memory's  mild  and  cheering  ray 

Beaming  upon  the  night  of  ill. 

Yet,  yet  the  radiance  is  not  gone, 

Which  shed  a  richness  o'er  the  scene, 
Which  smiled  upon  the  golden  dawn, 

When  skies  were  brilliant  and  serene ; 
0  !  still  a  melancholy  smile 

Gleams  upon  Nature's  aspect  fair, 
To  charm  the  eye  a  little  while, 

Ere  ruin  spreads  his  mantle  there ! 


Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Since  time  entwined  thy  vernal  wreath, 
How  often  love  hath  shed  the  tear, 

And  knelt  beside  the  bed  of  death ; 
How  many  hearts,  that  lightly  sprung 

When  joy  was  blooming  but  to  die, 
Their  finest  chords  by  death  unstrung, 

Have  yielded  life's  expiring  sigh, 

And,  pillow'd  low  beneath  the  clay, 

Have  ceased  to  melt,  to  breathe,  to  burn ; 
The  proud,  the  gentle,  and  the  gay, 

Gather'd  unto  the  mouldering  urn ; 
While  freshly  flow'd  the  frequent  tear 

For  love  bereft,  affection  fled ; 
For  all  that  were  our  blessings  here, 

The  loved,  the  lost,  the  sainted  dead ! 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

The  musing  spirit  finds  in  thee 
Lessons,  impressive  and  serene, 

Of  deep  and  stern  morality ; 
Thou  teachest  how  the  germ  of  youth, 

Which  blooms  in  being's  dawning  day, 
Planted  by  nature,  rear'd  by  truth, 

Withers,  like  thee,  in  dark  decay. 

Promise  of  youth '  fair  as  the  form 

Of  Heaven's  benign  and  golden  bow, 
Thy  smiling  arch  begirds  the  storm, 

And  sheds  a  light  on  every  wo ; 
Hope  wakes  for  thee,  and  to  her  tongue 

A  tone  of  melody  is  given, 
As  if  her  magic  voice  were  strung 

With  the  empyreal  fire  of  heaven. 

And  love  which  never  can  expire, 

Whose  origin  is  from  on  high, 
Throws  o'er  thy  morn  a  ray  of  fire, 

From  the  pure  fountains  of  the  sky ; 
That  ray  which  glows  and  brightens  still, 

Unchanged,  eternal  and  divine  ; 
Where  seraphs  own  its  holy  thrill, 

And  bow  before  its  gleaming  shrine. 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Prophetic  of  our  final  fall ; 
Thy  buds  are  gone,  thy  leaves  are  sear ; 

Thy  beauties  shrouded  in  the  pall ; 
And  all  the  garniture  that  shed 

A  brilliancy  upon  thy  prime, 
Hath  like  a  morning  vision  fled 

Unto  the  expanded  grave  of  time. 

Time !  Time  !  in  thy  triumphal  flight, 

How  all  life's  phantoms  fleet  away ; 
Thy  smile  of  hope,  and  young  delight, 

Fame's  meteor-beam,  and  Fancy's  ray: 
They  fade ;  and  on  the  heaving  tide, 

Rolling  its  stormy  waves  afar, 
Are  borne  the  wreck  of  human  pride, 

The  broken  wreck  of  Fortune's  war. 

There,  in  disorder,  dark  and  wild, 
Are  seen  the  fabrics  once  so  high ; 

Which  mortal  vanity  had  piled 
As  emblems  of  eternity ! 


JAMES   G.   BROOKS. 


265 


And  deem'd  the  stately  piles,  whose  forms 
Frown'd  in  their  majesty  sublime, 

Would  stand  unshaken  by  the  storms 
That  gather'd  round  the  brow  of  Time. 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Earth's  brightest  pleasures  fade  like  thine ; 
Like  evening  shadows  disappear, 

And  leave  the  spirit  to  repine. 
The  stream  of  life,  that  used  to  pour 

Its  fresh  and  sparkling  waters  on, 
While  Fate  stood  watching  on  the  shore, 

And  number'd  all  the  moments  gone — 

Where  hath  the  morning  splendour  flown, 

Which  danced  upon  the  crystal  stream  1 
Where  are  the  joys  to  childhood  known, 

When  life  was  an  enchanted  dream  1 
Enveloped  in  the  starless  night 

Which  destiny  hath  overspread ; 
Enroll'd  upon  that  trackless  flight 

Where  the  death-wing  of  time  hath  sped ! 

O  !  thus  hath  life  its  even-tide 

Of  sorrow,  loneliness,  and  grief; 
And  thus,  divested  of  its  pride, 

It  withers  like  the  yellow  leaf: 
0  !  such  is  life's  autumnal  bower, 

When  plunder'd  of  its  summer  bloom ; 
And  such  is  life's  autumnal  hour, 

Which  heralds  man  unto  the  tomb ! 


TO  THE  AUTUMN  LEAF. 

THOU  faded  leaf!  it  seems  to  be 

But  as  of  yesterday, 
When  thou  didst  flourish  on  the  tree 

In  all  the  pride  of  May : 
Then  t  'was  the  merry  hour  of  spring, 
Of  nature's  fairest  blossoming, 

On  field,  on  flower,  and  spray ; 
It  promised  fair ;  how  changed  the  scene 
To  what  is  now,  from  what  hath  been ! 

So  fares  it  with  life's  early  spring ; 

Hope  gilds  each  coming  day. 
And  sweetly  doth  the  syren  sing 

Her  fond,  delusive  lay  : 
Then  the  young,  fervent,  heart  beats  high, 
While  passion  kindles  in  the  eye, 

With  bright,  unceasing  play ; 
Fair  are  thy  tints,  thou  genial  hour, 
Yet  transient  as  the  autumn  flower. 

Thou  faded  leaf !  how  like  to  thee 

Is  beauty  in  her  morning  pride, 
When  life  is  but  a  summer  sea, 

And  hope  illumes  its  placid  tide : 
Alas  !  for  beauty's  autumn  hour, 
Alas  !  for  beauty's  blighted  flower, 

When  hope  and  bliss  have  died  ! 
Her  pallid  brow,  her  cheek  of  grief, 
Have  thy  sad  hue,  thou  faded  leaf! 

Autumnal  leaf!  thus  honour's  plume, 

And  valour's  laurel  wreath  must  fade ; 

Must  lose  the  freshness,  and  the  bloom 

On  which  the  beam  of  glory  play'd ; 
34 


The  banner  waving  o'er  the  crowd, 
Far  streaming  like  a  silver  cloud, 

Must  sink  within  the  shade, 
Where  dark  oblivion's  waters  flow 
O'er  human  weal  and  human  wo. 

Autumnal  leaf!  there  is  a  stern 

And  warning  tone  in  thy  decay ; 
Like  thce  must  man  to  death  return 

With  his  frail  tenement  of  clay : 
Thy  warning  is  of  death  and  doom, 
Of  genius  blighted  in  its  bloom, 

Of  joy's  beclouded  ray  ; 
Life,  rapture,  hope,  ye  are  as  brief 
And  fleeting  as  the  autumn  leaf ! 


THE  LAST  SONG. 

STRIKE  the  wild  harp  yet  once  again ! 

Again  its  lonely  numbers  pour ; 
Then  let  the  melancholy  strain 

Be  hush'd  in  death  for  evermore. 
For  evermore,  for  evermore, 

Creative  fancy,  be  thou  still ; 
And  let  oblivious  Lethe  pour 

Upon  my  lyre  its  waters  chill. 

Strike  the  wild  harp  yet  once  again ! 

Then  be  its  fitful  chords  unstrung, 
Silent  as  is  the  grave's  domain, 

And  mute  as  the  death-moulder'd  tongue ; 
Let  not  a  thought  of  memory  dwell 
One  moment  on  its  former  song; 
Forgotten,  too,  be  this  farewell, 

Which  plays  its  pensive  strings  along ! 

Strike  the  wild  harp  yet  once  again  ! 

The  saddest  and  the  latest  lay ; 
Then  break  at  once  its  strings  in  twain, 

And  they  shall  sound  no  more  for  aye : 
And  hang  it  on  the  cypress  tree : 

The  hours  of  youth  and  song  have  pass'd, 
Have  gone,  with  all  their  witchery ; 

Lost  lyre !  these  numbers  are  thy  last. 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


JOT  kneels,  at  morning's  rosy  prime, 

In  worship  to  the  rising  sun ; 
But  Sorrow  loves  the  calmer  time, 

When  the  day-god  his  course  hath  run: 
When  Night  is  on  her  shadowy  car, 

Pale  sorrow  wakes  while  Joy  doth  sleep  ; 
\nd,  guided  by  the  evening  star, 

She  wanders  forth  to  muse  and  weep. 

Joy  loves  to  cull  the  summer-flower, 

And  wreathe  it  round  his  happy  brow ; 
But  when  the  dark  autumnal  hour 

Hath  laid  the  leaf  and  blossoms  low ; 
When  the  frail  bud  hath  lost  its  worth, 

And  Joy  hath  dash'd  it  from  his  crest, 
Then  Sorrow  takes  it  from  the  earth, 

To  wither  on  her  wither'd  breast. 
Z 


GEORGE    P.   MORRIS. 

[Born,  1801.] 


THIS  popular  song-writer  is  a  native  of  Phila- 
delphia. In  common  with  many  prominent  au- 
thors of  the  present  time,  he  commenced  his  lite- 
rary career  by  contributions  to  the  journals.  When 
about  fifteen  years  of  age  he  wrote  verses  for  the 
"  New  York  Gazette,"  and  he  subsequently  filled 
occasionally  "  the  poet's  corner"  in  the  "American," 
at  that  time  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  JOHN  sow 
VERPLANCK.  In  1823,  with  the  late  Mr.  WOOD- 
WORTH,  he  established  the  "  New  York  Mirror,"  a 
weekly  miscellany  which  for  nearly  nineteen  years 
was  conducted  with  much  taste  and  ability.  In 
1827  his  play,  in  five  acts,  entitled  "Brier  Cliff, 
a  tale  of  the  American  Revolution,"  was  brought 
out  at  the  Chatham  Theatre  by  Mr.  WALLACK, 
and  acted  forty  nights  successively.  I  have  been 
informed  that  its  popularity  was  so  great  that  it 
was  played  at  four  theatres  in  New  York,  to  full 
houses,  on  the  same  evening,  and  that  it  yielded 
the  author  a  profit  of  three  thousand  five  hundred 
dollars,  a  larger  sum,  probably,  than  was  ever  paid 
for  any  other  dramatic  composition  in  the  United 
States. 

In  1836  General  MORRIS  published  a  volume 
of  amusing  prose  writings  under  the  title  of 
"The  Little  Frenchman  and  his  Water  Lots;" 
in  1838  "The  Deserted  Bride  and  other  Poems," 
of  which  an  enlarged  edition,  illustrated  by  WIER 
and  CHAPMAN,  appeared  in  1843;  and  in  1844 
a  complete  collection  of  his  «  Songs  and  Ballads." 
The  composition  which  is  understood  to  rank 
highest  in  his  own  estimation  is  the  poetry  of 
"  The  Maid  of  Saxony,"  an  opera  with  music  by 
Mr.  CHARLES  HORN,  produced  at  the  Park  Thea- 
tre in  1842.  In  1843,  in  conjunction  with  Mr. 
WILLIS,  he  reestablished  "  The  Mirror,"  and  he  is 
now  associated  with  that  popular  author  in  con- 
dMcting  "  The  Home  Journal." 

If  there  is  any  literary  work  which  calls  for  a 
special  gift  of  nature,  perhaps  it  is  the  song.  In 
terms  of  a  sounder  theory,  I  may  say,  that  its  suc- 
cessful accomplishment,  beyond  almost  any  other 
composition,  demands  an  intelligent  insight  into 
the  principles  upon  which  its  effect  depends,  and  a 
capacity,  if  not  to  combine  with  imposing  strength, 
yet  to  select  with  the  nicest  judgment  Other 
productions  often  gratify  long  and  highly,  in  spite 
of  considerable  defects,  while  the  song,  to  suc- 
ceed at  all,  must  be  nearly  perfect.  It  implies  a 
taste  delicately  skilled  in  the  fine  influences  of  lan- 
guage. It  has  often  shunned  the  diligence  of  men 
who  have  done  greater  things.  Starting  from  some 
common  perception,  by  almost  a  crystalline  pro- 
cess of  accretion,  it  should  grow  up  into  a  poem. 
Its  first  note  should  find  the  hearer  in  sympathy 
with  it,  and  its  last  should  leave  him  moved  and 
wondering.  Throughout,  it  must  have  an  affi- 


nity to  some  one  fixed  idea.  Its  propriety  is,  not 
so  much  to  give  expression  to  a  feeling  existing 
in  the  bosom  of  the  author,  as  to  reproduce  that 
feeling  in  the  heart  of  the  listener.  The  tone  of 
the  composition  ought  therefore  to  be,  as  much  as 
is  possible,  below  the  force  of  the  feeling  which  it 
would  inspire.  It  should  be  simple,  entire,  and 
glowing. 

The  distinction  and  difficulty  of  the  song  are 
illustrated  by  the  genius  of  Jossox,  MARLOWE, 
and  DRYDEN;  by  the  fame  of  MOORE,  and  the 
failure  of  BYRON.  Several  of  the  songs  of 
MORRIS,  whether  judged  of  by  their  success,  or 
by  the  application  of  any  rules  of  criticism,  are 
nearly  faultless.  They  are  in  a  very  chaste  style 
of  art.  They  have  the  simplicity  which  is  the 
characteristic  of  the  classic  models,  and  the  purity 
which  was  once  deemed  an  indispensable  quality 
in  the  lyric  poet.  They  are  marked  by  neatness  of 
language,  free  from  every  thing  affected  or  finical ; 
a  natural  elegance  of  sentiment,  and  a  correct 
moral  purpose.  His  best  effusions  have  few  marks 
of  imitation;  they  are  like  each  other,  but  no 
English  song  can  be  named  from  which,  in  cha- 
racter and  tone,  they  are  not  different.  "The 
Chieftain's  Daughter"  is  an  example  of  the  narra- 
tive song,  in  which  the  whole  story  is  told,  in  a  few 
lines,  without  omission  and  without  redundancy; 
"  When  other  friends  are  round  thee,"  is  a  beauti- 
ful expression  of  affection ;  "  Land,  Ho !"  is  an 
exceedingly  spirited  and  joyous  nautical  piece ; 
and  in  «  Near  the  Lake,"  the  very  delicate  effect 
which  the  author  has  contemplated  is  attained 
with  remarkable  precision.  In  sentiment,  as  in 
sound,  there  are  certain  natural  melodies,  which 
seem  to  be  discovered  rather  than  contrived,  and 
which,  as  they  are  evolved  from  time  to  time  by 
the  felicity  or  skill  of  successive  artists,  are  sure 
to  be  received  with  unbounded  popularity.  The 
higher  and  more  elaborate  productions  of  genius 
are  best  appreciated  by  the  thoughtful  analysis  of 
a  single  critic;  but  the  appropriate  test  of  the 
merit  of  these  simple,  apparently  almost  sponta- 
neous effusions,  is  the  response  which  they  meet 
with  from  the  common  heart  of  man.  The  me- 
lodies of  MOZART  and  APBER,  doubtless,  en- 
chanted their  ears  who  first  heard  them  played  by 
the  composers,  but  we  know  them  to  be  founded 
in  the  enduring  truth  of  art,  only  because  they 
have  made  themselves  a  home  in  the  streets  of 
every  city  of  Europe  and  America,  and  after  long 
experience  have  taen  found  to  be  among  the  na- 
tural formulas  by  which  gaiety  and  melancholy 
express  themselves  in  every  rank  and  in  every 
land.  The  song  of  "  Woodman,  spare  that  Tree," 
has  touched  one  of  those  cords  of  pervading  nature 
which  fraternize  multitudes  of  different  nations. 

266 


GEORGE   P.  MORRIS. 


267 


THE  WEST. 

Ho  !  brothers — come  hither  and  list  to  my  story — 

Merry  and  brief  will  the  narrative  be  : 
Here,  like  a  monarch,  I  reign  in  my  glory — 

Master  am  I,  boys,  of  all  that  I  see. 
Where  once  frown'd  a  forest  a  garden  is  smiling — 

The  meadow  and  moorland  are  marshes  no 

more; 
And  there  curls  the  smoke  of  my  cottage,  beguiling 

The  children  who  cluster  like  grapes  at  the  door, 
Then  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
The  land  of  the  heart  is  the  land  of  the  west 
Oho,  boys ! — oho,  boys ! — oho ! 

Talk  not  of  the  town,  boys, — give  me  the  broad 
prairie, 

Where  man  like  the  wind  roams  impulsive  and 
Behold  how  its  beautiful  colours  all  vary,     [free; 

Like  those  of  the  clouds,  or  the  deep-rolling  sea. 
A  life  in  the  woods,  boys,  is  even  as  changing ; 

With  proud  independence  we  season  our  cheer, 
And  those  who  the  world  are  for  happiness  ranging, 

Won't  find  it  at  all,  if  they  don't  find  it  here. 
Fhen  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
I'll  show  you  the  life,  boys,  we  live  in  the  west. 
Oho,  boys ! — oho,  boys ! — oho ! 

Here,  brothers,  secure  from  all  turmoil  and  danger, 

We  reap  what  we  sow,  for  the  soil  is  our  own ; 
We  spread  hospitality's  board  for  the  stranger, 

And  care  not  a  fig  for  the  king  on  his  throne; 
We  never  know  want,  for  we  live  by  our  labour, 

And  in  it  contentment  and  happiness  find ; 
We  do  what  we  can  for  a  friend  or  a  neighbour, 

And  die,  boys,  in  peace  and  good- will  to  mankind. 
Fhen  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
if  ou  know  how  we  live,  boys,  and  die  in  the  west ! 
Oho,  boys ! — oho,  boys ! — oho ! 


«  LAND-HO !" 

Up,  up,  with  the  signal !     The  land  is  in  sight ! 
We'll  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 
Fhe  cold,  cheerless  ocean  in  safety  we've  pass'd, 
And  the  warm  genial  earth  glads  our  vision  at  last, 
tn  the  land  of  the  stranger  true  hearts  we  shall  find, 
Fo  soothe  us  in  absence  of  those  left  behind. 
Land  ! — land-ho !    All  hearts  glow  with  joy  at  the 

sight ! 
We'll  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 

The  signal  is  waving  !    Till  morn  we'll  remain, 
Fhen  part  in  the  hope  to  meet  one  day  again 
Round  the  hearth-stone  of  home  in  the  land  of  our 

birth, 

Fhe  holiest  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth ! 
Dear  country  !  our  thoughts  are  as  constant  to  thee, 
As  the  steel  to  the  star,  or  the  stream  to  the  sea. 
Ho ! — land-ho !     We  near  it — we  bound  at  the 

sight ! 
Then  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 

The  signal  is  answer' d  !     The  foam-sparkles  rise 
Like  tears  from  the  fountain  of  joy  to  the  eyes ! 


May  rain-drops  that  fall  from  the  storm-clouds  of 

care, 

Melt  away  in  the  sun-beaming  smiles  of  the  fair ! 
One  health,  as  chime  gayly  the  nautical  bells, 
To  woman — God  bless  her ! — wherever  she  dwells ! 
THE  PILOT'S  ON  BOARD  ! — and,  thank  Heaven, 

all's  right ! 
So  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 

THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

UPON  the  barren  sand 

A  single  captive  stood, 
Around  him  came,  with  bow  and  brand, 

The  red  men  of  the  wood. 
Like  him  of  old,  his  doom  he  hears, 

Rock-bound  on  ocean's  rim : — 
The  chieftain's  daughter  knelt  in  tears, 

And  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 

Above  his  head  in  air, 

The  savage  war-club  swung, 
The  frantic  girl,  in  wild  despair, 

Her  arms  about  him  flung. 
Then  shook  the  warriors  of  the  shade, 

Like  leaves  on  aspen  limb, 
Subdued  by  that  heroic  maid 

Who  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 

«  Unbind  him !"  gasp'd  the  chief, 

"  Obey  your  king's  decree  !" 
He  kiss'd  away  her  tears  of  grief, 

And  set  the  captive  free. 
'Tis  ever  thus,  when  in  life's  storm, 

Hope's  star  to  man  grows  dim, 
An  angel  kneels  in  woman's  form, 

And  breathes  a  prayer  for  him. 


NEAR  THE  LAKE. 

NEAH  the  lake  where  droop'd  the  willow, 

Long  time  ago ! 
Where  the  rock  threw  back  the  billow, 

Brighter  than  snow ; 
Dwelt  a  maid,  beloved  and  cherish'd, 

By  high  and  low ; 
But  with  autumn's  leaf  she  perished, 

Long  time  ago ! 

Rock  and  tree  and  flowing  water, 

Long  time  ago ! 
Bee  and  bird  and  blossom  taught  her 

Love's  spell  to  know ! 
While  to  my  fond  words  she  listened, 

Murmuring  low, 
Tenderly  her  dove-eyes  glistened 

Long  time  ago ! 

Mingled  were  our  hearts  for  ever ! 

Long  time  ago ! 
Can  I  now  forget  her  ? — Never ! 

No,  lost  one,  no ! 
To  her  grave  these  tears  are  given, 

Ever  to  flow; 
She's  the  star  I  miss'd  from  heaven, 

Long  time  ago ! 


268 


GEORGE   P.  MORRIS. 


«  WHEN  OTHER  FRIENDS  ARE  ROUND 
THEE." 

When  other  friends  are  round  thee, 

And  other  hearts  are  thine, 
When  other  bays  have  crown'd  thee, 

More  fresh  and  green  than  mine, 
Then  think  how  sad  and  lonely 

This  doating  heart  will  be, 
Which,  while  it  throbs,  throbs  only, 

Beloved  one,  for  thee ! 

Yet  do  not  think  I  doubt  thee, 

I  know  thy  truth  remains ; 
I  would  not  live  without  thee, 

For  all  the  world  contains. 
Thou  art  the  star  that  guides  me 

Along  life's  changing  sea ; 
And  whate'er  fate  betides  me, 

This  heart  still  turns  to  thee. 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE.* 

WOODMAN,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough ! 
In  youth  it  shelter'd  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  play'd. 
My  mother  kiss'd  me  here ; 

My  father  press'd  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe-shall  harm  it  not. 

*After  I  had  sung  the  noble  ballad  of  Woodman,  spare 
that  tree,  at  Boulogne,  says  Mr.  Henry  Russell,  the  vo- 
calist, an  old  gentleman,  among  the  audience,  who  was 
greatly  moved  by  the  simple  and  touching  beauty  of  the 
words,  rose  and  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Russell, 
but  was  the  tree  really  spared  V  "  It  was,"  said  I.  "  I 
am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  he,  as  he  took  his  seat 
amidst  the  unanimous  applause  of  the  whole  assembly. 
I  never  saw  such  excitement  in  a  concert-room. 


«  WHERE  HUDSON'S  WAVE." 

WHERE  Hudson's  wave  o'er  silvery  sands 

Winds  through  the  hills  afar, 
Old  Cronest  like  a  monarch  stands, 

Crown'd  with  a  single  star ! 
And  there,  amid  the  billowy  swells 

Of  rock-ribb'd,  cloud-capp'd  earth, 
My  fair  and  gentle  Ida  dwells, 

A  nymph  of  mountain  birth. 

The  snow-flake  that  the  cliff  receives, 

The  diamonds  of  the  showers, 
Spring's  tender  blossoms,  buds,  and  leaves, 

The  sisterhood  of  flowers, 
Morn's  early  beam,  eve's  balmy  breeze, 

Her  purity  define ; 
But  Ida's  dearer  far  than  these 

To  this  fond  breast  of  mine. 

My  heart  is  on  the  hills.     The  shades 

Of  night 'are  on  my  brow : 
5fe  pleasant  haunts  and  quiet  glades, 

My  soul  is  with  you  now ! 
I  bless  the  star-crown'd  highlands  where 

My  Ida's  footsteps  roam — 
Oh  !  for  a  falcon's  wing  to  bear 

Me  onward  to  my  home. 


THE  PASTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 

Ax  ivy-mantled  cottage  smiled, 

Deep-wooded  near  a  streamlet's  side, 

Where  dwelt  the  village  pastor's  child, 
In  all  her  maiden  bloom  and  pride. 

Proud  suitors  paid  their  court  and  duty 

To  this  romantic  sylvan  beauty : 

Yet  none  of  all  the  swains  who  sought  her, 

Was  worthy  of  the  pastor's  daughter. 

The  town-gallants  cross'd  hill  and  plain, 

To  seek  the  groves  of  her  retreat, 
And  many  follow'd  in  her  train, 
To  lay  their  riches  at  her  feet. 
But  still,  for  all  their  arts  so  wary, 
From  home  they  could  not  lure  the  fairy. 
A  maid  without  a  heart,  they  thought  her, 
And  so  they  left  the  pastor's  daughter. 

One  balmy  eve  in  dewy  spring 

A  bard  became  her  father's  guest ; 
He  struck  his  harp,  and  every  string 

To  love  vibrated  in  her  breast. 
With  that  true  faith  which  cannot  falter, 
Her  hand  was  given  at  the  altar, 
And  faithful  was  the  heart  he  brought  her 
To  wedlock  and  the  pastor's  daughter. 

How  seldom  learn  the  worldly  gay, 
With  all  their  sophistry  and  art, 

The  sweet  and  gentle  primrose-way 
To  woman's  fond,  devoted  heart : 

They  seek,  but  never  find  the  treasure, 

Although  reveal'd  in  jet  and  azure. 

To  them,  like  truth  in  wells  of  water, 

A  fable  is  the  pastor's  daughter. 


ALBERT   G.  GREENE. 

[Born,  1802.] 


MR.  GREECE  was  born  in  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  on  the  tenth  day  of  February,  1802.  He 
was  educated  at  Brown  University,  in  that  city,  at 
which  he  was  graduated  in  1820.  He  was  soon 
after  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  followed  his  profes- 
sion until  1834,  when  he  was  elected  to  an  office 
under  the  city  government,  in  which  he  has  since 


remained.  One  of  his  earliest  metrical  composi- 
tions was  the  familiar  piece  entitled  "  Old  Grimes," 
which  was  written  in  the  year  in  which  he  entered 
the  university. 

His  poems,  except  one  delivered  before  a  literary 
society,  at  Providence,  were  written  for  periodicals, 
and  have  never  been  published  in  a  collected  form. 


THE  BARON'S  LAST  BANQUET. 

O'ER  a  low  couch  the  setting  sun 

Had  thrown  its  latest  ray, 
Where  in  his  last  strong  agony 

A  dying  warrior  lay, 
The  stern,  old  Baron  RUDIGER, 

Whose  fame  had  ne'er  been  bent 
By  wasting  pain,  till  time  and  toil 

Its  iron  strength  had  spent. 

"  They  come  around  me  here,  and  say 

My  days  of  life  are  o'er, 
That  I  shall  mount  my  noble  steed 

And  lead  my  band  no  more ; 
They  come,  and  to  iny  beard  they  dare 

To  tell  me  now,  that  I, 
Their  own  liege  lord  and  master  born, — 

That  I — ha!  ha! — must  die. 

"  And  what  is  death  1  I  've  dared  him  oft 

Before  the  Paynim  spear, — 
Think  ye  he's  entered  at  my  gate, 

Has  come  to  seek  me  here  7 
I  've  met  him,  faced  him,  scorn'd  him, 

When  the  fight  was  raging  hot, — 
I  '11  try  his  might — I  '11  brave  his  power ; 

Defy,  and  fear  him  not. 

"  Ho !  sound  the  tocsin  from  my  tower, — 

And  fire  the  culverin, — 
Bid  each  retainer  arm  with  speed, — 

Call  every  vassal  in ; 
Up  with  my  banner  on  the  wall, — 

The  banquet  board  prepare, — 
Throw  wide  the  portal  of  my  hall, 

And  bring  my  armour  there  !" 

A  hundred  hands  were  busy  then, — 

The  banquet  forth  was  spread, — 
And  rung  the  heavy  oaken  floor 

With  many  a  martial  tread, 
While  from  the  rich,  dark  tracery 

Along  the  vaulted  wall, 
Lights  gleam'd  on  harness,  plume,  and  spear, 

O'er  the  proud,  old  Gothic  hall. 


Fast  hurrying  through  the  outer  gate, 

The  mail'd  retainers  pour'd, 
On  through  the  portal's  frowning  arch, 

And  throng'd  around  the  board. 
While  at  its  head,  within  his  dark, 

Carved  oaken  chair  of  state, 
Arm'd  cap-a-pie,  stern  RUDIGER, 

With  girded  falchion,  sate. 

"  Fill  every  beaker  up,  my  men, 

Pour  forth  the  cheering  wine ; 
There 's  life  and  strength  in  every  drop, — 

Thanksgiving  to  the  vine ! 
Are  ye  all  there,  my  vassals  true1? — 

Mine  eyes  are  waxing  dim ; — 
Fill  round,  my  tried  and  fearless  ones, 

Each  goblet  to  the  brim. 

«  Ye  're  there,  but  yet  I  see  ye  not 

Draw  forth  each  trusty  sword, — 
And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel 

Clash  once  around  my  board : 
I  hear  it  faintly : — Louder  yet ! — 

What  clogs  my  heavy  breath  1 
Up  all, — and  shout  for  RUDIGER, 

'  Defiance  unto  Death !'  " 

Bowl  rang  to  bowl, — steel  clang'd  to  steel, 

— And  rose  a  deafening  cry 
That  made  the  torches  flare  around, 

And  shook  the  flags  on  high : — 
"  Ho  !  cravens,  do  ye  fear  him  1 — 

Slaves,  traitors !  have  ye  flown  1 
Ho  !  cowards,  have  ye  left  me 

To  meet  him  here  alone ! 

But  I  defy  him  : — let  him  come !" 

Down  rang  the  massy  cup, 
While  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade 

Came  flashing  halfway  up ; 
And,  with  the  black  and  heavy  plumes 

Scarce  trembling  on  his  head, 
There,  in  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair, 

Old  RUDIGER  sat,  dead. 

z2  269 


270 


ALBERT   G.   GREENE. 


TO  THE  WEATHERCOCK  ON  OUR 
STEEPLE. 

THE  dawn  has  broke,  the  morn  is  up, 

Another  day  begun ; 
And  there  thy  poised  and  gilded  spear 

Is  flashing  in  the  sun, 
Upon  that  steep  and  lofty  tower 

Where  thou  thy  watch  hast  kept, 
A  true  and  faithful  sentinel, 

While  all  around  thee  slept. 

Tor  years,  upon  thee,  there  has  pour'd 

The  summer's  noon-day  heat, 
And  through  the  long,  dark,  starless  night, 

The  winter  storms  have  beat ; 
B  ut  yet  thy  duty  has  been  done, 

By  day  and  night  the  same, 
Still  thou  hast  met  and  faced  the  storm, 

Whichever  way  it  came. 

No  chilling  blast  in  wrath  has  swept 

Along  the  distant  heaven, 
But  thou  hast  watch'd  its  onward  course, 

And  distant  warning  given ; 
And  when  mid-summer's  sultry  beams 

Oppress  all  living  things, 
Thou  dost  foretell  each  breeze  that  comes 

With  health  upon  its  wings. 

How  oft  I  've  seen,  at  early  dawn,  •, 

Or  twilight's  quiet  hour, 
The  swallows,  in  their  joyous  glee, 

Come  darting  round  thy  tower, 
As  if,  with  thee,  to  hail  the  sun 

And  catch  his  earliest  light, 
And  offer  ye  the  morn's  salute, 

Or  bid  ye  both, — good-night 

And  when,  around  thee  or  above, 

No  breath  of  air  has  stirr'd, 
Thou  seem'st  to  watch  the  circling  flight 

Of  each  free,  happy  bird, 
Till,  after  twittering  round  thy  head 

In  many  a  mazy  track, 
The  whole  delighted  company 

Have  settled  on  thy  back. 

Then,  if,  perchance,  amidst  their  mirth, 

A  gentle  breeze  has  sprung, 
And,  prompt  to  mark  its  first  approach, 

Thy  eager  form  hath  swung, 
I  've  thought  I  almost  heard  thee  say, 

As  far  aloft  they  flew, — 
«  Now  all  away ! — here  ends  our  play, 

For  I  have  work  to  do '' 

Men  slander  thee,  my  honest  friend, 

And  call  thee,  in  their  pride, 
An  emblem  of  their  fickleness, 

Thou  ever-faithful  guide. 
Each  weak,  unstable  human  mind 

A  "  weathercock"  they  call ; 
And  thus,  unthinkingly,  mankind 

Abuse  thee,  one  and  all. 


They  have  no  right  to  make  thy  name 

A  by-word  for  their  deeds : — 
They  change  their  friends,  their  principles, 

Their  fashions,  and  their  creeds ; 
Whilst  thou  hast  ne'er,  like  them,  been  known 

Thus  causelessly  to  range ; 
But  when  thou  changest  sides,  canst  give 

Good  reason  for  the  change. 

Thou,  like  some  lofty  soul,  whose  course 

The  thoughtless  oft  condemn, 
Art  touch'd  by  many  airs  from  heaven 

Which  never  breathe  on  them, — 
And  moved  by  many  impulses 

Which  they  do  never  know, 
Who,  round  their  earth-bound  circles,  plod 

The  dusty  paths  below. 

Through  one  more  dark  and  cheerless  night 

Thou  well  hast  kept  thy  trust, 
And  now  in  glory  o'er  thy  head 

The  morning  light  has  burst. 
And  unto  earth's  true  watcher,  thus, 

When  his  dark  hours  have  pass'd, 
Will  come  "the  day-spring  from  on  high," 

To  cheer  his  path  at  last. 

Bright  symbol  of  fidelity, 

Still  may  I  think  of  thee : 
And  may  the  lesson  thou  dost  teach 

Be  never  lost  on  me ; — 
But  still,  in  sunshine  or  in  storm, 

Whatever  task  is  mine, 
May  I  be  faithful  to  my  trust, 

As  thou  hast  been  to  thine. 


STANZAS. 

O,  THIXK  not  that  the  bosom's  light 

Must  dimly  shine,  its  fire  be  low, 
Because  it  doth  not  all  invite 

To  feel  its  warmth  and  share  its  glow. 
The  altar's  strong  and  steady  blaze 

On  all  around  may  coldly  shine, 
But  only  genial  warmth  conveys 

To  those  who  gather  near  the  shrine. 
Do  the  dull  flint,  the  rigid  steel, 

Which  thou  within  thy  hand  mayst  hold, 
Unto  thy  sight  or  touch  reveal 

The  hidden  power  which  they  enfold  ? 
But  take  those  cold,  unyielding  things, 

And  beat  their  edges  till  you  tire, — 
And  every  atom  forth  that  springs, 

Is  a  bright  spark  of  living  fire : 
Each  particle,  so  dull  and  cold 

Until  the  blow  that  woke  it  came, 
Did  still  within  it  slumbering  hold 

A  power  to  wrap  the  world  in  flame. 
While  thus,  in  things  of  sense  alone, 

Such  truths  from  sense  lie  still  conceal'd, 
How  can  the  living  heart  be  known — 

Its  secret,  inmost  depths  reveal'd  ? 


GEORGE    W.    BETHUNE. 


[Born  about  18C2.] 


THE  Rev.  GEOUGE  W.  BETHUNE,  D.  D.,  is  a 

native  of  New  York,  and  is  widely  known  as  one 
of  the  finest  scholars  and  most  eloquent  preachers 
in  the  American  church.  He  is  author  of  several 
volumes  of  literary  and  religious  discourses,  which 


are  as  much  distinguished  as  his  poems  by  a  genial, 
loving  spirit,  and  a  classical  elegance  of  diction. 
Dr.  BETHUNE  has  been  for  several  years  a  minis- 
ter of  the  Reformed  Dutch  Church  in  Philadel- 
phia, where  he  now  resides. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

MY  mother ! — Manhood's  anxious  brow 
And  sterner  cares  have  long  been  mine ; 

Yet  turn  I  to  thee  fondly  now, 
As  when  upon  thy  bosom's  shrine 

My  infant  griefs  were  gently  hush'd  to  rest, 

And  thy  low-whispcr'd  prayers  my  slumber  bless'd. 

I  never  call  that  gentle  name, 

My  mother !  but  I  am  again 
E'en  as  a  child;  the  very  same 

That  prattled  at  thy  knee ;  and  fain 
Would  I  forget,  in  momentary  joy, 
That  I  no  more  can  be  thy  happy  boy ; — 

The  artless  boy,  to  whom  thy  smile 

Was  sunshine,  and  thy  frown  sad  night, 

(Though  rare  that  frown,  and  brief  the  while 
It  veil'd  from  me  thy  loving  light ;) 

For  well-conn'd  task,  ambition's  highest  bliss, 

To  win  from  thine  approving  lips  a  kiss. 

I've  loved  through  foreign  lands  to  roam, 
And  gazed  o'er  many  a  classic  scene ; 

Yet  would  the  thought  of  that  dear  home, 
Which  once  was  ours,  oft  intervene, 

And  bid  me  close  again  my  weary  eye 

To  think  of  thee,  and  those  sweet  days  gone  by. 

That  pleasant  home  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
Where,  by  the  Hudson's  verdant  side 

My  sisters  wove  then-  jasmine  bowers, 
And  he,  we  loved,  at  eventide 

Would  hastening  come  from  distant  toil  to  bless 

Thine,  and  his  children's  radiant  happiness. 

Alas,  the  change !  the  rattling  car 

On  flint-paved  streets  profanes  the  spot, 

Where  o'er  the  sod,  we  sow'd  the  Star 
Of  Bethlehem,  and  Forget-me-not 

Oh,  wo  to  Mammon's  desolating  reign  ! 

We  ne'er  shall  find  on  earth  a  home  again ! 

I've  pored  o'er  many  a  yellow  page 

Of  ancient  wisdom,  and  have  won, 
Perchance,  a  scholar's  name — but  sage 

Or  bard  have  never  taught  thy  son 
Lessons  so  dear,  so  fraught  with  holy  truth, 
As  those  his  mother's  faith  shed  on  his  youth. 

If,  by  the  Saviour's  grace  made  meet, 
My  GOD  will  own  my  life  and  love, 


Methinks,  when  singing  at  His  feet, 
Amid  the  ransom'd  throng  above, 
Thy  name  upon  my  glowing  lips  shall  be, 
And  I  will  bless  that  grace  for  heaven  and  thee. 

For  thee  and  heaven ;  for  thou  didst  tread 
The  way  that  leads  me  heavenward,  and 

My  often  wayward  footsteps  led 

In  the  same  path  with  patient  hand ; 

And  when  I  wander'd  far,  thy  earnest  call 

Restored  my  soul  from  sin's  deceitful  thrall. 

I  have  been  bless'd  with  other  ties, 
Fond  ties  and  true,  yet  never  deem 

That  I  the  less  thy  fondness  prize ; 
No,  mother !  in  my  warmest  dream 

Of  answer'd  passion,  through  this  heart  of  mine 

One  chord  will  vibrate  to  no  name  but  thine. 

Mother !  thy  name  is  widow — well 

I  know  no  love  of  mine  can  fill 
The  waste  place  of  thy  heart,  or  dwell 

Within  one  sacred  recess :  still 
Lean  on  the  faithful  bosom  of  thy  son, 
My  parent,  thou  art  mine,  my  only  one ! 

NIGHT  STUDY. 

I  AM  alone ;  and  yet 
In  the  still  solitude  there  is  a  rush 

Around  me,  as  were  met 
A  crowd  of  viewless  wings ;  I  hear  a  gush 
Of  utter'd  harmonies — heaven  meeting  earth, 
Making  it  to  rejoice  with  holy  mirth. 

Ye  winged  Mysteries, 
Sweeping  before  my  spirit's  conscious  eye, 

Beckoning  me  to  arise, 
And  go  forth  from  my  very  self,  and  fly 
With  you  far  in  the  unknown,  unseen  immense 
Of  worlds   beyond   our  sphere — What  are  ye? 
Whence1? 

Ye  eloquent  voices, 
Now  soft  as  breathings  of  a  distant  flute, 

Now  strong  as  when  rejoices, 
The  trumpet  in  the  victory  and  pursuit; 
Strange  are  ye,  yet  familiar,  as  ye  call 
My  soul  to  wake  from  earth's  sense  and  its  thrall. 

I  know  you  now — I  see 

With  more  than  natural  light — ye  are  the  good 
The  wise  departed — ye 

271 


272 


GEORGE    W.   BETHUNE. 


Are  come  from  heaven  to  claim  your  brotherhood 
With  mortal  brother,  struggling  in  the  strife 
And  chains,  which  once  were  yours  in  this  sad  life. 

Ye  hover  o'er  the  page 
Ye  traced  in  ancient  days  with  glorious  thought 

For  many  a  distant  age ; 
Ye  love  to  watch  the  inspiration  caught,  ' 
From  your  sublime  examples,  and  so  cheer 
The  fainting  student  to  your  high  career. 

Ye  come  to  nerve  the  soul 
Like  him  who  near  the  ATONEH  stood,  when  HE, 

Trembling,  saw  round  him  roll 
The  wrathful  potents  of  Gethsemane, 
With  courage  strong :  the  promise  ye  have  known 
And  proved,  rapt  for  me  from  the  Eternal  throne. 

Still  keep !  O,  keep  me  near  you, 
Compass  me  round  with  your  immortal  wings : 

Still  let  my  glad  soul  hear  you 
Striking  your  triumphs  from  your  golden  strings, 
Until  with  you  I  mount,  and  join  the  song, 
An  angel,  like  you,  'mid  the  white-robed  throng. 


LINES 

•WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  THOBWALDSEN'S  BAS-RELIEF 
REPRESENTING  NIGHT. 

YES  !  bear  them  to  their  rest ; 
The  rosy  babe,  tired  with  the  glare  of  day, 
The  prattler  fallen  asleep  e'en  in  his  play, 

Clasp  them  to  thy  soft  breast, 

O  Night, 
Bless  them  in  dreams  with  a  deep  hush'd  delight. 

Yet  must  they  wake  again, 
Wake  soon  to  all  the  bitterness  of  life, 
The  pang  of  sorrow,  the  temptation  strife, 

Aye,  to  the  conscience-pain — 

0  Night, 
Canst  thou  not  take  with  them  a  longer  flight  1 

Canst  thou  not  bear  them  far — 
E'en  now  all  innocent — before  they  know 
The  taint  of  sin,  its  consequence  of  wo, 

The  world's  distracting  jar, 

O  Night, 
To  some  ethereal,  holier,  happier  height  1 

Canst  thou  not  bear  them  up 
Through  starlit  skies,  far  from  this  planet  dim 
And  sorrowful,  e'en  while  they  sleep,  to  Him 

Who  drank  for  us  the  cup, 

O  Night, 
The  cup  of  wrath  for  hearts  in  faith  contrite  1 

To  Him,  for  them  who  slept 
A  babe  all  lowly  on  His  mother's  knee, 
And  from  that  hour  to  cross-crown'd  Calvary, 

In  all  our  sorrows  wept, 

O  Night,  [light. 

That  on  our  souls  might  dawn  Heaven's  cheering 

So,  lay  their  little  heads 
Close  to  that  human  breast,  with  love  divine 
Deep  heating,  while  his  arms  immortal  twine 

Around  them  as  he  sheds, 

O  Ni«rht,  [might. 

On  them  a  brother's"  grace  of  GOD'S  own  boundless 


Let  them  immortal  wake 
Among  the  breathless  flowers  of  Paradise, 
Where  angel-songs  of  welcome  with  surprise 

This  their  last  sleep  may  break, 

O  Night, 
And  to  celestial  joy  their  kindred  souls  invite. 

There  can  come  no  sorrow, 
The  brow  shall  know  no  shade,  the  eye  no  tears, 
For  ever  young  through  heaven's  eternal  years, 

In  one  unfading  morrow, 

0  Night, 
Nor  sin,  nor  age,  nor  pain  their  cherub-beauty  blight 

Would  we  could  sleep  as  they, 
So  stainless  and  so  calm,  at  rest  with  thee, 
And  only  wake  in  immortality  ! 

Bear  us  with  them  away, 

O  Night, 
To  that  ethereal,  holier,  happier  height 


TO  MY  WIFE. 

AFAR  from  thee !  the  morning  breaks, 

But  morning  brings  no  joy  to  me ; 
Alas !  my  spirit  only  wakes 

To  know  I  am  afar  from  thee. 
In  dreams  I  saw  thy  blessed  face, 

And  thou  wert  nestled  on  my  breast ; 
In  dreams  I  felt  thy  fond  embrace, 

And  to  mine  own  thy  heart  was  press'd. 

Afar  from  thee  !  'tis  solitude ! 

Though  smiling  crowds  around  me  be, 
The  kind,  the  beautiful,  the  good, 

For  I  can  only  think  of  thee  ; 
Of  thee,  the  kindest,  loveliest,  best, 

My  earliest  and  my  only  one  ! 
Without  thee  I  am  all  unblcss'd, 

And  wholly  bless'd  with  thee  alone. 

Afar  from  thee  !  the  words  of  praise 

My  listless  ear  unheeded  greet; 
What  sweetest  seem'd,  in  better  days, 

Without  thee  seems  no  longer  sweet 
The  dearest  joy  fame  can  bestow 

Is  in  thy  moisten'd  eye  to  see, 
And  in  thy  cheek's  unusual  glow, 

Thou  deem'st  me  not  unworthy  thee. 

Afar  from  thee !  the  night  is  come, 

But  slumbers  from  my  pillow  flee ; 
Oh,  who  can  rest  so  far  from  home  7 

And  my  heart's  home  is,  love,  with  thee. 
I  kneel  me  down  in  silent  prayer, 

And  then  I  know  that  thou  art  nigh  : 
For  Go n,  who  seeth  everywhere, 

Bends  on  us  both  his  watchful  eye. 

Together,  in  his  loved  embrace, 

No  distance  can  our  hearts  divide  ; 
Forgotten  quite  the  mediate  space, 

I  kneel  thy  kneeling  form  beside. 
My  tranquil  frame  then  sinks  to  sleep, 

But  soars  the  spirit  far  and  free ; 
Oh,  welcome  be  night's  slumbers  deep, 

For  then,  sweet  love,  I  am  with  thee. 


WILLIAM   LEGGETT. 


(Born,  1802.    Died,  1840.] 


THIS  distinguished  political  and  miscellaneous 
writer  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  in  the 
summer  of  1802,  and  was  educated  at  the  George- 
town College,  in  the  District  of  Columbia.  In 
1822  he  entered  the  navy  of  the  United  States  as 
a  midshipman ;  but  in  consequence  of  the  arbitrary 
conduct  of  his  commander,  Captain  JOHN  ORDE 
CREIGHTON,  he  retired  from  the  service  in  1826, 
after  which  time  he  devoted  himself  mainly  to  litera- 
ry pursuits.  His  first  publication  was  entitled  "  Lei- 
sure Hours  at  Sea,"  and  was  composed  of  various 
short  poems  written  while  he  was  in  the  navy.  In 
1828  he  established,  in  New  York,  "The  Critic," 
a  weekly  literary  gazette,  which  he  conducted  with 
much  ability  for  seven  or  eight  months,  at  the  end 
of  which  time  it  was  united  with  the  "  Mirror,"  to 
which  he  became  a  regular  contributor.  In  "  The 
Critic"  and  "  The  Mirror,"  he  first  published  "  The 
Rifle,"  "  The  Main  Truck,  or  the  Leap  for  Life," 
"  White  Hands,  or  Not  Quite  in  Character,"  and 
other  stories,  afterward  embraced  in  the  volumes 
entitled  "  Tales  by  a  Country  Schoolmaster,"  and 
"  Sketches  of  the  Sea."  These  tales  and  sketches 
are  probably  the  most  spirited  and  ingenious  pro- 
ductions of  their  kind  ever  written  in  this  country. 
In  1829  Mr.  LEGGETT  became  associated  with 
Mr.  BUY  ANT,  in  the  editorship  of  the  "Evening 
Post,"  and  on  the  departure  of  that  gentleman  for 
Europe,  in  1834,  the  entire  direction  of  that  able 
journal  was  devolved  to  him.  A  severe  illness, 
which  commenced  near  the  close  of  the  succeed- 
ing year,  induced  him  to  relinquish  his  connexion 
witli  the  "Post;"  and  on  his  recovery,  in  1836,  he 
commenced  "  The  Plaindealer,"  a  weekly  periodi- 
cal devoted  to  politics  and  literature,  for  which  he 
obtained  great  reputation  by  his  independent  and 
fearless  assertion  of  doctrines,  and  the  vigorous 
eloquence  and  powerful  reasoning  by  which  he 
maintained  them.  It  was  discontinued,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  failure  of  his  publisher,  before  the 
close  of  the  year ;  and  his  health,  after  that  period, 
prevented  his  connexion  with  any  other  journal. 
In  1828  he  had  been  married  to  Miss  EIMIRA 
WARING,  daughter  of  Mr.  JONA.WAKINO,  of  New 
Rochelle ;  and  to  that  pleasant  village  he  now  re- 
tired, with  his  family.  He  occasionally  visited  his 
friends  in  the  city,  and  a  large  portion  of  the 
democratic  party  there  proposed  to  nominate  him 
for  a  seat  in  Congress ;  but  as  he  had  acted  inde- 
pendently of  a  majority  of  the  party  in  regard  to 
certain  important  political  questions,  his  formal 
Domination  was  prevented.  In  April,  1840,  he 
was  appointed  by  Mr.  VAN  BUREN,  then  President 
of  the  United  States,  a  diplomatic  agent*  from  our 

*  Soon  after  the  death  of  Mr.  I.EGOETT,  Mr.  JOHN  L. 
STEPHENS,  whose  "Travels  in  Central  America"  have 
been  since  published,  was  appointed  his  successor  as 
diplomatic  agent  to  that  country. 
35 


government  to  the  Republic  of  Guatemala.  He 
was  preparing  to  depart  for  that  country,  when  he 
suddenly  expired,  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  fol- 
lowing month,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age. 

A  few  months  after  his  death,  a  collection  of  his 
political  writings,  in  two  large  duodecimo  volumes, 
was  published,  under  the  direction  of  his  friend, 
Mr.  THEODORE  SEDGWICK.  Besides  the  works 
already  mentioned,  he  wrote  much  in  various  peri- 
odicals, and  was  one  of  the  authors  of  "  The  Tales 
of  Glauber  Spa,"  published  in  1832.  In  the  ma- 
turity of  his  powers,  his  time  and  energies  were 
devoted  to  political  writing.  His  poems  are  the 
poorest  of  his  productions,  and  were  written  while 
he  was  in  the  naval  service,  or  during  his  editor- 
ship of  "  The  Critic."  In  addition  to  his  Melodies — 
which  are  generally  ingenious  and  well  versified — 
he  wrote  one  or  two  prize  addresses  for  the  thea- 
tres, and  some  other  pieces,  which  have  considera- 
ble merit. 

His  death  was  deeply  and  generally  deplored, 
especially  by  the  members  of  the  democratic  party, 
who  regarded  him  as  one  of  the  ablest  champions 
of  their  principles.  Mr.  BHYAXT,  with  whom  he 
was  for  several  years  intimately  associated,  pub- 
lished in  the  "  Democratic  Review"  the  following 
tribute  to  his  character  : — 

"  The  earth  may  ring  from  shore  to  shore, 

With  echoes  of  a  glorious  name  ; 
But  he  whose  loss  our  hearts  deplore 
Has  left  behind  him  more  than  fame. 

"For  when  the  death-frost  came  to  lie 
Upon  that  warm  and  mighty  heart, 
And  quench  that  bold  and  friendly  eye, 
His  spirit  did  not  all  depart. 

"  The  words  of  fire  that  from  his  pen 
Were  flung  upon  Ihe  lucid  page, 
Still  move,  still  shake  the  hearts  of  men, 
Amid  a  cold  and  coward  age. 

"  His  love  of  Truth,  too  warm — too  strong 

For  Hope  or  Fear  to  chain  or  chill, 
His  hate  of  Tyranny  and  Wrong, 
Burn  in  the  breasts  he  kindled  still." 

Mr.  SEDGWICK,  in  the  preface  to  his  political 
writings,  remarks  that  "  every  year  was  softening 
his  prejudices,  and  calming  his  passions;  enlarging 
his  charities,  and  widening  the  bounds  of  his  libe- 
rality. Had  a  more  genial  clime  invigorated  his 
constitution,  and  enabled  him  to  return  to  his 
labours,  a  brilliant  and  honourable  future  might 
have  been  predicted  of  him.  It  is  not  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  too  fond  affection,  but  the  voice  of  a  calm 
judgment,  which  declares  that,  whatever  public 
career  he  had  pursued,  he  must  have  raised  to  his 
memory  an  imperishable  monument,  and  that  as 
no  name  is  now  dearer  to  his  friends,  so  few  could 
have  been  more  honourably  associated  witn  tne 
history  of  his  country,  than  that  of 
LEGGETT." 

273 


274 


WILLIAM    LEGGETT. 


A  SACRED  MELODY. 

IF  yon  bright  stars  which  gem  the  night 

Be  each  a  blissful  dwelling  sphere, 
Where  kindred  spirits  reunite, 

Whom  death  has  torn  asunder  here ; 
How  sweet  it  were  at  once  to  die, 

And  leave  this  blighted  orb  afar — 
Mixed  soul  with  soul,  to  cleave  the  sky, 

And  soar  away  from  star  te  star. 

But,  0  !  how  dark,  how  drear,  how  lone 

Would  seem  the  brightest  world  of  bliss, 
If,  wandering  through  each  radiant  one, 

We  fail'd  to  find  the  loved  of  this ! 
If  there  no  more  the  ties  should  twine, 

Which  death's  cold  hand  alone  can  sever, 
Ah !  then  these  stars  hi  mockery  shine, 

More  hateful,  as  they  shine  forever. 

It  cannot  be !  each  hope  and  fear 

That  lights  the  eye  or  clouds  the  brow, 
Proclaims  there  is  a  happier  sphere 

Than  this  bleak  world  that  holds  us  now ! 
There  is  a  voice  which  sorrow  hears, 

When  heaviest  weighs  life's  galling  chain; 
'Tis  heaven  that  whispers,  «  Dry  thy  tears : 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  meet  again  !" 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

THE  birds,  when  winter  shades  the  sky, 

Fly  o'er  the  seas  away, 
Where  laughing  isles  in  sunshine  lie, 

And  summer  breezes  play ; 

And  thus  the  friends  that  nutter  near 

While  fortune's  sun  is  warm, 
Are  startled  if  a  cloud  appear, 

And  fly  before  the  storm. 

But  when  from  winter's  howling  plains 

Each  other  warbler 's  past, 
The  little  snow-bird  still  remains, 

And  chirrups  midst  the  blast. 

Love,  like  that  bird,  when  friendship's  throng 

With  fortune's  sun  depart, 
Still  lingers  with  its  cheerful  song, 

And  nestles  on  the  heart. 


SONG. 

I  TRUST  the  frown  thy  features  wear 

Ere  long  into  a  smile  will  turn ; 
I  would  not  that  a  face  so  fair 

As  thine,  beloved,  should  look  so  stern. 
The  chain  of  ice  that  winter  twines. 

Holds  not  for  aye  the  sparkling  rill, 
It  melts  away  when  summer  shines, 

And  leave  the  waters  sparkling  still. 
Thus  let  thy  cheek  resume  the  smile 

That  shed  such  sunny  light  before  ; 
And  though  I  left  thee  for  a  while, 

I'll  swear  to  leave  thee,  love,  no  more. 


As  he  who,  doomed  o'er  waves  to  roam, 

Or  wander  on  a  foreign  strand, 
Will  sigh  whene'er  he  thinks  of  home, 

And  better  love  his  native  land ; 
So  I,  though  lured  a  time  away, 

Like  bees  by  varied  sweets,  to  rove, 
Return,  like  bees,  by  close  of  day, 

And  leave  them  all  for  thee,  my  love. 
Then  let  thy  cheek  resume  the  smile 

That  shed  such  sunny  light  before, 
And  though  I  left  thee  for  a  while, 

I  swear  to  leave  thee,  love,  no  more. 


LIFE'S  GUIDING  STAR. 

THE  youth  whose  bark  is  guided  o'er 

A  summer  stream  by  zephyr's  breath, 
With  idle  gaze  delights  to  pore 

On  imaged  skies  that  glow  beneath. 
But  should  a  fleeting  storm  arise 

To  shade  a  while  the  watery  way, 
Quick  lifts  to  heaven  his  anxious  eyes, 

And  speeds  to  reach  some  sheltering  bay, 

'Tis  thus,  down  time's  eventful  tide, 

While  prosperous  breezes  gently  blow, 
In  life's  frail  bark  we  gayly  glide,    - 

Our  hopes,  our  thoughts  all  fix'd  below. 
But  let  one  cloud  the  prospect  dim, 

The  wind  its  quiet  stillness  mar, 
At  once  we  raise  our  prayer  to  Him 

Whose  light  is  life's  best  guiding  star. 


TO  ELMIRA. 

WRITTEN  WITH  FRENCH  CHALK*  OX  A  PANE  OF  GLASS 
IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  FRIEND. 


Oif  this  frail  glass,  to  others'  view, 

No  written  words  appear ; 
They  see  the  prospect  smiling  through, 

Nor  deem  what  secret 's  here. 
But  shouldst  thou  on  the  tablet  bright 

A  single  breath  bestow, 
At  once  the  record  starts  to  sight 

Which  only  thou  must  know. 

Thus,  like  this  glass,  to  strangers'  gaze 

My  heart  seemed  unimpress'd  ; 
In  vain  did  beauty  round  me  blaze, 

It  could  not  warm  my  breast. 
But  as  one  breath  of  thine  can  make 

These  letters  plain  to  see, 
So  in  my  heart  did  love  awake 

When  breathed  upon  by  thee. 


*  The  substance  usually  called  French  chalk  has  this 
singular  property,  that  what  is  written  on  glass,  thoneh 
easily  rubbed  out  again,  so  that  no  trace  remains  visible, 
by  being  breathed  on  becomes  immediately  distinctly 
legible. 


EDWARD   C.   PINKNEY. 


[Born  1802.    Died  182$.] 


EDWARD  COATK  PI>KXEY  was  born  in  London, 
in  October,  1802,  while  his  father,  the  Honourable 
WILLIAM  PINKXEY,  was  the  American  Minister 
at  the  court  of  St.  James'.  Soon  after  the  return  of 
his  family  to  Baltimore,  in  1811,  he  entered  St. 
Mary's  College,  in  that  city,  and  remained  there 
until  he  was  fourteen  years  old,  when  he  was  ap- 
pointed a  midshipman  in  the  navy.  He  con- 
tinued in  the  service  nine  years,  and  in  that  period 
visited  the  Mediterranean  and  several  other  foreign 
stations,  and  acquired  much  general  knowledge 
and  acquaintance  with  mankind. 

The  death  of  his  father,  and  other  circumstances, 
induced  him,  in  1824,  to  resign  his  place  in  the 
navy ;  and  in  the  same  year  he  was  married,  and 
admitted  to  the  Maryland  bar.  His  career  as  a 
lawyer  was  brief  and  unfortunate.  He  opened  an 
office  in  Baltimore,  and  applied  himself  earnestly 
to  his  profession ;  but  though  his  legal  acquire- 
ments and  forensic  abilities  were  respectable,  his 
rooms  were  seldom  visited  by  a  client ;  and  after 
two  years  had  passed,  disheartened  by  neglect,'and 
with  a  prospect  of  poverty  before  him,  he  suddenly 
determined  to  enter  the  naval  service  of  Mexico, 
in  which  a  number  of  our  officers  had  already  won 
distinction  and  fortune.  When,  however,  he  pre- 
sented himself  before  Commodore  POHTEH,  then 
commanding  the  sea-forces  of  that  country,  the 
situation  he  solicited  was  refused,*  and  he  was 
compelled  reluctantly  to  retuni  to  the  United 
States. 

He  reappeared  in  Baltimore,  poor  and  dejected. 
He  turned  his  attention  again  to  the  law,  but  in 
his  vigorous  days  he  had  been  unable  to  support 
himself  by  his  profession  ;  and  now,  when  he  was 
suffering  from  disease  and  a  settled  melancholy, 
it  was  not  reasonable  to  anticipate  success.  The 
erroneous  idea  that  a  man  of  a  poetical  mind 
cannot  transact  business  requiring  patience  and 
habits  of  carefnl  investigation,  was  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  principal  causes  of  his  failure  as  a 
K-wvyer ;  for  that  he  was  respected,  and  that  his 
fellow-citizens  were  willing  to  confer  upon  him 
honours,  is  evident  from  the  fact  that,  in  1826,  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  professors  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Maryland.  This  office,  however,  was 
one  of  honour  only :  it  yielded  no  profit. 

PTXKXEY  now  became  sensible  that  his  consti- 
tution was  broken,  and  that  he  could  not  long 


*  It  has  been  said  that  Commodore  PDRTEH  refused 
to  give  PINKXEY  a  commission,  because  he  was  known 
to  be  a  warm  adherent  of  an  administration  to  which  ho 
was  himself  opposed ;  but  it  is  more  reasonable  to  be- 
lieve, as  was  alleged  at  the  time,  that  tho  navy  of  Mexico 
was  full,  and  that  the  citizens  of  that  republic  had  begun 
to  regard  with  jealousy  the  too  frequent  admission  of 
foreigners  into  the  service. 


survive ;  but  he  had  no  wish  to  live.  His  feelings 
at  this  period  are  described  in  one  of  his  poems : — 

"A  sense  it  was,  that  I  could  see 

The  angel  leave  my  side — 
That  thenceforth  my  prosperity 

Must  be  a  falling  tide  ; 
A  strange  and  ominous  belief, 
That  in  spring-time  the  yellow  leaf 

Had  fallen  on  my  hours  ; 
And  that  all  hope  must  be  most  vain, 
Of  finding  on  my  path  again 

Its  former  vanish'd  flowers." 

Near  the  close  of  the  year  1827,  a  political 
gazette,  entitled  "  The  Marylander,"  was  esta- 
blished in  Baltimore,  and,  in  compliance  with  the 
general  wish  of  the  proprietors,  Mr.  PIXKXEY 
undertook  to  conduct  it.  He  displayed  much 
sagacity  and  candour,  and  in  a  few  weeks  won 
a  high  reputation  in  his  new  vocation ;  but  his 
increasing  illness  compelled  him  to  leave  it,  and  he 
died  on  the  eleventh  of  April,  1828,  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty-five  years  and  six  months.  He 
was  a  man  of  genius,  and  had  all  the  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart  that  win  regard  and  usually  lead 
to  greatness,  except  HOPE  and  ESEHBT. 

A  small  volume  containing  "Rodolph,"  and 
other  poems,  was  published  by  PIXKXET  in  1825. 
"  Rodolph"  is  his  longest  work.  It  was  first  pub- 
lished, anonymously,  soon  after  he  left  the  navy, 
and  was  probably  written  while  he  was  in  the 
Mediterranean.  It  is  in  two  cantos.  The  first 
begins, — 

"The  summer's  heir  on  land  and  sea 

Had  thrown  his  parting  glance. 
And  winter  taken  angrily 

His  waste  inheritance. 
The  winds  in  stormy  revelry 
Sporteil  beneath  a  frowning  sky; 
The  chafing  waves,  with  hollow  roar, 
Tumbled  upon  the  shaken  shore, 
And  sent  their  spray  in  upward  showers 
To  Rodolph's  proud  ancestral  towers, 
Whose  bastion,  from  its  mural  crown, 
A  regal  look  cast  sternly  down." 

There  is  no  novelty  in  the  story,  and  not  much 
can  be  said  for  its  morality.  The  hero,  in  the 
season  described  in  the  above  lines,  arrives  at  his 
own  domain,  after  many  years  of  wandering  in  fo- 
reign lands,  during  which  he  had  "  grown  old  in 
heart,  and  infirm  of  frame."  In  his  youth  he  had 
loved — the  wife  of  another — and  his  passion  had 
been  returned.  "At  an  untimely  tide,"  he  had  met 
the  husband,  and,  in  encounter,  slain  him.  The 
wife  goes  into  a  convent,  and  her  paramour  seeks 
refuge  from  remorse  in  distant,  countries.  In  the 
beginning  of  the  second  canto,  he  is  once  more  in 
his  own  castle ;  but,  feeling  some  dark  presenti- 
ment, he  wanders  to  a  cemetery,  where,  in  the 
morning,  he  is  found  by  his  vassals,  "  senseless 


276 


EDWARD    C.   PINKNEY. 


beside  his  lady's  um."  In  the  delirium  which 
follows,  he  raves  of  many  crimes,  but  most 

.    .    .     "Of  one  too  dearly  loved, 

And  one  untimely  slain, 
Of  an  affection  hardly  proved 

By  murder  done  in  vain." 

He  dies  in  madness,  and  the  story  ends  abruptly 
and  coldly.  It  has  more  faults  than  PINKXEI'S 
other  works ;  in  many  passages  it  is  obscure ;  its 
beauty  is  marred  by  the  use  of  obsolete  words ;  and 
the  author  seems  to  delight  in  drawing  his  com- 
parisons from  the  least  known  portions  of  ancient 
literature. 

Some  of  his  lighter  pieces  are  very  beautiful. 
"A  Health,"  "The  Picture-Song,"  and  «A  Se- 
renade," have  not  often  been  equalled ;  and 


"Italy," — an  imitation  of  GOETHE'S  Kcnnst  du 
das  Land — has  some  noble  lines.  Where  is  there 
a  finer  passage  than  this: 

"The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud; 
The  air  seems  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud, 
Save  where  volcanoes  send  to  heaven  their  curl'd 
And  solemn  smokes,  like  altars  of  the  world  !" 

PINKXEY'S  is  the  first  instance  in  this  country 
in  which  we  have  to  lament  the  prostitution  of 
true  poetical  genius  to  unworthy  purposes.  Per- 
vading much  that  he  wrote  there  is  a  selfish  me- 
lancholy and  sullen  pride;  dissatisfaction  with  the 
present,  and  doubts  in  regard  to  the  future  life. 
The  great  distinguishing  characteristic  of  Ameri- 
can poetry  is  its  pure  and  high  morality.  May  it 
ever  be  so ! 


ITALY. 

KXOW'ST  thou  the  land  whichlovers  ought  tochoose? 
Like  blessings  there  descend  the  sparkling  dews ; 
In  gleaming  streams  the  crystal  rivers  run, 
The  purple  vintage  clusters  in  the  sun ; 
Odours  of  flowers  haunt  the  balmy  breeze, 
Rich  fruits  hang  high  upon  the  verdant  trees ; 
And  vivid  blossoms  gem  the  shady  groves, 
Where  bright-plumed  birds  discourse  their  careless 

loves. 

Beloved ! — speed  we  from  this  sullen  strand, 
Until  thy  light  feet  press  that  green  shore's  yellow 

sand. 

Look  seaward  thence,  and  naught  shall  meet  thine 
But  fairy  isles,  like  paintings  on  the  sky;        [eye 
And,  flying  fast  and  free  before  the  gale, 
The  gaudy  vessel  with  its  glancing  sail ; 
And  waters  glittering  in  the  glare  of  noon, 
Or  touch'd  with  silver  by  the  stars  and  moon, 
Or  fleck'd  with  broken  lines  of  crimson  light, 
When  the  far  fisher's  fire  affronts  the  night. 
Lovely  as  loved !  toward  that  smiling  shore 
Bear  we  our  household  gods,  to  fix  forever  more. 

It  looks  a  dimple  on  the  face  of  earth, 

The  seal  of  beauty,  and  the  shrine  of  mirth ; 

Nature  is  delicate  and  graceful  there, 

The  place's  genius,  feminine  and  fair; 

The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud ; 

The  air  seems  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud, 

Save  where  volcanoes  send  to  heaven  their  curl'd 

And  solemn  smokes,  like  altars  of  the  world. 

Thrice  beautiful ! — to  that  delightful  spot 

Carry  our  married  hearts,  and  be  all  pain  forgot 

There  Art,  too,  shows,  when  Nature's  beauty  palls, 
Her  sculptured  marbles,  and  her  pictured  walls ; 
And  there  are  forms  in  which  they  both  conspire 
To  whisper  themes  that  know  not  how  to  tire ; 
The  spi-aking  ruins  in  that  gentle  clime 
Have  but  been  hallow'd  by  the  hand  of  Time, 
And  each  can  mutely  prompt  some  thought  of  flame: 
The  meanest  stone  is  not  without  a  name. 
Then  come,  beloved  ! — hasten  o'er  the  sea, 
To  build  our  happy  hearth  in  blooming  Italy. 


THE  INDIAN'S  BRIDE. 


Why  is  that  graceful  female  here 
With  yon  red  hunter  of  the  deer  ] 
Of  gentle  mien  and  shape,  she  seems 

For  civil  halls  design'd, 
Yet  with  the  stately  savage  walks, 

As  she  were  of  his  kind. 
Look  on  her  leafy  diadem, 
Enrich'd  with  many  a  floral  gem : 
Those  simple  ornaments  about 

Her  candid  brow,  disclose 
The  loitering  spring's  last  violet, 

And  summer's  earliest  rose ; 
But  not  a  flower  lies  breathing  there 
Sweet  as  herself,  or  half  so  fair. 
Exchanging  lustre  with  the  sun, 

A  part  of  day  she  strays — 
A  glancing,  living,  human  smile 

On  Nature's  face  she  plays. 
Can  none  instruct  me  what  are  these 
Companions  of  the  lofty  trees  ? 


Intent  to  blend  her  with  his  lot, 
Fate  form'd  her  all  that  he  was  not ; 
And,  as  by  mere  unlikeness,  thoughts 

Associate  we  see, 
Their  hearts,  from  very  difference,  caught 

A  perfect  sympathy. 
The  household  goddess  here  to  be 
Of  that  one  dusky  votary, 
She  left  her  pallid  countrymen, 

An  earthling  most  divine, 
And  sought  in  this  sequester  d  wood 

A  solitary  shrine. 

Behold  them  roaming  hand  in  hand, 
Like  night  and  sleep,  along  the  land ; 
Observe  their  movements: — he  for  her 

Restrains  his  active  stride, 
WTiile  she  assumes  a  bolder  gait 

To  ramble  at  his  side ; 
Thus,  even  as  the  steps  they  frame, 
Then-  souls  fast  alter  to  the  same. 


276                                                  EDWARD    C.   PINKNEY. 

beside  his  lady's  urn."     In  the  delirium  which 
follows,  he  raves  of  many  crimes,  but  most 

.    .    .     "Of  one  too  dearly  loved, 
,         i  ....       And  omjjintimelv  slain, 

"Italy,"  —  an  imitation  of  GOETHE'S   Kcnnst  du 
das  Land  —  has  some  noble  lines.    Where  is  there 
a  finer  passage  than  this  : 

"  The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud  : 

EDWARD   C.   PINKNEY. 


277 


The  one  forsakes  ferocity, 

And  momently  grows  mild ; 

The  other  tempers  more  and  more 
The  artful  with  the  wild. 

She  humanizes  him,  and  he 

Educates  him  to  liberty. 


0,  say  not  they  must  soon  be  old, — 

Their  limbs  prove  faint,  their  breasts  feel  cold ! 

Yet  envy  I  that  sylvan  pair 

More  than  my  words  express, — 
The  singular  beauty  of  their  lot, 

And  seeming  happiness. 
They  have  not  been  reduced  to  share 
The  painful  pleasures  of  despair; 
Their  sun  declines  not  in  the  sky, 

Nor  are  their  wishes  cast, 
Like  shadows  of  the  afternoon, 

Repining  towards  the  past : 
With  nought  to  dread  or  to  repent, 
The  present  yields  them  full  content. 
In  solitude  there  is  no  crime ; 

Their  actions  all  are  free, 
And  passion  lends  their  way  of  life 

The  only  dignity ; 

And  how  can  they  have  any  cares  1 — 
Whose  interest  contends  with  theirs  1 


The  world,  for  all  they  know  of  it, 
Is  theirs : — for  them  the  stars  are  lit ; 
For  them  the  earth  beneath  is  green, 

The  heavens  above  are  bright ; 
For  them  the  moon  doth  wax  and  wane, 

And  decorate  the  night ; 
For  them  the  branches  of  those  trees 
Wave  music  in  the  vernal  breeze ; 
For  them,  upon  that  dancing  spray, 

The  free  bird  sits  and  sings, 
And  glittering  insects  flit  about 

Upon  delighted  wings ; 
For  them  that  brook,  the  brakes  among, 
Murmurs  its  small  and  drowsy  song; 
For  them  the  many-colour'd  clouds 

Their  shapes  diversify, 
And  change  at  once,  like  smiles  and  frowns, 

The  expression  of  the  sky. 
For  them,  and  by  them,  all  is  gay, 
And  fresh  and  beautiful  as  they : 
The  images  their  minds  receive, 

Their  minds  assimilate 
To  outward  forms,  imparting  thus 

The  glory  of  their  state. 


Could  aught  be  painted  otherwise 

Than  fair,  seen  through  her  star-bright  eyes'? 

He,  too,  because  she  fills  his  sight, 

Each  object  falsely  sees ; 
The  pleasure  that  he  has  in  her 

Makes  all  things  seem  to  please. 
And  this  is  love ; — and  it  is  life 
They  lead,-^-that  Indian  °nd  his  wife. 


SONG. 

WE  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine, 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain. 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine,  » 

Should  e'er  the  hallow'd  toy  profane ; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  pour'd 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 

But  still  the  old,  impassion'd  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain, 
And  still  unhappy  light  displays. 

Thine  image  chamber'd  in  my  brain, 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing  birds, 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers, 

And  airy  gems — thy  words. 


A  HEALTH. 


I  FIIL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burden'd  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill'd  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood, 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 
2  A 


278 


EDWARD    C.   PINKNEY. 


THE  VOYAGER'S  SONG.* 

Sotrx D  trumpets,ho! — weigh  anchor — loosen  sail — 
The  seaward  flying  banners  chide  delay ; 
As  if  'twere  heaven  that  breathes  this  kindly  gale, 
Our  life-like  bark  beneath  it  speeds  away. 
Flit  we,  a  gliding  dream,  with  troublous  motion, 
Across  the  slumbers  of  uneasy  ocean ; 
And  furl  our  canvass  by  a  happier  land, 
So  fraught  with  emanations  from  the  sun, 
That  potable  gold  streams  through  the  sand 
Where  element  should  run. 

Onward,  my  friends,  to  that  bright,  florid  isle, 
The  jewel  of  a  smoothe  and  silver  sea, 
With  springs  on  which  perennial  summers  smile 
A  power  of  causing  immortality. 
For  Bimini ; — in  its  enchanted  ground, 
The  hallow'd  fountains  we  would  seek,  are  found ; 
Bathed  in  the  waters  of  those  mystic  wells, 
The  frame  starts  up  in  renovated  truth, 
And,  freed  from  Time's  deforming  spells, 
Resumes  its  proper  youth. 

Hail,  bitter  birth  ! — once  more  my  feelings  all 
A  graven  image  to  themselves  shall  make, 
And,  placed  upon  my  heart  for  pedestal, 
That  glorious  idol  long  will  keep  awake 
Their  natural  religion,  nor  be  cast 
To  earth  by  Age,  the  great  Iconoclast. 
As  from  Gadara's  founts  they  once  could  come, 
Charm-call'd,  from  these  Love's  genii  shall  arise, 
And  build  their  perdurable  home, 
MIRANDA,  in  thine  eyes. 

By  Nature  wisely  gifted,  not  destroy'd 
With  golden  presents,  like  the  Roman  maid, — 
A  sublunary  paradise  enjoy'd, 
Shall  teach  thee  bliss  incapable  of  shade ; — 
An  Eden  ours,  nor  angry  gods,  nor  men, 
Nor  star-clad  Fates,  can  take  from  us  again. 
Superior  to  animal  decay, 
Sun  of  that  perfect  heaven,  thou'lt  calmly  see 
Stag,  raven,  phenix,  drop  away 
With  human  transiency. 

Thus  rich  in  being, — beautiful, — adored, 
Fear  not  exhausting  pleasure's  precious  mine ; 
The  wondrous  waters  we  approach,  when  pour'd 
On  passion's  lees,  supply  the  wasted  wine  : 
Then  be  thy  bosom's  tenant  prodigal, 
And  confident  of  termless  carnival. 
Like  idle  yellow  leaves  afloat  on  time, 
Let  others  lapse  to  death's  pacific  sea, — 
We  '11  fade  nor  fall,  but  sport  sublime 
In  green  eternity. 


*  "  A  tradition  prevailed  among  the  natives  of  Puerto 
Rico,  that  in  the  Isle  of  Bimini,  one  of  the  Lucnyos, 
there  was  a  fountain  of  such  wonderful  virtue,  as  to  re- 
new the  youth  and  recall  the  vigour  of  every  person  who 
bathed  in  its  salutary  waters.  In  hopes  of  finding  this 
grand  restorative,  Ponce  de  Leon  and  his  followers, 
ranged  through  the  islands,  searching  with  fruitless  soli- 
citude for  the  fountain,  which  was  the  chief  object  of 
the  expedition."— ROBERTSON'S  America. 


The  envious  years,  which  steal  our  pleasures,  thou 
Mayst  call  at  once,  like  magic  memory,  back, 
And,  as  they  pass  o'er  thine  unwithering  brow, 
Efface  their  footsteps  ere  they  form  a  track. 
Thy  bloom  with  wilful  weeping  never  stain, 
Perpetual  life  must  not  belong  to  pain. 
For  me, — this  world  has  not  yet  been  a  place 
Conscious  of  joys  so  great  as  will  be  mine, 
Because  the  light  has  kiss'd  no  face 
Forever  fair  as  thine. 


A  PICTURE-SONG. 

How  may  this  little  tablet  feign 

The  features  of  a  face, 
Which  o'er  informs  with  loveliness, 

Its  proper  share  of  space ; 
Or  human  hands  on  ivory, 

Enable  us  to  see 
The  charms,  that  all  must  wonder  at, 

Thou  work  of  gods  in  thee ! 

But  yet,  methinks,  that  sunny  smile 

Familiar  stories  tells, 
And  I  should  know  those  placid  eyes, 

Two  shaded  crystal  wells ; 
Nor  can  my  soul,  the  limner's  art 

Attesting  with  a  sigh, 
Forget  the  blood  that  deck'd  thy  cheek, 

As  rosy  clouds  the  sky. 

They  could  not  semble  what  thou  art, 

More  excellent  than  fair, 
As  soft  as  sleep  or  pity  is, 

And  pure  as  mountain-air ; 
But  here  are  common,  earthly  hues, 

To  such  an  aspect  wrought, 
That  none,  save  thine,  can  seem  so  like 

The  beautiful  of  thought. 

The  song  I  sing,  thy  likeness  like, 

Is  painful  mimicry 
Of  something  better,  which  is  now 

A  memory  to  me, 
Who  have  upon  life's  frozen  sea 

Arrived  the  icy  spot, 
Where  man's  magnetic  feelings  show 

Their  guiding  task  forgot. 

The  sportive  hopes,  that  used  to  chase 

Their  shifting  shadows  on, 
Like  children  playing  in  the  sun, 

Are  gone — forever  gone  ; 
And  on  a  careless,  sullen  peace, 

My  double-fronted  mind, 
Like  JANUS  when  his  gates  were  shut, 

Looks  forward  and  behind. 

APOLLO  placed  his  harp,  of  old, 

A  while  upon  a  stone, 
Which  has  resounded  since,  when  struck, 

A  breaking  harp-string's  tone ; 
And  thus  my  heart,  though  wholly  now, 

From  early  softness  free, 
If  touch'd,  will  yield  the  music  yet, 

It  first  received  of  thee. 


EDWARD   C.   PINKNEY. 


279 


THE  OLD  TREE. 

AND  is  it  gone,  that  venerable  tree, 

The  old  spectator  of  my  infancy  1 — 

It  used  to  stand  upon  this  very  spot, 

And  now  almost  its  absence  is  forgot. 

I  knew  its  mighty  strength  had  known  decay, 

Its  heart,  like  every  old  one,  shrank  away, 

But  dreamt  not  that  its  frame  would  fall,  ere  mine 

At  all  partook  my  weary  soul's  decline. 

The  great  reformist,  that  each  day  removes 
The  old,  yet  never  on  the  old  improves, 
The  dotard,  Time,  that  like  a  child  destroys, 
As  sport  or  spleen  may  prompt,  his  ancient  toys, 
And  shapes  their  ruins  into  something  new — 
Has  planted  other  playthings  where  it  grew. 
The  wind  pursues  an  unobstructed  course, 
Which  once  among  its  leaves  delay'd  perforce ; 
The  harmless  Hamadryad,  that  of  yore 
Inhabited  its  bole,  subsists  no  more ; 
Its  roots  have  long  since  felt  the  ruthless  plough — 
There  is  no  vestige  of  its  glories  now ! 
But  in  my  mind,  which  doth  not  soon  forget, 
That  venerable  tree  is  growing  yet ; 
Nourish'd,  like  those  wild  plants  that  feed  on  air, 
By  thoughts  of  years  unconversant  with  care, 
And  visions  such  as  pass  ere  man  grows  wholly 
A  fiendish  thing,  or  mischief  adds  to  folly. 
I  still  behold  it  with  my  fancy's  eye, 
A  vernant  record  of  the  days  gone  by : 
I  see  not  the  sweet  form  and  face  more  plain, 
Whose  memory  was  a  weight  upon  my  brain. 
— Dear  to  my  song,  and  dearer  to  my  soul, 
Who  knew  but  half  my  heart,  yet  had  the  whole 
Sun  of  my  life,  whose  presence  and  whose  flight 
Its  brief  day  caused,  and  never-ending  night ! 
Must  this  delightless  verse,  which  is  indeed 
The  mere  wild  product  of  a  worthless  weed, 
(But  which,  like  sunflowers,  turns  a  loving  face 
Towards  the  lost  light,  and  scorns  its  birthand  place,) 
End  with  such  cold  allusion  unto  you, 
To  whom,  in  youth,  my  very  dreams  were  true  1 
It  must;  I  have  no  more  of  that  soft  kind, 
My  age  is  not  the  same,  nor  is  my  mind. 

TO . 


T  WAS  eve ;  the  broadly  shining  sun 
Its  long,  celestial  course  had  run ; 
The  twilight  heaven,  so  soft  and  blue, 
Met  earth  in  tender  interview, 
E'en  as  the  angel  met  of  yore 
His  gifted  mortal  paramour, 
Woman,  a  child  of  morning  then, — 
A  spirit  still, — compared  with  men. 
lake  happy  islands  of  the  sky, 
The  gleaming  clouds  reposed  on  high, 
Each  fix'd  sublime,  deprived  of  motion, 
A  Delos  to  the  airy  ocean. 
Upon  the  stirless  shore  no  breeze 
Shook  the  green  drapery  of  the  trees, 
Or,  rebel  to  tranquillity, 
Awoke  a  ripple  on  the  sea. 
Nor,  in  a  more  tumultuous  sound, 
Were  the  world's  audible  breathings  drown'd ; 


The  low,  strange  hum  of  herbage  growing, 
The  voice  of  hidden  waters  flowing, 
Made  songs  of  nature,  which  the  ear 
Could  scarcely  be  pronounced  to  hear ; 
But  noise  had  furl'd  its  subtle  wings, 
And  moved  not  through  material  things, 
All  which  lay  calm  as  they  had  been 
Parts  of  the  painter's  mimic  scene. 
'Twas  eve;  my  thoughts  belong  to  thee, 
Thou  shape  of  separate  memory ! 
When,  like  a  stream  to  lands  of  flame, 
Unto  my  mind  a  vision  came. 
Methought,  from  human  haunts  and  strife 
Remote,  -we  lived  a  loving  life ; 
Our  wedded  spirits  seem'd  to  blend 
In  harmony  too  sweet  to  end, 
Such  concord  as  the  echoes  cherish 
Fondly,  but  leave  at  length  to  perish. 
Wet  rain-stars  are  thy  lucid  eyes, 
The  Hyades  of  earthly  skies, 
But  then  upon  my  heart  they  shone, 
As  shines  on  snow  the  fervid  sun. 
And  fast  went  by  those  moments  bright, 
Like  meteors  shooting  through  the  night ; 
But  faster  fleeted  the  wild  dream 
That  clothed  them  with  their  transient  beam. 
Yet  love  can  years  to  days  condense, 
And  long  appear'd  that  life  intense  ; 
It  was, — to  give  a  better  measure 
Than  time, — a  century  of  pleasure. 

ELYSIUM. 

SHE  dwelleth  in  Elysium ;  there, 
Like  Echo,  floating  in  the  air ; 
Feeding  on  light  as  feed  the  flowers, 
She  fleets  away  uncounted  hours, 
Where  halcyon  Peace,  among  the  bless'd, 
Sits  brooding  o'er  her  tranquil  nest. 

She  needs  no  impulse ;  one  she  is, 
Whom  thought  supplies  with  ample  bliss : 
The  fancies  fashion'd  in  her  mind 
By  Heaven,  are  after  its  own  kindj 
Like  sky-reflections  in  a  lake, 
Whose  calm  no  winds  occur  to  break. 

Her  memory  is  purified, 

And  she  seems  never  to  have  sigh'd : 

She  hath  forgot  the  way  to  weep; 

Her  being  is  a  joyous  sleep ; 

The  mere  imagining  of  pain, 

Hath  pass'd,  and  cannot  come  again. 

Except  of  pleasure  most  intense 

And  constant,  she  hath  lost  all  sense ; 

Her  life  is  day  without  a  night, 

An  endless,  innocent  delight ; 

No  chance  her  happiness  now  mars, 

Howe'er  Fate  twine  her  wreaths  of  stars. 

And  palpable  and  pure,  the  part 
Which  pleasure  playeth  with  her  heart ; 
For  every  joy  that  seeks  the  maid, 
Foregoes  its  common  painful  shade 
Like  shapes  that  issue  from  the  grove 
Arcadian,  dedicate  to  JOVE. 


280 


EDWARD    C.   PINKNEY. 


TO  H- 


THE  firstlings  of  my  simple  song 

Were  offer'd  to  thy  name ; 
Again  the  altar,  idle  long, 

In  worship  rears  its  flame. 
My  sacrifice  of  sullen  years, 
My  many  hecatombs  of  tears, 

No  happier  hours  recall — 
Yet  may  thy  wandering  thoughts  restore 
To  one  who  ever  loved  thee  more 

Than  fickle  Fortune's  all. 

And  now,  farewell ! — and  although  here 

Men  hate  the  source  of  pain, 
I  hold  thee  and  thy  follies  dear, 

Nor  of  thy  faults  complain. 
For  my  misused  and  blighted  powers, 
My  waste  of  miserable  hours, 

I  will  accuse  thee  not : — 
The  fool  who  could  from  self  depart, 
And  take  for  fate  one  human  heart, 

Deserved  no  better  lot. 

I  reck  of  mine  the  less,  because 

In  wiser  moods  I  feel 
A  doubtful  question  of  its  cause 

And  nature,  on  me  steal — 
An  ancient  notion,  that  time  flings 
Our  pains  and  pleasures  from  his  wings 

With  much  equality — 
And  that,  in  reason,  happiness 
Both  of  accession  and  decrease 

Incapable  must  be. 

UNWISE,  or  most  unfortunate, 

My  way  was ;  let  the  sign, 
The  proof  of  it,  be  simply  this — 

Thou  art  not,  wert  not  mine  ! 
For  'tis  the  wont  of  chance  to  bless 
Pursuit,  if  patient,  with  success ; 

And  envy  may  repine, 
That,  commonly,  some  triumph  must 
Be  won  by  every  lasting  lust. 

How  I  have  lived  imports  not  now; 

I  am  about  to  die, 
Else  I  might  chide  thee  that  my  life 

Has  been  a  stifled  sigh ; 
Yes,  life ;  for  times  beyond  the  line 
Our  parting  traced,  appear  not  mine, 

Or  of  a  world  gone  by ; 
And  often  almost  would  evince, 
My  soul  had  transmigrated  since. 

Pass  wasted  flowers ;  alike  the  grave, 

To  which  I  fast  go  down, 
Will  give  the  joy  of  nothingness 

To  me,  and  to  renown : 
Unto  its  careless  tenants,  fame 
Is  idle  as  that  gilded  name, 

Of  vanity  the  crown, 
Helvetian  hands  inscribe  upon 
The  forehead  of  a  skeleton. 

List  the  last  cadence  of  a  lay, 

That,  closing  as  begun, 
Is  govern'd  by  a  note  of  pain, 

O,  lost  and  worshipp'd  one  ! 


None  shall  attend  a  sadder  strain, 
Till  MEMXON'S  statue  stand  again 

To  mourn  the  setting  sun, — 
Nor  sweeter,  if  my  numbers  seem 
To  share  the  nature  of  their  theme. 


SERENADE. 

LOOK  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light ; 
Then,  lady,  up, — look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  night ! — 

Sleep  not ! — thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast : 
Sleep  not ! — from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day. 


THE  WIDOW'S  SONG. 

I  BURX  no  incense,  hang  no  wreath 

O'er  this,  thine  early  tomb : 
Such  cannot  cheer  the  place  of  death, 

But  only  mock  its  gloom. 
Here  odorous  smoke  and  breathing  flower 

No  grateful  influence  shed ; 
They  lose  their  perfume  and  their  powtf, 

When  ofler'd  to  the  dead. 

And  if,  as  is  the  Afghaun's  creed, 

The  spirit  may  return, 
A  disembodied  sense,  to  feed 

On  fragrance,  near  its  urn — 
It  is  enough,  that  she,  whom  thou 

Didst  love  in  living  years, 
Sits  desolate  beside  it  now, 

And  falls  these  heavy  tears. 


SONG. 

I  NEED  not  name  thy  thrilling  name, 

Though  now  I  drink  to  thee,  my  dear, 
Since  all  sounds  shape  that  magic  word, 

That  fall  upon  my  ear, — MAHT  ; 
And  silence,  with  a  wakeful  voice, 

Speaks  it  in  accents  loudly  free, 
As  darkness  hath  a  light  that  shows 

Thy  gentle  face  to  me, — MART. 

I  pledge  thee  in  the  grape's  pure  soul, 

With  scarce  one  hope,  and  mnny  fears, 
Mix'd,  were  I  of  a  melting  mood, 

With  many  bitter  tears, — MAHT — 
I  pledge  thee,  and  the  empty  Cup 

Emblems  this  hollow  life  of  mine, 
To  which,  a  gone  enchantment,  thou 

No  more  wilt  be  the  wiue, — MART. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


[Born,  1803.] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON,  one  of  the  most 
eminent  authors  of  this  country,  was  born  in  Bos- 
ton about  the  year  1803.  After  obtaining  his 
bachelor's  degree  at  Harvard  College,  he  studied 
theology,  and  was  settled  over  the  Second  Unitarian 
Church  in  his  native  city,  but  subsequently  aban- 
doned the  pulpit  on  account  of  having  adopted  the 
Quaker  opinion  in  regard  to  the  sacrament  of  the 
Lord's  Supper ;  and  has  since  lived  in  retirement, 
devoting  his  time  to  the  study  of  literature  and 
philosophy. 


Mr.  EMERSOJT  has  been  a  contributor  to  the 
"  North  American  Review"  and  the  "  Christian 
Examiner,"  and  was  two  years  editor  of  "The 
Dial,"  a  literary  and  philosophical  magazine  printed 
in  Boston.  He  has  published  a  work  entitled 
"  Nature ;"  a  collection  of  "  Orations,"  and  two 
volumes  of  "  Essays,"  all  of  which  have  peculiar 
and  extraordinary  merits.  The  first  collection  of 
his  Poems  was  published  in  Boston  in  the  begin- 
ning of  1847.  Many  of  them  bear  the  unques- 
tionable marks  of  genius. 


EACH  IN  ALL. 

LITTLE  thinks  in  the  field  yon  red-cloak'd  clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 

And  the  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm 

Far  heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton  tolling  his  bell  at  noon 

Dreams  not  that  great  NAPOLEOX 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbour's  creed  hath  lent, 

All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 

I  brought  him  home  in  his  nest  at  even, — 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now, 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky, 

He  sang  to  my  ear,  these  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore — 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetch'd  my  sea-born  treasures  home, 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar. 

Nor  rose,  nor  stream,  nor  bird  is  fair, 

Their  concord  is  beyond  compare. 

The  lover  watch'd  his  graceful  maid 
As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  stray'd, 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  that  snow-white  quire. 
At  last,  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage, — 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, — 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
36 


Then,  I  said,  "  I  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth ;" 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curl'd  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  hair-cap  burs : 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath : 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  ^*id  firs : 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground. 
Over  me  soar'd  the  eternal  sky 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity ; 
Again  I  saw — again  I  heard, 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird : 
Beauty  through  my  senses  stole, — 
I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


"GOOD-BYE,  PROUD  WORLD!" 

GOOD-BYE,  proud  world!     I'm  going  home, 
Thou  art  not  my  friend ;  I  am  not  thine : 

Too  long  through  weary  crowds  I  roam : — 
A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 

Too  long  I  am  toss'd  like  the  driven  foam 

But  now,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace  : 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye ; 

To  supple  office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 

To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet, 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come, — 

Good-bye,  proud  world,  Im  going  home. 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone 
Bosom'd  in  yon  green  hills  alone ; 
A  secret  lodge  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  plann'd, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  evil  men  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  GOD. 
2A2  281 


282 


KALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 


O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  mock  at  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I  am  stretch'd  beneath  the  pines 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan ; 
For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  1 


TO  THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

FINE  humble-bee !  fine  humble-bee  ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me, 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek, — 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone ! 
Zig-zag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines, 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Flower-bells, 
Honey'd  cells, — 
These  the  tents 
Which  he  frequents. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June, 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze, 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  colour  of  romance, 
And  infusing  subtle  heats 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 
Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tune, 
Telling  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers, 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found, 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure. 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavoury  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen, 
But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple  sap,  and  daffodels, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adders-tongue, 
And  brier-roses  dwelt  among. 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  pass'd. 


Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breech'd  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  north-western  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, — 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep, 
Wo  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep  ; 
Want  and  wo  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


THE  RHODORA. 

LINES  ON  BEING  ASKED,  WHENCE  IS  THE  FLOWER? 

IN  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook ; 
The  purple  petals  fallen  in  the  pool 

Made  the  black  waters  with  their  beauty  gay  ; 
Young  RAPHAEL  might  covet  such  a  school ; 

The  lively  show  beguiled  me  from  my  way. 
Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  %vhy 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  marsh  and  sky, 
Dear,  tell  them,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why,  thou  wert  there,  O,  rival  of  the  rose ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew, 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose          [you. 
The  selfsame  Power  that  brought  me  there,  brought 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 

ANNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 
Arrives  the  snow,  and  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopp'd,  the  courier's  feet 
Delay'd,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fire-place,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnish'd  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs,  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  number'd,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonish'd  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


283 


THE  SPHINX. 

THE  Sphinx  is  drowsy, 

Her  wings  are  furl'd, 
Her  ear  is  heavy, 

She  broods  on  the  world. 
"Who'll  tell  me  my  secret 

The  ages  have  kept  ] 
I  awaited  the  seer 

While  they  slumber'd  and  slept. 

«  The  fate  of  the  manchild, — 

The  meaning  of  man, — 
Known  fruit  of  the  unknown, 

Daedalian  plan. 
Out  of  sleeping  a  waking, 

Out  of  waking  a  sleep, 
Life  death  overtaking, 

Deep  underneath  deep. 

"  Erect  as  a  sunbeam 

Upspringeth  the  palm ; 
The  elephant  browses 

Undaunted  and  calm; 
In  beautiful  motion 

The  thrush  plies  his  wings, 
Kind  leaves  of  his  covert ! 

Your  silence  he  sings. 

"The  waves  unashamed 

In  difference  sweet, 
Play  glad  with  the  breezes, 

Old  playfellows  meet. 
The  journeying  atoms, 

Primordial  wholes, 
Firmly  draw,  firmly  drive, 

By  their  animate  poles. 

"  Sea,  earth,  air,  sound,  silence, 

Plant,  quadruped,  bird, 
By  one  music  enchanted, 

One  deity  stirr'd, 
Each  the  other  adorning, 

Accompany  still, 
Night  veileth  the  morning, 

The  vapour  the  hill. 

"  The  babe,  by  its  mother 

Lies  bathed  in  joy, 
Glide  its  hours  uncounted, 

The  sun  is  its  toy ; 
Shines  the  peace  of  all  being 

Without  cloud  in  its  eyes, 
And  the  sum  of  the  world 

In  soft  miniature  lies. 

"  But  man  crouches  and  blushes, 

Absconds  and  conceals ; 
He  creepeth  and  peepeth, 

He  palters  and  steals ; 
Infirm,  melancholy, 

Jealous  glancing  around, 
An  oaf,  an  accomplice, 

He  poisons  the  ground. 

"  Outspoke  the  great  mother 

Beholding  his  fear ; — 
At  the  sound  of  her  accents 

Cold  shudder'd  the  sphere ; — 


"  Who  has  drugg'd  my  boy's  cup, 
Who  has  mix'd  my  boy's  bread  1 

Who,  with  sadness  and  madness, 
Has  turn'd  the  manchild's  head?'  " 

I  heard  a  poet  answer 

Aloud  and  cheerfully, 
u  Say  on,  sweet  Sphinx ! — thy  dirges 

Are  pleasant  songs  to  me. 
Deep  love  lieth  under 

These  pictures  of  time, 
They  fade  in  the  light  of 

Their  meaning  sublime. 

"  The  fiend  that  man  harries 

Is  love  of  the  Best, 
Yawns  the  Pit  of  the  Dragon 

Lit  by  rays  from  the  Blest ; 
The  Lethe  of  Nature 

Can't  trance  him  again, 
Whose  soul  sees  the  Perfect 

Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain. 

"  Profounder,  profounder 

Man's  spirit  must  dive : 
To  his  aye-rolling  orbit 

No  goal  will  arrive. 
The  heavens  that  now  draw  him 

With  sweetness  untold, 
Once  found, — for  new  heavens 

He  spurneth  the  old. 

"  Pride  ruin'd  the  angels, 

Their  shame  them  restores : 
And  the  joy  that  is  sweetest 

Lurks  in  stings  of  remorse. 
Have  I  a  lover 

Who  is  noble  and  free, — 
I  would  he  were  nobler 

Than  to  love  me. 

"  Eterne  alternation 

Now  follows,  now  flies, 
And  under  pain,  pleasure, — 

Under  pleasure,  pain  lies. 
Love  works  at  the  centre 

Heart  heaving  alway, 
Forth  speed  the  strong  pulses 

To  the  borders  of  day. 

"  Dull  Sphinx,  Jove  keep  thy  five  wits ! 

Thy  sight  is  growing  blear ; 
Hemlock  and  vitriol  for  the  Sphinx 

Her  muddy  eyes  to  clear.'' 
The  old  Sphinx  bit  her  thick  lip, — 

Said,  «  Who  taught  thee  me  to  name  ? 
Manchild !  I  am  thy  spirit ; 

Of  thine  eye  I  am  eyebeam. 

<<  Thou  art  the  unanswer'd  question : — 

Couldst  see  thy  proper  eye, 
Alway  it  asketh,  asketh, 

And  each  answer  is  a  lie. 
So  take  thy  quest  through  nature, 

It  through  thousand  natures  ply, 
Ask  on,  thou  clothed  eternity, 

Time  is  the  false  reply." 


284 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


Uprose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  crouch'd  no  more  in  stone, 
She  hopp'd  into  the  baby's  eyes, 

She  hopp'd  into  the  moon, 
She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame, 

She  flower'd  in  blossoms  red, 
She  flow'd  into  a  foaming  wave, 

She  stood  Monadnoc's  head. 

Thorough  a  thousand  voices 
Spoke  the  universal  dame, 

«  Who  telleth  one  of  my  meanings 
Is  master  of  all  I  am." 


THE   PROBLEM. 

I  LIKE  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 
I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul, 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles, 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle ; 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  roll'd 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old ; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came, 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  wo. 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groin'd  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity. 
Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free ; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew, 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  wood-bird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast ; 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell ; 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine  tree  adds 
To  her  old.  leaves  new  myriads  T 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone ; 
And  morning  opes  with  haste  her  lida 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 
O'er  England's  Abbeys  bends  the  sky 
As  on  its  friends  with  kindred  eye ; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air, 
And  nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass, 
Art  might  obey  but  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  Soul  that  o'er  him  plann'd, 
And  the  same  power  that  rear'd  the  shrine, 


Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentacost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  quires, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken, 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken  ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sybils  told 
In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost 
I  know  what  say  the  Fathers  wise, — 
The  book  itself  before  rne  lies, — 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakspeare  of  divines ; 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear, 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


THE  FORE-RUNNERS. 

LONG  I  follow 'd  happy  guides: 
I  could  never  reach  their  sides. 
Their  step  is  forth  and,  ere  the  day, 
Breaks  up  their  leaguer  and  away. 
Keen  my  sense,  my  heart  was  young, 
Right  good  will  my  sinews  strung. 
But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 
To  hunt  upon  their  shining  trails. 
On  and  away,  their  hasting  feet 
Make  the  morning  proud  and  sweet 
Flowers  they  strew,  I  catch  the  scent, 
Or  tone  of  silver  instrument 
Leaves  on  the  wind  melodious  trace, 
Yet  I  could  never  see  their  face. 
On  eastern  hills  I  see  their  smokes 
Mix'd  with  mist  by  distant  lochs. 
I  met  many  travellers 
Who  the  road  had  surely  kept, 
They  saw  not  my  fine  revellers, 
These  had  cross'd  them  while  they  slept 
Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 
In  the  country  or  the  court. 
Fleetest  couriers  alive 
Never  yet  could  once  arrive, 
As  they  went  or  they  return'd, 
At  the  house  where  these  sojourn'd. 
Sometimes  their  strong  speed  they  slacken, 
Though  they  are  not  overtaken : 
In  sleep  their  jubilant  troop  is  near, 
I  tuneful  voices  overhear, 
It  may  be  in  wood  or  waste, — 
At  unawares  't  is  come  and  pass'd. 
Their  near  camp  my  spirit  knows 
By  signs  gracious  as  rainbows. 
I  thenceforward  and  long  after, 
Listen  for  their  harp-like  laughter, 
And  carry  in  my  heart  for  days 
Peace  that  hallows  rudest  ways. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


285 


THE    POET. 

Fon  this  present,  hard 
Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard 

Born  out  of  time  ; 
AH  his  accomplishment 
From  nature's  utmost  treasure  spent 

Booteth  not  him. 
When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones 
To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 
He  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks, 
To  birds  and  trees  he  talks; 
Caesar  of  his  leafy  Rome, 
There  the  poet  is  at  home. 
He  goes  to  the  river  side, — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he : 
He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide, — 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see ; 
With  none  has  he  to  do, 

And  none  to  seek  him, 
Nor  men 'below, 

Nor  spirits  dim. 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants ; 
What  he  knows,  he  hides,  riot  vaunts. 
Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 
Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest ; 
Pondering  shadows,  colours,  clouds, 
Grass  buds,  and  caterpillars'  shrouds, 
Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle, 
Tints  that  spot  the  violets'  petal, 
Why  nature  loves  the  number  five, 

And  why  the  star-form  she  repeats  ; — 
Lover  of  all  things  alive, 

Wondcrer  at  all  he  meets, 
Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself, — 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is ; 
Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities  ?  .  .  .  . 
Arid  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer, 
A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 
Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 
Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 
A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart 
Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart ; 
It  seem'd  that  nature  could  not  raise 
A  plant  in  any  secret  place, 
In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 
Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 
Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks, 
In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 
But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 
It  opcrTd  in  its  virgin  bower, 
As  if  a  sunbeam  show'd  the  place, 
And  tell  its  long  descended  race. 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him, 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him, 
As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 
Where  in  far  fields  the  orchis  grew. 
There  are  many  events  in  the  field, 

Which  are  not  shown  to  common  eyes, 
But  all  her  shows  did  nature  yield 

To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 
He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods, 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn, 
He  found  the  tawny  thrush's  broods, 

And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him. 


What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 

And  guess'd  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 

Was  show'd  to  this  philosopher, 
And  at  his  bidding  seem'd  to  come. 


DIRGE. 

KNOWS  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field 

To  reap  its  scanty  corn, 
What  mystic  fruit  his  acres  yield 

At  midnight  and  at  morn  1 

In  the  long  sunny  afternoon 

The  plain  was  full  of  ghosts, 
I  wander'd  up,  I  wander'd  down, 

Beset  by  pensive  hosts. 

The  winding  Concord  gleam'd  below, 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood. 

But  they  are  gone — the  holy  ones 
Who  trod  with  me  this  lonely  vale, 

The  strong,  star-bright  companions 
Are  silent,  low,  and  pale. 

My  good,  my  noble,  in  their  prime, 
WTho  made  this  world  the  feast  it  was, 

Who  learn'd  with  me  the  lore  of  Time, 
Who  loved  this  dwelling-place ; 

They  took  this  valley  for  their  toy, 
They  play'd  with  it  in  every  mood, 

A  cell  for  prayer,  a  hall  for  joy, 
They  treated  Nature  as  they  would. 

They  colour'd  the  whole  horizon  round, 
Stars  flamed  and  faded  as  they  bade, 

All  echoes  hearken'd  for  their  sound, 
They  made  the  woodlands  glad  or  mad. 

I  touch  this  flower  of  silken  leaf 
Which  once  our  childhood  knew, 

Its  soft  leaves  wound  me  with  a  grief 
Whose  balsam  never  grew. 

Hearken  to  yon  pine  warbler, 

Singing  aloft  in  the  tree ; 
Hearest  thou,  0  traveller ! 

What  he  singeth  to  me  1 

Not  unless  God  made  sharp  thine  ear 

With  sorrow  such  as  mine, 
Out  of  that  delicate  lay  couldst  thou 

Its  heavy  tale  divine. 

"  Go,  lonely  man,"  it  saith, 

"They  loved  thee  from  their  birth, 

Their  hands  were  pure,  and  pure  their  faith, 
There  are  no  such  hearts  on  earth. 

"  Ye  drew  one  mother's  milk, 

One  chamber  held  ye  all, 
A  very  tender  history 

Did  in  your  childhood  fall. 

"  Ye  cannot  unlock  your  heart, 
The  key  is  gone  with  them ; 

The  silent  onran  loti.i,  .-t  ehants 
The  master's  requiem.'' 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD. 


[Born  1803.    Died  1844.] 


THE  author  of  « The  Last  Night  of  Pompeii" 
was  born  in  Warwick,  near  the  western  border  of 
Massachusetts,  in  the  autumn  of  1803.  His  father, 
a  respectable  physician,  died  in  1806,  and  his  mo- 
ther, on  becoming  a  widow,  returned  with  two 
children  to  her  paternal  home  in  Worcester. 

Mr.  FAIRFIEI/D  entered  Harvard  College  when 
thirteen  years  of  age ;  but,  after  spending  two 
years  in  that  seminary,  was  compelled  to  leave  it, 
to  aid  his  mother  in  teaching  a  school  in  a  neigh- 
bouring village.  He  subsequently  passed  two  or 
three  years  in  Georgia  and  South  Carolina,  and  in 
1824  went  to  Europe.  He  returned  in  1826,  was 
soon  afterwards  married,  and  from  that  period  re- 
sided in  Philadelphia,  where  for  several  years  he 
conducted  the  "North  American  Magazine,"  a 
monthly  miscellany  in  which  appeared  most  of  his 
prose  writings  and  poems. 

He  commenced  the  business  of  authorship  at  a 
very  early  period,  and  perhaps  produced  more  in 
the  form  of  poetry  than  any  of  his  American  con- 
temporaries. "  The  Cities  of  the  Plain,"  one  of 
his  earliest  poems,  was  originally  published  in 
England.  It  was  founded  on  the  history  of  the 
destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth and  nineteenth  chapters  of  Genesis.  The 
"Heir  of  the  World,"  which  followed  in  1828,  is 
a  poetical  version  of  the  life  of  ABRAHAM.  It  is 
in  the  Spenserian  measure,  and  contains  some  fine 
passages,  descriptive  of  scenery  and  feeling.  His 
next  considerable  work,  "  The  Spirit  of  Destruc- 
tion," appeared  in  1830.  Its  subject  is  the  deluge. 
Like  the  «  Cities  of  the  Plain,"  it  is  in  the  heroic 
verse,  in  which  he  wrote  with  great  facility.  His 
"Last  Night  of  Pompeii"*  was  published  in  1832. 
It  is  the  result  of  two  years'  industrious  labour,  and 
was  written  amid  the  cares  and  vexations  of  poverty. 
The  destruction  of  the  cities  of  Herculaneum,  Pom- 
peii, Retina  and  Stabiae,  by  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius, 
in  the  summer  of  the  year  seventy-nine,  is  perhaps 
one  of  the  finest  subjects  for  poetry  in  modern  his- 
tory. Mr.  FAIRFIELD  in  this  poem  exhibits  a  fa- 
miliar acquaintance  with  the  manners  and  events 
of  the  period,  and  his  style  is  stately  and  sustained. 
His  shorter  pieces,  though  in  some  cases  turgid  and 
unpolished,  are  generally  distinguished  for  vigour 
of  thought  and  depth  of  feeling.  An  edition  of  his 
principal  writings  was  published  in  a  closely-printed 
octavo  volume,  in  Philadelphia,  in  1841. 

The  first  and  last  time  I  ever  saw  FAIRFIELD 
was  in  the  summer  of  1842,  when  he  called  at 
my  hotel  to  thank  me  for  some  kind  notice  of  him 
in  one  of  the  journals,  of  which  he  supposed  me 

*  Mr.  FAIRFIELD  accused  Sir  EDWARD  BUIAVKR  I/VT- 
TON  of  founding  on  this  poem  his  romance  of  the  "  Last 
Days  of  Pompeii." 


to  be  the  author.  In  a  note  sent  to  my  apartment 
he  described  himself  as  "  an  outcast  from  all  hu- 
man affections"  except  those  of  his  mother  and  his 
children,  with  whom  he  should  remain  but  a  little 
while,  for  he  "  felt  the  weight  of  the  arm  of  Death." 
He  complained  that  every  man's  hand  had  been 
against  him,  that  exaggerated  accounts  had  been 
published  of  his  infirmities,  and  uncharitable  views 
given  of  his  misfortunes.  He  said  his  mother, 
who  had  "  been  abused  as  an  annoying  old  crone," 
in  the  newspapers,  for  endeavouring  to  obtain  sub- 
scribers for  his  works,  was  attending  him  from  his 
birth  to  his  burial,  and  would  never  grow  weary 
till  the  end.  This  prediction  was  verified.  About 
a  year  afterwards  I  read  in  a  published  letter  from 
New  Orleans  that  FAIRFIELD  had  wandered  to 
that  city,  lived  there  a  few  months  in  solitude  and 
destitution,  and  after  a  painful  illness  died.  While 
he  lingered  on  his  pallet,  between  the  angel  of 
death  and  bis  mother,  she  counted  the  hours  of 
day  and  night,  never  slumbering  by  his  side,  nor 
leaving  him,  until  as  his  only  mourner  she  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  a  grave. 

Not  wishing  to  enter  into  an}"  particular  exami- 
nation of  his  claims  to  personal  respect,  I  must  still 
express  an  opinion  that  FAIRFIELD  was  harshly 
treated,  and  that  even  if  the  specific  charges  against 
him  were  true,  it  was  wrong  to  permit  the  private 
character  of  the  author  to  have  any  influence  upon 
critical  judgments  of  his  works.  He  wrote  much, 
and  generally  with  commendable  aims.  ^His  know- 
ledge of  books  was  extensive  and  accurate.  He  had 
considerable  fancy,  which  at.  one  period  was  under  the 
dominion  of  cultivated  taste  and  chastened  feeling ; 
but  troubles,  mostly  resulting  from  a  want  of  skill 
in  pecuniary  affairs,  induced  recklessness,  misan- 
thropy, intemperance,  and  a  general  derangement 
and  decay  of  his  intellectual  and  moral  nature.  I 
see  not  much  to  admire  in  his  poems,  but  they  are 
by  no  means  contemptible  ;  and  "  the  poet  FAIR- 
FIELD"  had  during  a  long  period  too  much  notoriety 
not  to  deserve  some  notice  in  a  work  of  this  sort, 
even  though  his  verses  had  been  still  less  poetical. 

Persons  of  an  ardent  temperament  and  rciincd 
sensibilities  have  too  frequently  an  aversion  to  the 
practical  and  necessary  duties  of  common  life,  to 
the  indulgence  of  which  they  owe  their  chief  mis- 
fortunes and  unhappiness.  The  mind  of  the  true 
poet,  however,  is  well  ordered  and  comprehensive, 
and  shrinks  not  from  the  humblest  of  duties. 
FAiHFfELD  had  the  weakness  or  madness,  absurdly 
thought  to  Ixiloiig  to  the  poetical  character,  which 
unfitted  him  for  an  honourable  and  distinguished 
life.  He  needed,  besides  his  "  some  learning  and 
more  feeling,"  a  strong  will  and  good  sense,  to  be 
either  great  or  useful. 

2S6 


SUMNER  LINCOLN   FAIRFIELD. 


267 


DESTRUCTION  OF  POMPEII.* 

A  ROAR,  as  if  a  myriad  thunders  burst, 
Now  hurtled  o'er  the  heavens,  and  the  deep  earth 
Shuddcr'd,  and  a  thick  storm  of  lava  hail 
Rush'd  into  air,  to  fall  upon  the  world. 
And  low  the  lion  cower'd,  with  fearful  moans 
And  upturn'd  eyes,  and  quivering  limbs,  and  clutch'd 
The  gory  sand  instinctively  in  fear. 
The  very  soul  of  silence  died,  and  breath 
Through  the  ten  thousand  pallid  lips,  unfelt, 
Stole  from  the  stricken  bosoms ;  and  there  stood, 
With  face  uplifted,  and  eyes  fix'd  on  air, 
(Which  unto  him  was  throng'd  with  angel  forms,) 
The  Christian — waiting  the  high  will  of  Heaven. 

A  wandering  sound  of  wailing  agony, 
A  cry  of  coming  horror,  o'er  the  street 
Of  tombs  arose,  and  all  the  lurid  air 
Echo'd  the  shrieks  of  hopelessness  and  death. 

"Hear  ye  not  now?"  said  PANSA.  Death  is 
Ye  saw  thJe  avalanche  of  fire  descend  [here ! 

Vesuvian  steeps,  and,  in  its  giant  strength 
Sweep  on  to  Herculaneum ;  and  ye  cried, 
'It  threats  not  us:  why  should  we  lose  the  sport1? 
Though  thousands  perish,  why  should  we  refrain?' 
Your  sister  city — the  most  beautiful — 
Gasps  in  the  burning  ocean — from  her  domes 
Fly  the  survivors  of  her  people,  driven 
Before  the  torrent-floods  of  molten  earth, 
With  desolation  red — and  o'er  her  grave 
Unearthly  voices  raise  the  heart's  last  cries — 
'Fly,  fly !   O,  horror!  O,  my  son!   my  sire  !' 
The  hoarse  shouts  multiply ;  without  the  mount 
Are  agony  and  death — within,  such  rage 
Of  fossil  fire  as  man  may  not  behold ! 
Hark !  the  destroyer  slumbers  not — and  now, 
Be  your  theologies  but  true,  your  JOVE, 
Mid  all  his  thunders,  would  shrink  back  aghast, 
Listening  the  horrors  of  the  Titan's  strife. 
The  lion  trembles ;  will^e  have  my  blood, 
Or  flee,  ere  Herculaneum's  fate  is  yours?" 

Vesuvius  answer'd  :  from  its  pinnacles 
Clouds  of  far-flashing  cinders,  lava  showers, 
And  seas,  drank  up  by  the  abyss  of  fire, 
To  be  hurl'd  forth  in  boiling  cataracts, 
Like  midnight  mountains,  wrapp'dinlightnings,  fell. 
O,  then,  the  love  of  life  !  the  struggling  rush, 
The  crushing  conflict  of  escape  !  few,  brief, 
And  dire  the  words  delirious  fear  spake  now, — 
One  thought,  one  action  sway'd  the  tossing  crowd. 
All  through  the  vomitories  madly  sprung, 
And  mass  on  mass  of  trembling  beings  press'd, 
Gasping  and  goading,  with  the  savageness 
That  is  the  child  of  danger,  like  the  waves 
Charybdis  from  his  jagged  rocks  throws  down, 
Mingled  in  madness — warring  in  their  wrath. 
Some  swoon'd,  and  were  trod  down  by  legion  feet; 
Some  cried  for  mercy  to  the  unanswering  gods ; 
Some  shriek'd  for  parted  friends,  forever  lost ; 
And  some,  in  passion's  chaos,  with  the  yells 
Of  desperation,  did  blaspheme  the  heavens ; 

*  From  "The  Last  Night  of  Pompeii."  This  scene 
follows  the  destruction  of  Herculaneum.  PANSA,  a 
Christian,  condemned  by  DIOMEDE,  is  brought  into  the 
gladiatorial  arena,  when  a  new  eruption  from  Vesuvius 
causes  a  suspension  of  the  proceedings. 


And  some  were  still  in  utterness  of  wo. 

Yet  all  toil'd  on  in  trembling  waves  of  life 

Along  the  subterranean  corridors. 

Moments  were  centuries  of  doubt  and  dread ; 

Each  breathing  obstacle  a  hated  thing; 

Each  trampled  wretch  a  footstool  to  o'erlook 

The  foremost  multitudes;  and  terror,  now, 

Begat  in  all  a  maniac  ruthlessness, — 

For,  in  the  madness  of  their  agonies, 

Strong  men  cast  down  the  feeble,  who  delay'd 

Their  flight;  and  maidens  on  the  stones  were  crush'd, 

And  mothers  madden 'd  when  the  warrior's  heel 

Pass'd  o'er  the  faces  of  their  sons !    The  throng 

Press'd  on,  and  in  the  ampler  arcades  now 

Beheld,  as  floods  of  human  life'roll'd  by, 

The  uttermost  terrors  of  the  destined  hour. 

In  gory  vapours  the  great  sun  went  down ; 

The  broad,  dark  sea  heaved  like  the  dying  heart, 

'Tween  earth  and  heaven  hovering  o'er  the  grave, 

And  moan'd  through  all  its  waters ;  every  dome 

And  temple,  charr'd  and  choked  with  ceaseless 

Of  suffocating  cinders,  seem'd  the  home    [showers 

Of  the  triumphant  desolator,  Death. 

One  dreadful  glance  sufficed, — and  to  the  sea, 

Like  Lybian  winds,  breathing  despair,  they  fled. 

Nature's  quick  instinct,  in  most  savage  beasts, 
Prophesies  danger  ere  man's  thought  awakes, 
And  shrinks  in  fear  from  common  savageness, 
Made  gentle  by  its  terror;  thus,  o'erawed, 
E'en  in  his  famine's  fury,  by  a  Power 
Brute  beings  more  than  human  oft  adore, 
The  lion  lay,  his  quivering  paws  outspread, 
His  white  teeth  gnashing,  till  the  crushing  throngs 
Had  pass'd  the  corridors ;  then,  glaring  up, 
His  eyes  imbued  with  saraiel  light,  he  saw 
The  crags  and  forests  of  the  Apennines 
Gleaming  far  off,  and,  with  the  exulting  sense 
Of  home  and  lone  dominion,  at  a  bound 
He  leap'd  the  lofty  palisades,  and  sprung 
Along  the  spiral  passages,  with  howls 
Of  horror,  through  the  flying  multitudes, 
Flying  to  seek  his  lonely  mountain-lair. 

From  eVery  cell  shrieks  burst ;  hyenas  cried, 
Like  lost  child,  wandering  o'er  the  wilderness, 
That,  in  deep  loneliness,  mingles  its  voice 
With  wailing  winds  and  stunning  waterfalls ; 
The  giant  elephant,  with  matchless  strength, 
Struggled  against  the  portal  of  his  tomb, 
And  groan'd  and  panted ;  and  the  leopard's  yell, 
And  tiger's  growl,  with  all  surrounding  cries 
Of  human  horror  mingled ;  and  in  air, 
Spotting  the  lurid  heavens  and  waiting  prey, 
The  evil  birds  of  carnage  hung  and  watch'd, 
As  ravening  heirs  watch  o'er  the  miser's  couch. 
All  awful  sounds  of  heaven  and  earth  met  now ; 
Darkness  behind  the  sun-god's  chariot  roll'd, 
Shrouding  destruction,  save  when  volcan  fires 
Lifted  the  folds,  to  glare  on  agony ; 
And,  when  a  moment's  terrible  repose 
Fell  on  the  deep  convulsions,  all  could  hear 
The  toppling  cliffs  explode  and  crash  below, — 
While  multitudinous  waters  from  the  sea 
In  whirlpools  through  th?  channel'd  mountain  rocks 
Rush'd,  and,  with  hisses  like  the  damned's  speech, 
Fell  in  the  mighty  furnace  of  the  mount. 


288 


SUMNER  LINCOLN   FAIRFIELD. 


VISIONS  OF  ROMANCE. 

WHEW  dark-brow'd  midnight  o'er  the  slumbering 

world 

Mysterious  shadows  and  bewildering  throws, 
And  the  tired  wings  of  human  thought  are  furl'd, 
And  sleep  descends,  like  dew  upon  the  rose, — 
How  full  of  bliss  the  poet's  vigil  hour, 
When  o'er  him  elder  time  hath  magic  power ! 
Before  his  eye  past  ages  stand  reveal'd, 
When  feudal  chiefs  held  lordly  banquettings, 
In  the  spoils  revelling  of  flood  and  field, 
Among  their  vassals  proud,  unquestion'd  kings  : 
While  honour'd  minstrels  round  the  ample  board 
The  lays  of  love  or  songs  of  battle  pour'd. 

The  dinted  helmet,  with  its  broken  crest, 
The  serried  sabre,  and  the  shatter'd  shield 
Hung  round  the  wainscot,  dark,  and  well  express'd 
That  wild,  fierce  pride,  which  scorn'd,  unscathed,  to 
The  pictures  there,  with  dusky  glory  rife,     [yield ; 
From  age  to  age  bore  down  stern  characters  of  strife. 

Amid  long  lines  of  glorious  ancestry,  [walls, 

Whose  eyes  flash'd  o'er  them  from  the  gray,  old 
What  craven  quails  at  Danger's  lightning  eye  ? 
What  warrior  blenches  when  his  brother  falls  1 
Bear  witness  Cressy  and  red  Agincourt ! 
Bosworth,  and  Bannockburn,  and  Marston  Moor! 

The  long,  lone  corridors,  the  antler'd  hall, 
The  massive  walls,  the  all-commanding  towers — 
Where  revel  reign'd,  and  masquerading  ball, 
And  beauty  won  stern  warriors  to  her  bowers — 
In  ancient  grandeur  o'er  the  spirit  move, 
With  all  their  forms  of  chivalry  and  love. 

The  voice  of  centuries  bursts  upon  the  soul ; 
Long-buried  ages  wake  and  live  again; 
Past  feats  of  fame  and  deeds  of  glory  roll, 
Achieved  for  ladye-love  in  knighthood's  reign ; 
And  all  the  simple  state  of  olden  time 
Assumes  a  garb  majestic  and  sublime. 

The  steel-clad  champion  on  his  vaulting  steed, 
The  mitred  primate,  and  the  Norman  lord, 
The  peerless  maid,  awarding  valour's  meed, 
And  the  meek  vestal,  who  her  GOD  adored— 
The  pride,  the  pomp,  the  power  and  charm  of  earth 
From  fancy's  dome  of  living  thought  come  forth. 

The  feast  is  o'er,  the  huntsman's  course  is  done, 
The  trump  of  war,  the  shrill  horn  sounds  no  more ; 
The  heroic  revellers  from  the  hall  have  gone, 
The  lone  blast  moans  the  ruin'd  castle  o'er ! 
The  spell  of  beauty,  and  the  pride  of  power 
Have  pass'd  forever  from  the  feudal  tower. 

No  more  the  drawbridge  echoes  to  the  tread 
Of  visor'd  knights,  o'ercanopied  with  gold ; 
O'er  mouldering  gates  and  crumbling  archways 
Dark  ivy  waves  in  many  a  mazy  fold,       [spread, 
Where  chiefs  flash'd  vengeance  from  their  lightning 
glance,  [lance. 

And  grasp'd  the  brand,  and  couch'd  the  conquering 

The  gorgeous  pageantry  of  times  gone  by, 
The  tilt,  the  tournament,  the  vaulted  hall, 
Fades  in  its  glory  on  the  spirit's  eye, 
And  fancy's  bright  and  gay  creations — all 


Sink  into  dust,  when  reason's  searching  glance 
Unmasks  the  age  of  knighthood  and  romance. 

Like  lightning  hurtled  o'er  the  lurid  skies, 
Their  glories  flash  along  the  gloom  of  years ; 
The  beacon-lights  of  time,  to  wisdom's  eyes, 
O'er  the  deep-rolling  stream  of  human  tears. 
Fade  !  fade  !  ye  visions  of  antique  romance ! 
Tower,  casque,  and  mace,  and  helm,  and  banner'd 
lance ! 


AN  EVENING  SONG  OF  PIEDMONT. 


AVE  MARIA  !  'tis  the  midnight  hour, 
The  starlight  wedding  of  the  eartli  and  heaven, 
When  music  breathes  its  perfume  from  the  flower, 
And  high  revealings  to  the  heart  are  given ; 
Soft  o'er  the  meadows  steals  the  dewy  air — 
Like  dreams  of  bliss ;  the  deep-blue  ether  glows, 
And  the  stream  murmurs  round  its  islets  fair 
The  tender  night-song  of  a  charm'd  repose. 

Ave  Maria !  't  is  the  hour  of  love, 
The  kiss  of  rapture,  and  the  link'd  embrace, 
The  hallow'd  converse  in  the  dim,  still  grove, 
The  elysium  of  a  heart-revealing  face, 
When  all  is  beautiful — for  we  are  bless'd, 
When  all  is  lovely — for  we  are  beloved, 
When  all  is  silent — for  our  passions  rest, 
When  all  is  faithful — for  our  hopes  are  proved. 

Ave  Maria!  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer, 
Of  hush'd  communion  with  ourselves  and  Heaven, 
When  our  waked  hearts  their  inmost  thoughts 

declare, 

High,  pure,  far-searching,  like  the  light  of  even; 
When  hope  becomes  fruition,  and  we  feel 
The  holy  earnest  of  eternal  peace, 
That  bids  our  pride  before  the  Omniscient  kneel, 
That  bids  our  wild  and  warring  passions  cease. 

Ave  Maria !  soft  the  vesper  hymn 
Floats  through  the  cloisters  of  yon  holy  pile, 
And,  mid  the  stillness  of  the  night-watch  dim, 
Attendant  spirits  seem  to  hear  and  smile  ! 
Hark !  hath  it  ceased  1    The  vestal  seeks  her  cell, 
And  reads  her  heart — a  melancholy  tale ! 
A  song  of  happier  years,  whose  echoes  swell 
O'er  her  lost  love,  like  pale  bereavement's  wail. 

Ave  Maria !  let  our  prayers  ascend 
From  them  whose  holy  offices  afford 
No  joy  in  heaven — on  earth  without  a  friend — 
That  true,  though  faded  image  of  the  LORD  ! 
For  them  in  vain  the  face  of  nature  glows, 
For  them  in  vain  the  sun  in  glory  burns, 
The  hollow  breast  consumes  in  fiery  woes, 
And  meets  despair  and  death  where'er  it  turns. 

Ave  Maria !  in  the  deep  pine  wood, 
On  the  clear  stream,  and  o'er  the  azure  sky 
Bland  midnight  smiles,  and  starry  solitude 
Breathes  hope  in  every  breeze  that  wanders  by. 
Ave  Maria !  may  our  last  hour  come 
As  bright,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  Heaven !  as  this ! 
Let  faith  attend  us  smiling  to  the  tomb, 
And  life  and  death  are  both  the  heirs  of  bliss ! 


RUFUS    DAWES. 


[Bora,  IS03.] 


THE  family  of  the  author  of  "  Geraldine"  is  one 
of  the  most  ancient  and  respectable  in  Massachu- 
setts. His  ancestors  were  among  the  earliest  set- 
tlers of  Boston ;  and  his  grandfather,  as  president 
of  the  Council,  was  for  a  time  acting  governor  of 
the  state,  on  the  death  of  the  elected  chief  magis- 
trate. His  father,  THOMAS  DAWES,  was  for  ten 
years  one  of  the  associate  judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Massachusetts,  and  was  distinguished 
among  the  advocates  of  the  Federal  Constitution, 
in  the  state  convention  called  for  its  consideration. 
He  was  a  sound  lawyer,  a  man  of  great  independ- 
ence of  character,  and  was  distinguished  for  the 
brilliancy  of  his  wit,  and  for  many  useful  qualities.* 

RUFCS  DAWES  was  born  in  Boston,  on  the 
twenty-sixth  of  January,  1803,  and  was  the 
youngest  but  one  of  sixteen  children.  He  entered 
Harvard  College  in  1820;  but  in  consequence  of 
class  disturbances,  and  insubordination,  of  which 
it  was  afterward  shown  he  was  falsely  accused,  he 
was  compelled  to  leave  that  institution  without  a 
degree.  This  indignity  he  retaliated  by  a  severe 
satire  on  the  most  prominent  members  of  the 
faculty — the  first  poem  he  ever  published.  He 
then  entered  the  office  of  General  WILLIAM  SPL- 
LIVAX,  as  a  law-student,  and  was  subsequently 
admitted  a  member  of  the  Suffolk  county  bar. 
He  has  however  never  pursued  the  practice  of  the 
legal  profession,  having  been  attracted  by  other 
pursuits  more  congenial  with  his  feelings. 

In  1829  he  was  married  to  the  third  daughter 


of  Chief  Justice  CHANCH,  of  Washington.  In 
1830  he  published  "  The  Valley  of  the  Nashaway, 
and  other  Poems,"  some  of  which  had  appeared 
originally  in  the  Cambridge  "  United  States  Lite- 
rary Gazette;"  and  in  1839,  "Athenia  of  Damas- 
cus," «  Geraldine,"  and  his  miscellaneous  poetical 
writings.  His  last  work,  "  Nix's  Mate,"  an  histo- 
rical romance,  appeared  in  the  following  year. 

With  Mr.  DAWES  poetry  seems  to  have  been  a 
passion,  which  is  fast  subsiding  and  giving  place 
to  a  love  of  philosophy.  He  has  been  said  to  be 
a  disciple  of  COLERIDGE,  but  in  reality  is  a  de- 
voted follower  of  SWEDENBOHG;  and  to  this  influ- 
ence must  be  ascribed  the  air  of  mysticism  which 
pervades  his  later  productions.  He  has  from  time 
to  time  edited  several  legal,  literary,  and  political 
works,  and  in  the  last  has  shown  himself  to  be  an 
adherent  to  the  principles  of  the  old  Federal  party. 
As  a  poet,  his  standing  is  yet  unsettled,  there 
being  a  wide  difference  of  opinion  respecting  his 
writings.  His  versification  is  generally  easy  and 
correct,  and  in  some  pieces  he  exhibits  considera- 
ble imagination. 

In  the  winter  of  1840-41,  he  delivered  a  course 
of  lectures  in  the  city  of  New  York,  before  the 
American  Institute,  in  which  he  combated  the 
principles  of  the  French  eclectics  and  the  Tran- 
sccndentalists,  contending  that  their  philosophy  is 
only  a  sublimated  natural  one,  and  very  far  re- 
moved from  the  true  system  of  causes,  and  genu- 
ine spirituality. 


LANCASTER. 

THE  Queen  of  May  has  bound  her  virgin  brow, 
And  hung  with  blossoms  every  fruit-tree  bough ; 
The  sweet  Southwest,  among  the  early  flowers, 
Whispers  the  coming  of  delighted  hours, 
While  birds  within  the  heaping  foliage,  sing 
Their  music-welcome  to  returning  Spring. 

O,  Nature  !  loveliest  in  thy  green  attire — 
Dear  mother  of  the  passion-kindling  lyre; 
Thou  who,  in  early  days,  upled'st  me  where 
The  mountains  freeze  above  the  summer  air ; 
Or  luredst  my  wandering  way  beside  the  streams, 
To  watch  the  bubbles  as  they  mock'd  my  dreams, 
Lead  me  again  thy  flowery  paths  among, 
To  sing  of  native  scenes  as  yet  unsung ! 

Dear  Lancaster  !  thy  fond  remembrance  brings 
Thoughts,  like  the  music  of  ^Eolian  strings, 

*  He  is  classed  by  Mr.  KETTELL  among  the  American 
poets  ;  and  in  the  Book  of  "Specimens"  published  by 
him  are  given   some  passages  of  his  "Law  given  on 
Sinai,"  published  in  Boston  in  1T77. 
37 


When  the  hush'd  wind  breathes  only  as  it  sleeps, 
While  tearful  Love  his  anxious  vigil  keeps  : — 
When  press'd  with  grief,  or  sated  with  the  show 
That  Pleasure's  pageant  offers  here  below, 
Midst  scenes  of  heartless  mirth  or  joyless  glee, 
How  oft  my  aching  heart  has  turn'd  to  thee, 
And  lived  again,  in  memory's  sweet  recess, 
The  innocence  of  youthful  happiness  ! 

In  life's  dull  dream,  when  want  of  sordid  gain 
Clings  to  our  being  with  its  cankering  chain, 
When  lofty  thoughts  arc  cramp'd  to  stoop  below 
The  vile,  rank  weeds  that  in  their  pathway  grow, 
Who  would  not  turn  amidst  the  darken'd  scene, 
To  memoried  spots  where  sunbeams  intervene ; 
And  dwell  with  fondness  on  the  joyous  hours, 
When  youth  built  up  his  pleasure-dome  of  flowers  1 

Now,  while  the  music  of  the  feather'd  choir 
Rin<r«  where  the  sheltering  blossoms  wake  desire, 
"NVl:  MI  dew-eyed  Love  looks  tenderness,  and  sneaks 
A  silent  language  with  his  mantling  cheeks; 
I  think  of  those  delicious  moments  past, 
Which  joyless  age  shall  dream  of  to  the  last; 
•>B  239 


290 


RUFUS    DAWES. 


As  now,  though  far  removed,  the  Muse  would  tell, 
Though  few  may  listen,  what  she  loved  so  well. 

Dear  hours  of  childhood,  y  outh's  propitious  spring, 
When  Time  fann'd  only  roses  with  his  whig, 
When  dreams,  that  mock  reality,  could  move 
To  yield  an  endless  holiday  to  Love, 
How  do  ye  crowd  upon  my  fever'd  brain, 
And,  in  imagination,  live  again  ! 

Lo !  I  am  with  you  now,  the  sloping  green, 
Of  many  a  sunny  hill  is  freshly  seen  ; 
Once  more  the  purple  clover  bends  to  meet, 
And  shower  their  dew-drops  on  the  pilgrim's  feet ; 
Once  more  he  breathes  the  fragrance  of  your  fields, 
Once  more  the  orchard  tree  its  harvest  yields, 
Again  he  hails  the  morning  from  your  hills, 
And  drinks  the  cooling  water  of  your  rills, 
While,  with  a  heart  subdued,  he  feels  the  power 
Of  every  humble  shrub  and  modest  flower. 

O  thou  who  journey est  through  that  Eden-clime, 
Winding  thy  devious  way  to  cheat  the  time, 
Delightful  Nashaway !  beside  thy  stream, 
Fain  would  I  paint  thy  beauties  as  they  gleam. 
Eccentric  river !  poet  of  the  woods ! 
Where,  in  thy  far  secluded  solitudes, 
The  wood-nymphs  sport  and  naiads  plash  thy  wave, 
With  charms  more  sweet  than  ever  Fancy  gave ; 
How  oft  with  Mantua's  bard,  from  school  let  free, 
I've  conn'd  the  silver  lines  that  flow  like  thee, 
Couch'd  on  thy  emerald  banks,  at  full  length  laid, 
Where  classic  elms  grew  lavish  of  their  shade, 
Or  indolently  listen'd,  while  the  throng 
Of  idler  beings  woke  their  summer  song ; 
Or,  with  rude  angling  gear,  outwatched  the  sun, 
Comparing  mine  to  deeds  by  WALTON  done, 

Far  down  the  silent  stream,  where  arching  trees 
Bend  their  green  boughs  so  gently  to  the  breeze, 
One  live,  broad  mass  of  molten  crystal  lies, 
Clasping  the  mirror'd  beauties  of  the  skies ! 
Look,  how  the  sunshine  breaks  upon  the  plains ! 
So  the  deep  blush  their  flatter'd  glory  stains. 

Romantic  river !  on  thy  quiet  breast, 
While  flash'd  the  salmon  with  his  lightning  crest, 
Not  long  age,  the  Indian's  thin  canoe 
Skimm'd  lightly  as  the  shadow  which  it  threw ; 
Not  long  ago,  beside  thy  banks  of  green, 
The  night-fire  blazed  and  spread  its  dismal  sheen. 

Thou  peaceful  valley  !  when  I  think  how  fair 
Thy  various  beauty  shines,  beyond  compare, 
I  cannot  choose  but  own  the  Power  that  gave 
Amidst  thy  woes  a  helping  hand  to  suve, 
When  o'er  thy  hills  the  savage  war-whoop  came, 
And  desolation  raised  its  funeral  flame ! 

'T  is  night !  the  stars  are  kindled  in  the  sky, 
And  hunger  wakes  the  famished  she-wolf's  cry, 
While,  o'er  the  crusted  snow,  the  careful  tread 
Betrays  the  heart  whose  pulses  throb  with  dread ; 
Yon  flickering  light,  kind  beacon  of  repose  ! 
The  weary  wanderer's  homely  dwelling  shows, 
Where,  by  the  blazing  fire,  his  bosom's  joy 
Holds  to  her  heart  a  slumbering  infant  boy ; 
While  every  sound  her  anxious  bosom  moves, 
She  starts  and  listens  for  the  one  she  loves ; — 
Hark!   was't  the  night-bird's  cry  that  met  her 

ear. 
Curdling  the  blood  that  thickens  with  cold  fear? — 


"Again,  0  God !  that  voice, — 'tis  his !  'tis  his !" 
She  hears  the  death-shriek  and  the  arrow's  whiz, 
When,  as  she  turns,  she  sees  the  bursting  door 
Roll  her  dead  husband  bleeding  on  the  floor. 

Loud  as  the  burst  of  sudden  thunder,  rose 
The  maddening  war-cry  of  the  ambush'd  foes ; 
Startling  in  sleep,  the  dreamless  infant  wakes, 
Like   morning's   smile  when  daylight's  slumber 

breaks ; 

"  For  mercy  !  spare  my  child,  forbear  the  blow !" 
In  vain ; — the  warm  blood  crimsons  on  the  snow. 

O'er  the  cold  earth  the  captive  mother  sighs, 
Her  ears  still  tortured  by  her  infant's  cries ; 
She  cannot  weep,  but  deep  resolve,  unmoved, 
Plots  vengeance  for  the  victims  so  beloved  ; 
Lo  !  by  their  fire  the  glutted  warriors  lie, 
Locked  in  the  death-sleep  of  ebriety, 
When  from  her  bed  of  snow,  whence  slumber  flew, 
The  frenzied  woman  rose  the  deed  to  do ; — 
Firmly  beside  the  senseless  men  of  blood, 
With  vengeful  arm,  the  wretched  mother  stood ; 
She  hears  her  groaning,  dying  lord  expire, 
Her  woman's  heart  nerves  up  with  maddening  fire, 
She  sees  her  infant  dashed  against  the  tree, — 
'T  is  done ! — the  red  men  sleep  eternally.      [now, 

Such  were  thy  wrongs,  sweet  Lancaster !  but 
No  spot  so  peaceful  and  serene  as  thou ; 
Thy  hills  and  fields  in  checker'd  richness  stand, 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the  land. 

From  calm  repose,  while  glow'd  the  eastern  sky, 
And  the  fresh  breeze  went  fraught  with  fragrance  by, 
Waked  by  the  noisy  woodbird,  free  from  care, 
What  joy  was  mine  to  drink  the  morning  air ! 
Not  all  the  bliss  maturer  life  can  bring, 
When  ripen'd  manhood  soars  with  strengthen'd 

wing, — 

Not  all  the  rapture  Fancy  ever  wove, 
Nor  less  than  that  which  springs  from  mutual  love, 
Could  challenge  mine,  when  to  the  ravish'd  sense 
The  sunrise  painted  Gon's  magnificence ! 
George-hill,  thou  pride  of  Nashaway,  for  thee, — 
Thyself  the  garden  of  fertility, — 
Nature  has  hung  a  picture  to  the  eye, 
Where  Beauty  smiles  at  sombre  Majesty. 
The  river  winding  in  its  course  below,         [grow, 
Through  fertile  fields  where  yellowing  harvests 
The  bowering  elms  that  so  majestic  grew, 
A  green  arcade  for  waves  to  wander  through; 
The  deep,  broad  valley,  where  the  new-mown  hay 
Loads  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  rising  day, 
And,  distant  far,  Wachusett's  towering  height, 
Blue  in  the  lingering  shadows  of  the  night, 
Have  power  to  move  the  sternest  heart  to  love, 
That  Nature's  loveliness  could  ever  move. 

Ye  who  can  slumber  when  the  starlight  fades, 
And  clouds  break  purpling  through  the  eastern 

shades, 

Whose  care-worn  spirits  cannot  wake  at  morn, 
To  lead  your  buoyant  footsteps  o'er  the  lawn, 
Can  never  know  what  joy  the  ravish'd  sense 
Feels  in  that  moment's  sacred  influence. 
I  will  not  ask  the  meed  of  fortune's  smile, 
The  flatterer's  praise,  that  masks  his  heart  of  guile, 
So  I  can  walk  beneath  the  ample  sky, 
And  hear  the  birds'  discordant  melody, 


RUFUS    DAWES. 


291 


And  see  reviving  Spring,  and  Summer's  gloom, 
And  Autumn  bending  o'er  his  icy  tomb, 
And  hoary  Winter  pile  his  snowy  drifts ; 
For  these  to  me  are  Fortune's  highest  gifts ; 
And  I  have  found  in  poor,  neglected  flowers, 
Companionship  for  many  weary  hours ; 
And  high  above  the  mountain's  crest  of  snow, 
Communed  with  storm-clouds  in  their  wrath  below ; 
And  where  the  vault  of  heaven,  from  some  vast 

height 

Grew  black,  as  fell  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
Where  the  stars  seem  to  come  to  you,  I've  woo'd 
The  grandeur  of  the  fearful  solitude. 
From  such  communion,  feelings  often  rise, 
To  guard  the  heart  midst  life's  perplexities, 
Lighting  a  heaven  within,  whose  deep-felt  joy 
Compensates  well  for  Sorrow's  dark  alloy. 
Then,  though  the  worldly  chide,  and  wealth  deny, 
And  passion  conquer  where  it  fain  would  fly, 
Though  friends  you  love  betray,  while  these  are  left, 
The  heart  can  never  wholly  be  bereft. 

Hard  by  yon  giant  elm,  whose  branches  spread 
A  rustling  robe  of  leaves  above  your  head  ; 
Where  weary  travellers,  from  noonday  heat, 
Beneath  the  hospitable  shade  retreat, 
The  school-house  met  the  stranger's  busy  eye, 
Who  turned  to  gaze  again,  he  knew  not  why. 
Thrice  lovely  spot !  where,  in  the  classic  spring, 
My  young  ambition  dipp'd  her  fever'd  wing, 
And  drank  unseen  the  vision  and  the  fire 
That  break  with  quenchless  glory  from  the  lyre ! 
Amidst  thy  wealth  of  art,  fair  Italy  ! 
While  Genius  warms  beneath  thy  cloudless  sky, 
As  o'er  the  waking  marble's  polished  mould 
The  sculptor  breathes  PYGMALION'S  prayer  of  old, 
His  heart  shall  send  a  frequent  sigh  to  rove, 
A  pilgrim  to  the  birth-place  of  his  love  ! 

And  can  I  e'er  forget  that  hallowed  spot, 
Whence  springs  a  charm  that  may  not  be  forgot ; 
Where,  in  a  grove  of  elm  and  sycamore, 
The  pastor  show'd  his  hospitable  door, 
And  kindness  shone  so  constantly  to  bless 
That  sweet  abode  of  peace  and  happiness  1 

The  oaken  bucket — where  I  stoop'd  to  drink 
The  crystal  water,  trembling  at  the  brink, 
Which  through  the  solid  rock  in  coldness  flow'd, 
While  creaked  the  ponderous  lever  with  its  load  ; 
The  dairy — where  so  many  moments  flew, 
With  half  the  dainties  of  the  soil  in  view ;    [care, 
Where  the  broad  pans  spread  out  the  milkmaid's 
To  feed  the  busy  churn  that  labour'd  there ; 
The  garden — where  such  neatness  met  the  eye, 
A  stranger  could  not  pass  unheeding  by  ; 
The  orchard — and  the  yellow-mantled  fields, 
Each  in  its  turn  some  dear  remembrance  yields. 

Ye  who  can  mingle  with  the  glittering  crowd, 
Where  Mammon  struts  in  rival  splendour  proud  ; 
Who  pass  your  days  in  heartless  fashion's  round, 
And  bow  with  hatred,  where  ye  fear  to  wound ; 
Away  !  no  flatterer's  voice,  nor  coward's  sneer, 
Can  find  a  welcome,  or  an  altar  here. 
But  ye  who  look  beyond  the  common  ken, 
Self-unexalted  when  ye  judge  of  men, 
Who,  conscious  of  defects,  can  hurry  by 
Faults  that  lay  claim  upon  your  charity ; 


Who  feel  that  thrilling  vision  of  the  soul 
Which  looks  through  faith  beyond  an  earthly  goal, 
And  will  not  yet  refuse  the  homely  care 
Which  every  being  shares,  or  ought  to  share ; 
Approach  !  the  home  of  Goodness  is  your  own, 
And  such  as  ye  are  worthy,  such  alone. 

When  silence  hung  upon  the  Sabbath's  smile, 
And  noiseless  footsteps  paced  the  sacred  aisle, 
When  hearts  united  woke  the  suppliant  lay, 
And  happy  faces  bless'd  the  holy  day ; 
0,  Nature !  could  thy  worshipper  have  own'd 
Such  joy,  as  then  upon  his  bosom  throned  ; 
When  feelings,  even  as  the  printless  snow, 
Were  harmless,  guileless  as  a  child  can  know  ; 
Or,  if  they  swerved  from  right,  were  pliant  still, 
To  follow  Virtue  from  the  path  of  ill  ? 
No !  when  the  morning 's  old,  the  mist  will  rise 
To  cloud  the  fairest  vision  of  our  eyes ; 
As  hopes  too  brightly  formed  in  rainbow  dyes, 
A  moment  charm — then  vanish  in  the  skies ! 

Sweet  hour  of  holy  rest,  to  mortals  given, 
To  paint  with  love  the  fairest  way  to  heaven ; 
When  from  the  sacred  book  instruction  came 
With  fervid  eloquence  and  kindling  flame. 
No  mystic  rites  were  there ;  to  Go«  alone 
Went  up  the  grateful  heart  before  his  throne, 
While  solemn  anthems  from  the  organ  pour'd 
Thanksgiving  to  the  high  and  only  LORD. 

Lo !  where  yon  cottage  whitens  through  the 

green, 

The  loveliest  feature  of  a  matchless  scene ; 
Beneath  its  shading  elm,  with  pious  fear, 
An  aged  mother  draws  her  children  near ; 
While  from  the  Holy  Word,  with  earnest  air, 
She  teaches  them  the  privilege  of  prayer. 
Look  !  how  their  infant  eyes  with  rapture  speak ; 
Mark  the  flush'd  lily  on  the  dimpled  cheek  ; 
Their  hearts  are  filled  with  gratitude  and  love, 
Their  hopes  are  center'd  in  a  world  above, 
Where,  in  a  choir  of  angels,  faith  portrays 
The  loved,  departed  father  of  their  days. 

Beside  yon  grassless  mound,  a  mourner  kneels, 
There  gush  no  tears  to  soothe  the  pang  he  feels ; 
His  loved,  his  lost,  lies  cofnn'd  in  the  sod, 
Whose  soul  has  found  a  dwelling-place  with  GOD  ! 
Though  press'd  with  anguish,  mild  religion  shows 
His  aching  heart  a  balm  for  all  its  woes ; 
And  hope  smiles  upward,  where  his  love  shall  find 
A  union  in  eternity  of  mind  ! 

Turn  there  your  eyes,  ye  cold,  malignant  crew, 
Whose  vile  ambition  dims  your  reason's  view, 
Ye  faithless  ones,  who  preach  religion  vain, 
And,  childlike,  chase  the  phantoms  of  your  brain  ; 
Think  not  to  crush  the  heart  whose  truth  has 
Its  confidence  in  heavenly  love  reveal'd.       [seal'd 
Let  not  the  atheist  deem  that  Fate  decrees 
The  lot  of  man  to  misery  or  ease, 
While  to  the  contrite  spirit  faith  is  given, 
To  find  a  hope  on  earth,  a  rest  in  heaven. 

Unrivall'dNashaway !  where  the  willows  throw 
Their  frosted  beauty  on  thy  path  below, 
Beneath  the  verdant  drapery  of  the  trees, 
Luxuriant  Fancy  woos  the  sighing  breeze. 
The  redbreast  singing  where  the  fruit-tree  weaves 
Its  silken  canopy  of  mulb'ry  leaves ; 


292 


RUFUS   DAWE8. 


Enamell'd  fields  of  green,  where  herding  kine 
Crop  the  wet  grass,  or  in  the  shade  recline ; 
The  tapping  woodbird,  and  the  minstrel  bee, 
The  squirrel  racing  on  his  moss-grown  tree, 
With  clouds  of  pleasant  dreams,  demand  in  vain 
Creative  thought  to  give  them  life  again. 

I  turn  where,  glancing  down,  the  eye  surveys 
Art  building  up  the  wreck  of  other  days ; 
For  graves  of  silent  tribes  upheave  the  sod, 
And  Science  smiles  where  savage  PHILIP  trod; 
Where  wing'd  the  poison'd  shaft  along  the  skies, 
The  hammer  rings,  the  noisy  shuttle  flies ; 
Impervious  forests  bow  before  the  blade, 
And  fields  rise  up  in  yellow  robes  array'd. 
No  lordly  palace  nor  imperial  seat 
Grasps  the  glad  soil  where  freemen  plant  their 

feet; 

No  ruin'd  castle  here  with  ivy  waves, 
To  make  us  blush  for  ancestry  of  slaves ; 
But,  lo  !  unnumber'd  dwellings  meet  the  eye, 
Where  men  lie  down  in  native  majesty : 
The  morning  birds  spring  from  their  leafy  bed, 
As  the  stern  ploughman  quits  his  happy  shed ; 
His  arm  is  steel'd  to  toil — his  heart  to  bear 
The  robe  of  pain,  that  mortals  always  wear ; 
Though  wealth  may  never  come,  a  plenteous  board 
Smiles  at  the  pamper'd  rich  man's  joyless  hoard ; 
True,  when  among  his  sires,  no  gilded  heir 
Shall  play  the  fool,  and  damn  himself  to  care, 
But  Industry  and  Knowledge  lead  the  way, 
Where  Independence  braves  the  roughest  day. 

Nurse  of  my  country's  infancy,  her  stay 
In  youthful  trials  and  in  danger's  day  ; 
Diffusive  Education !  'tis  to  thee 
She  owes  her  mountain-breath  of  Liberty ; 
To  thee  she  looks,  through  time's  illusive  gloom, 
To  light  her  path,  and  shield  her  from  the  tomb ; 
Beneath  thine  ^Egis  tyranny  shall  fail, 
Before  thy  frown  the  traitor's  heart  shall  quail ; 
Ambitious  foes  to  liberty  may  wear 
A  patriot  mask,  to  compass  what  they  dare, 
And  sting  the  thoughtless  nation,  while  they  smile 
Benignantly  and  modestly  the  while ; 
But  thou  shalt  rend  the  virtuous-seeming  guise, 
And  guard  her  from  the  worst  of  enemies. 
Eternal  Power  !  whose  tempted  thunder  sleeps, 
While  heaven-eyed  Mercy  turns  away  and  weeps ; 
Thou  who  didst  lead  our  fathers  where  to  send 
Their  free  devotions  to  their  GOD  and  friend  ; 
Thou  who  hast  swept  a  wilderness  away, 
That  men  may  walk  in  freedom's  cloudless  day ; 
Guard  well  their  trust,  lest  impious  faction  dare 
Unlock  the  chain  that  binds  our  birthright  fan- ; 
That  private  views  to  public  good  may  yield, 
And  honest  men  stand  fearless  in  the  field ! 

Once  more  I  turn  to  thee,  fair  Nashaway ! 
The  farewell  tribute  of  my  humble  lay  ; 
The  time  may  come,  when  lofty  notes  shall  bear 
Thy  peerless  beauty  to  the  gladden'd  air ; 
Now  to  the  lyre  no  daring  hand  aspires, 
And  rust  grows  cankering  on  its  tuneless  wires. 

Our  lays  arc  like  the  fitful  streams  that  flow 
From  careless  birds,  that  carol  as  they  go ; 
Content,  beneath  the  mountain-top  to  sing, 
And  only  touch  Castalia  with  a  wing. 


ANNE  BOLEYN. 

I  -WEEP  while  gazing  on  thy  modest  face, 
Thou  pictured  history  of  woman's  love ! 
Joy  spreads  his  burning  pinions  on  thy  cheek, 
Shaming  its  whiteness ;  and  thine  eyes  are  full 
Of  conscious  beauty,  as  they  undulate. 
Yet  all  thy  beauty,  poor,  deluded  girl ! 
Served  but  to  light  thy  ruin. — Is  there  not, 
Kind  Heaven  !  some  secret  talisman  of  hearts, 
Whereby  to  find  a  resting-place  for  love '.' 
Unhappy  maiden !  let  thy  story  teach 
The  beautiful  and  young,  that  while  their  path 
Softens  with  roses, — danger  may  be  there ; 
That  Love  may  watch  the  bubbles  of  the  stream, 
But  never  trust  his  image  on  the  wave. 


SUNRISE, 

FROM  MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 


THE  laughing  hours  have  chased  away  the  night, 
Plucking  the  stars  out  from  her  diadem : — 
And  now  the  blue-eyed  Morn,  with  modest  grace, 
Looks  through  her  halt-drawn  curtains  in  the  east, 
Blushing  in  smiles  and  glad  as  infancy. 
And  see,  the  foolish  Moon,  but  now  so  vain 
Of  borrow'd  beauty,  how  she  yields  her  charms, 
And,  pale  with  envy,  steals  herself  away  ! 
The  clouds  have  put  their  gorgeous  livery  on, 
Attendant  on  the  day — the  mountain-tops 
Have  lit  their  beacons,  and  the  vales  below 
Send  up  a  welcoming ; — no  song  of  birds, 
Warbling  to  charm  the  air  with  melody, 
Floats  on  the  frosty  breeze ;  yet  Nature  hath 
The  very  soul  of  music  in  her  looks ! 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade  of  poetry. 

I  stand  upon  thy  lofty  pinnacle, 
Temple  of  Nature !  and  look  down  with  awe 
On  the  wide  world  beneath  me,  dimly  seen; 
Around  me  crowd  the  giant  sons  of  earth, 
Fixed  on  their  old  foundations,  unsubdued ; 
Firm  as  when  first  rebellion  bade  them  rise 
Unrifted  to  the  Thunderer — now  they  seem 
A  family  of  mountains,  clustering  round 
Their  hoary  patriarch,  emulously  watching 
To  meet  the  partial  glances  of  the  day. 
Far  in  the  glowing  east  the  flickering  light, 
Mellow'd  by  distance,  with  the  blue  sky  blending, 
Questions  the  eye  with  ever-varying  forms. 

The  sun  comes  up !  away  the  shadows  fling 
From  the  broad  hills — and,  hurrying  to  the  west, 
Sport  in  the  sunshine,  till  they  die  away. 
The  many  beauteous  mountain-streams  leap  down, 
Out-welling  from  the  clouds,  and  sparkling  light 
Dances  along  with  their  perennial  flow. 
And  there  is  beauty  in  yon  river's  path, 
The  glad  Connecticut !  I  know  her  well, 
By  the  white  veil  she  mantles  o'er  her  charms : 
At  times,  she  loiters  by  a  ridge  of  hills, 
Sportfully  hiding — then  again  with  glee 
Out-rushes  from  her  wild-wood  lurking-place. 
Far  as  the  eye  can  bound,  the  ocean-waves, 
And  hills  and  rivers,  mountains,  lakes  and  woods, 
And  all  that  hold  the  faculty  entranced, 


RUFUS   DAWES. 


293 


Bathed  in  a  flood  of  glory,  float  in  air, 
And  sleep  in  the  deep  quietude  of  joy. 

There  is  an  awful  stillness  in  this  place, 
A  Presence,  that  forbids  to  break  the  spell, 
Till  the  heart  pour  its  agony  in  tears. 
But  I  must  drink  the  vision  while  it  lasts ; 
For  even  now  the  curling  vapours  rise, 
Wreathing  their  cloudy  coronals  to  grace 
These  towering  summits — bidding  me  away ; — 
But  often  shall  my  heart  turn  back  again, 
Thou  glorious  eminence  !  and  when  oppress'd, 
And  aching  with  the  coldness  of  the  world, 
Find  a  sweet  resting-place  and  home  with  thee. 


SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 

THE  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 
And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight ; 
I  know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 
By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I  know  where  she  rested  at  night, 
For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  round  her  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  crimson  wings ; 
Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high, 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstasy. 

At  noon  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat, 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet ; 

She  dimples  the  wave  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 

As  it  smilingly  curls  like  a  maiden's  lip, 

When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain, 

From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 

At  eve  she  hangs  o'er  the  western  sky 
Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy, 
And  round  the  skirts  of  their  deepen'd  fold 
She  paints  a  border  of  purple  and  gold, 
Where  the  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 
When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 
When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power ; 
She  silvers  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 
With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream ; 
Then  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladden'd  air, 
The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  everywhere. 


LOVE  UNCHANGEABLE. 

YF.S  !  still  I  love  thee : — Time,  who  seta 

His  signet  on  my  brow, 
And  dims  my  sunken  eye,  forgets 

The  heart  he  could  not  bow ; — 
Where  love,  that  cannot  perish,  grows 
For  one,  alas  !  that  little  knows 

How  love  may  sometimes  last ; 
Like  sunshine  wasting  in  the  skies, 

When  clouds  are  overcast. 

The  dew-drop  hanging  o'er  the  rose, 
Within  its  robe  of  light, 


Can  never  touch  a  leaf  that  blows, 

Though  seeming  to  the  sight ; 
And  yet  it  still  will  linger  there, 
Like  hopeless  love  without  despair, — 

A  snow-drop  in  the  sun ! 
A  moment  finely  exquisite, 

Alas !  but  only  one. 

I  would  not  have  thy  married  heart 

Think  momently  of  me, — 
Nor  would  I  tear  the  cords  apart, 

That  bind  me  so  to  thee ; 
No !  while  my  thoughts  seem  pyre  and  mild, 
Like  dew  upon  the  roses  wild, 

I  would  not  have  thee  know, 
The  stream  that  seems  to  thee  so  still, 

Has  such  a  tide  below ! 

Enough !  that  in  delicious  dreams 

I  see  thee  and  forget — 
Enough,  that  when  the  morning  beams, 

I  feel  my  eyelids  wet ! 
Yet,  could  I  hope,  when  Time  shall  fall 
The  darkness,  for  creation's  pall, 

To  meet  thee, — and  to  love, — 
I  would  not  shrink  from  aught  below, 

Nor  ask  for  more  above. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "GERALDINE." 

I  KXOW  a  spot  where  poets  fain  would  dwell, 
To  gather  flowers  and  food  for  afterthought, 

As  bees  draw  honey  from  the  rose's  cell, 

To  hive  among  the  treasures  they  have  wrought; 

And  there  a  cottage  from  a  sylvan  screen 

Sent  up  its  curling  smoke  amidst  the  green. 

Around  that  hermit-home  of  quietude, 

The  elm  trees  whisper'd  with  the  summer  air, 

And  nothing  ever  ventured  to  intrude, 

But  happy  birds,  that  caroll'd  wildly  there, 

Or  honey-laden  harvesters,  that  flew 

Humming  away  to  drink  the  morning  dew. 

Around  the  door  the  honeysuckle  climbed, 
And  Multa-flora  spread  her  countless  roses, 

And  never  minstrel  sang  nor  poet  rhymed 
Romantic  scene  where  happiness  reposes, 

Sweeter  to  sense  than  that  enchanting  dell, 

Where  home-sick  memory  fondly  loves  to  dwell 

Beneath  a  mountain's  brow  the  cottage  stood, 
Hard  by  a  shelving  lake,  whose  pebbled  bed 

Was  skirted  by  the  drapery  of  a  wood, 
That  hung  its  festoon  foliage  over  head, 

Where  wild  deer  came  at  eve,  unharm'd,  to  drink, 

While  moonlight  threw  their  shadows  from  the 
brink. 

The  green  earth  heaved  her  giant  waves  around, 
Where  through  the  mountain  vista  one  vast 
height  [bound 

Tower'd  heavenward  without  peer,  his  forehead 
With  gorgeous  clouds,  at  times  of  changeful  light, 
While  far  below,  the  lake,  in  bridal  rest, 
Slept  with  his  glorious  picture  on  her  breast 
2u2 


EDMUND   D.   GRIFFIN. 


[Born,  1804.    Died,  1830.] 


EDMUSTD  DORK  GRIFFIN  was  born  in  the  cele- 
brated valley  of  Wyoming,  in  Pennsylvania,  on 
the  tenth  day  of  September,  1804.  During  his 
infancy  his  parents  removed  to  New  York,  but  on 
account  of  the  delicacy  of  his  constitution,  he  was 
educated,  until  he  was  twelve  years  old,  at  various 
schools  in  the  country.  He  entered  Columbia 
College,  in  New  York,  in  1819,  and  until  he  was 
graduated,  four  years  afterwards,  maintained  the 
highest  rank  in  the  successive  classes.  During 
this  period  most  of  his  Latin  and  English  poems 
were  composed.  He  was  admitted  to  deacon's 
orders,  in  the  Episcopal  Church,  in  1826,  and 


after  spending  two  years  in  the  active  discharge  of 
the  duties  of  his  profession,  set  out  on  his  travels. 
He  passed  through  France,  Italy,  Switzerland,  Eng- 
land, and  Scotland,  and  returned  to  New  York  in 
the  spring  of  1830.  He  was  then  appointed  an 
associate  professor  in  Columbia  College,  but  re- 
signed the  office  after  a  few  months,  in  consequence 
of  ill  health,  and  closed  a  life  of  successful  devo- 
tion to  learning,  and  remarkable  moral  purity,  on 
the  first  day  of  September,  in  the  same  year.  His 
travels  in  Europe,  sermons,  and  miscellaneous 
writings  were  published  in  two  large  octavo  vo- 
lumes, in  1831. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  LEAVING  ITALY. 
"  Deh!  fossi  tu  men  bella,  oalmen  piu  forte." — FILICAIA. 

WOULD  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair, 

Land  of  the  orange  grove  and  myrtle  bower ! 
To  hail  whose  strand,  to  breathe  whose  genial  air, 

Is  bliss  to  all  who  feel  of  bliss  the  power ; 
To  look  upon  whose  mountains  in  the  hour 

When  thy  sun  sinks  in  glory,  and  a  veil 
Of  purple  flows  around  them,  would  restore 

The  sense  of  beauty  when  all  else  might  fail. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair, 

Parent  of  fruits,  alas !  no  more  of  men  ! 
Where  springs  the  olive  e'en  from  mountains  bare, 

The  yellow  harvests  loads  the  scarce  till'd  plain. 
Spontaneous  shoots  the  vine,  in  rich  festoon 

From  tree  to  tree  depending,  and  the  flowers 
Wreathe  with  their  chaplets,  sweet  though  fading 
soon, 

E'en  fallen  columns  and  decaying  towers. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair, 

Home  of  the  beautiful,  but  not  the  brave ! 
Where  noble  form,  bold  outline,  princely  air, 

Distinguish  e'en  the  peasant  and  the  slave: 
Where,  like  the  goddess  sprung  from  ocean's  wave, 

Her  mortal  sisters  boast  immortal  grace, 
Nor  spoil  those  charms  which  partial  Nature  gave, 

By  art's  weak  aids  or  fashion's  vain  grimace. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair, 

Thou  nurse  of  every  art,  save  one  alone, 
The  art  of  self-defence !     Thy  fostering  care 

Brings  out  a  nobler  life  from  senseless  stone, 
And  bids  e'en  canvass  speak ;  thy  magic  tone, 

Infused  in  music,  now  constrains  the  soul 
With  tears  the  power  of  melody  to  own,        [trol. 

And  now  with  passionate  throbs  that  spurn  con- 
Would  that  thou  wert  less  fair,  at  least  more  strong, 

Grave  of  the  mighty  dead,  the  living  mean  ! 


Can  nothing  rouse  ye  both  1  no  tyrant's  wrong, 
No  memory  of  the' brave,  of  what  has  been  ] 

Yon  broken  arch  once  spoke  of  triumph,  then 
That  mouldering  wall  too  spoke  of  brave  defence  : 

Shades  of  departed  heroes,  rise  again  ! 

Italians,  rise,  and  thrust  the  oppressors  hence ! 

0,  Italy !  my  country,  fare  thee  well ! 

For  art  thou  not  my  country,  at  whose  breast 
Were  nurtured  those  whose  thoughts  within  me 
dwell, 

The  fathers  of  my  mind  ?  whose  fame  impress'd 
E'en  on  my  infant  fancy,  bade  it  rest 

With  patriot  fondness  on  thy  hills  and  streams, 
E'er  yet  thou  didst  receive  me  as  a  guest, 

Lovelier  than  I  had  seen  thee  in  my  dreams  1 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  country,  loved  and  lost : 

Too  early  lost,  alas  !  when  once  so  dear ; 
I  turn  in  sorrow  from  thy  glorious  coast, 

And  urge  the  feet  forbid  to  linger  here. 
But  must  I  rove  by  Arno's  current  clear, 

And  hear  the  rush  of  Tiber's  yellow  flood, 
And  wander  on  the  mount,  now  waste  and  drear, 

Where  CAESAR'S  palace  in  its  glory  stood ; 

And  see  again  Parthenope's  loved  bay, 

And  Paestum's  shrines,  and  Baiae's  classic  shore, 
And  mount  the  bark,  and  listen  to  the  lay 

That  floats  by    night   through  Venice — never 
Far  off  I  seem  to  hear  the  Atlantic  roar —   [more  ] 

It  washes  not  thy  feet,  that  envious  sea, 
But  waits,  with  outstretch'd  arms,  to  waft  me  o'er 

To  other  lands,  far,  far,  alas,  from  thee. 

Fare — fare  thee  well  once  more.     I  love  thee  not 

As  other  things  inanimate.     Thou  art 
The  cherish'd  mistress  of  my  youth ;  forgot 

Thou  never  canst  be  while  I  have  a  heart 
Launch'd  on  those  waters,  wild  with  storm  and  wind, 

I  know  not,  ask  not,  what  may  be  my  lot ; 
For,  torn  from  thee,  no  fear  can  touch  my  mind, 

Brooding  in  gloom  on  that  one  bitter  thought. 

294 


EDMUND   D.   GRIFFIN. 


295 


DESCRIPTION  OF  LOVE,  BY  VENUS. 


THOUGH  old  in  cunning,  as  in  years, 

He  is  so  small,  that  like  a  child 
In  face  and  form,  the  god  appears, 

A  nd  sportive  like  a  boy,  and  wild ; 
Lightly  he  moves  from  place  to  place, 

In  none  at  rest,  in  none  content ; 
Delighted  some  new  toy  to  chase — 

On  childish  purpose  ever  bent. 
Beware  !  to  childhood's  spirit  gay 

Is  added  more  than  childhood's  power ; 

And  you  perchance  may  rue  the  hour 
That  saw  you  join  his  seeming  play. 

He  quick  is  anger'd,  and  as  quick 
His  short-lived  passion's  over  past, 

Like  summer  lightnings,  flashing  thick, 
But  flying  ere  a  bolt  is  cast 

I've  seen,  myself,  as  'twere  together, 
Now  joy,  now  grief  assume  its  place, 

Shedding  a  sort  of  April  weather, 
Sunshine  and  rain  upon  his  face. 

His  curling  hair  floats  on  the  wind, 
Like  Fortune's,  long  and  thick  before, 
And  rich  and  bright  as  golden  ore : 

Like  hers,  his  head  is  bald  behind. 

His  ruddy  face  is  strangely  bright, 

It  is  the  very  hue  of  fire, 
The  inward  spirit's  quenchless  light, 

The  glow  of  many  a  soft  desire. 
He  hides  his  eye  that  keenly  flashes, 

But  sometimes  steals  a  thrilling  glance 
From  'neath  his  drooping  silken  lashes, 

And  sometimes  looks  with  eye  askance ; 
But  seldom  ventures  he  to  gaze 

With  looks  direct  and  open  eye ; 

For  well  he  knows — the  urchin  sly — 
But  one  such  look  his  guile  betrays. 

His  tongue,  that  seems  to  have  left  just  then 
His  mother's  breast,  discourses  sweet, 

And  forms  his  lisping  infant  strain 
In  words  scarce  utter'd,  half-complete ; 

Yet,  wafted  on  a  winged  sigh, 

And  led  by  Flattery,  gentle  guide, 

Unseen  into  the  heart  they  fly, 

Its  coldness  melt,  and  tame  its  pride. 

In  smiles  that  hide  intended  wo, 
His  ruddy  lips  are  always  dress'd, 
As  flowers  conceal  the  listening  crest 

Of  the  coil'd  snake  that  lurks  below. 

In  carriage  courteous,  meek,  and  mild, 
Humble  in  speech,  and  soft  in  look, 

He  seems  a  wandering  orphan  child, 
And  asks  a  shelter  in  some  nook 

Or  corner  left  unoccupied  : 
But,  once  admitted  as  a  guest, 

By  slow  degrees  he  lays  aside 

That  lowly  port  and  look  distress'd — 

Then  insolent  assumes  his  reign, 

Displays  his  captious,  high-bred  airs, 
His  causeless  pets  and  jealous  fears, 

His  fickle  fancy  and  unquiet  brain. 


EMBLEMS. 

Yox  rose,  that  bows  her  graceful  head  to  hail 
The  welcome  visitant  that  brings  the  morn, 

And  spreads  her  leaves  to  gather  from  the  gale 
The  coolness  on  its  early  pinions  borne, 

Listing  the  music  of  its  whisper'd  tale, 
And  giving  stores  of  perfume  in  return — 

Though  fair  she  seem,  full  many  a  thorn  doth  hide ; 

Perhaps  a  worm  pollutes  her  bosom's  pride. 

Yon  oak,  that  proudly  throws  his  arms  on  high, 
Threshing  the  air  that  flies  their  frequent  strokes, 

And  lifts  his  haughty  crest  towards  the  sky, 
Daring  the  thunder  that  its  height  provokes, 

And  spreads  his  foliage  wide,  a  shelter  nigh, 
From  noonday  heats  to  guard  the  weary  flocks — 

Though  strong  he  seem,  must  dread  the  bursting 

And  e'en  the  malice  of  the  feeble  worm,     [storm, 

The  moon,  that  sits  so  lightly  on  her  throne, 
Gliding  majestic  on  her  silent  way, 

And  sends  her  silvery  beam  serenely  down, 
'Mong  waving  boughs  and  frolic  leaves  to  play, 

To  sleep  upon  the  bank  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
Or  on  the  clear  waves,  clearer  far  than  they — 

Seems  purity  itself;  but  if  again 

We  look,  and  closely,  we  perceive  a  stain. 

Fit  emblems  all,  of  those  unworthy  joys 

On  which  our  passions  and  our  hopes  dilate : 

We  wound  ourselves  to  seize  on  Pleasure's  toys, 
Nor  see  their  worthlessness  until  too  late ; 

And  Power,  with  all  its  pomp  and  all  its  noise, 
Meets  oft  a  sudden  and  a  hapless  fate ; 

And  Fame  of  gentle  deeds  and  daring  high, 

Is  often  stain'd  by  blots  of  foulest  dye. 

Where  then  shall  man,  by  his  Creator's  hand 
Gifted  with  feelings  that  must  have  an  aim, 

Aspiring  thoughts  and  hopes,  a  countless  band ; 
Affections  glowing  with  a  quenchless  flame, 

And  passions,  too,  in  dread  array  that  stand, 
To  aid  his  virtue  or  to  stamp  his  shame : 

Where  shall  he  fix  a  soul  thus  form'd  and  given  ? 

Fix  it  on  GOD,  and  it  shall  rise  to  Heaven. 


TO  A  LADY. 

LIKE  target  for  the  arrow's  aim, 
Like  snow  beneath  the  sunny  heats, 

Like  wax  before  the  glowing  flame, 
Like  cloud  before  the  wind  that  fleets, 

I  am — 'tis  love  that  made  me  so, 

And,  lady,  still  thou  sayst  me  no. 

The  wound's  inflicted  by  thine  eyes, 
The  mortal  wound  to  hope  and  me, 

Which  naught,  alas,  can  cicatrize, 
Nor  time,  nor  absence,  far  from  thee. 

Thou  art  the  sun,  the  fire,  the  wind, 

That  make  me  such ;  ah,  then  be  kind ! 

My  thoughts  are  darts,  my  soul  to  smite ; 

Thy  charms  the  sun,  to  blind  my  sense, 
My  wishes — ne'er  did  passion  light 

A  flame  more  pure  or  more  intense. 
Love  all  these  arms  at  once  employs. 
And  wounds,  and  dazzles,  and  destroys. 


J.  H.  BRIGHT. 


[Bora,  1804.    Died,  1837.] 


JONATHAN  HUNTIHGTON  BRIGHT  was  born  in 
Salem,  Massachusetts,  in  1804.  At  an  early  age 
he  went  to  New  York,  where  he  resided  several 
years,  after  which  he  removed  to  Albany,  and  sub- 
sequently to  Richmond,  in  Virginia,  where  he  was 
married.  In  the  autumn  of  1836  he  sailed  for 
New  Orleans,  and  soon  after  his  arrival  in  that 


THE  VISION  OF  DEATH. 

THE  moon  was  high  in  the  autumn  sky, 

The  stars  waned  cold  and  dim, 
Where  hoarsely  the  mighty  Oregon 

Peals  his  eternal  hymn ; 
And  the  prairie-grass  bent  its  seedy  heads 

Far  over  the  river's  brim. 

An  impulse  I  might  not  defy, 

Constrain'd  my  footsteps  there, 
When  through  the  gloom  a  red  eye  burn'd 

With  fix'd  and  steady  glare  ; 
And  a  huge,  misshapen  form  of  mist 

Loom'd  in  the  midnight  air. 

Then  out  it  spake :  "  My  name  is  Death !" 
Thick  grew  my  blood,  and  chill — 

A  sense  of  fear  weigh'd  down  my  breath, 
And  held  my  pulses  still ; 

And  a  voice  from  that  unnatural  shade 
Compell'd  me  to  its  will. 

"  Dig  me  a  grave !  dig  me  a  grave !" 

The  gloomy  monster  said, 
«  And  make  it  deep,  and  long,  and  wide, 

And  bury  me  my  dead." 
A  corpse  without  sheet  or  shroud,  at  my  feet, 

And  rusted  mattock  laid. 

With  trembling  hand  the  tool  I  spann'd, 
'T  was  wet  with  blood,  and  cold, 

And  from  its  slimy  handle  hung 
The  gray  and  ropy  mould ; 

And  I  sought  to  detach  my  stiffen'd  grasp, 
But  could  not  loose  my  hold. 

"  Now  cautiously  turn  up  the  sod ; 

GOD'S  image  once  it  bore, 
And  time  shall  be  when  each  small  blade 

To  life  He  will  restore, 
And  the  separate  particles  shall  take 

The  shape  which  first  they  wore." 

Deeply  my  spade  the  soft  earth  pierced, 

It  touch'd  the  festering  dead ; 
Tier  above  tier  the  corpses  lay, 

As  leaves  in  autumn  shed ; 
The  vulture  circled,  and  flapp'd  his  wings, 

And  scream'd,  above  my  head. 


city  was  induced  to  ascend  the  Mississippi,  to  take 
part  in  a  mercantile  interest  at  Manchester,  where 
he  died,  very  suddenly,  in  the  thirty-third  year  of 
his  age.  He  was  for  several  years  a  writer  for  the 
public  journals  and  literary  magazines,  under  the 
signature  of  "  Viator."  His  poetry  has  never  been 
published  collectively. 


O,  then  I  sought  to  rest  my  brow, 

The  spade  I  held,  its  prop ; 
"  Toil  on  !  toil  on  !"  scream'd  the  ugly  fiend, 

"  My  servants  never  stop ! 
Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  at  the  judgment-day 

Ye '11  have  a  glorious  crop  !" 

Now,  wheresoe'er  I  turn'd  my  eyes, 

'Twas  horrible  to  see 
How  the  grave  made  bare  her  secret  work, 

And  disclosed  her  depths  to  me ; 
While  the  ground  beneath  me  heaved  and  roll'd 

Like  the  billows  of  the  sea. 

The  spectre  skinn'd  his  yellow  teeth — 

"  Ye  like  not  this,  I  trow : 
Six  thousand  years  your  fellow-man 

Has  counted  me  his  foe, 
And  ever  when  he  cursed  I  laugh' d, 

And  drew  my  fatal  bow. 

"  And  generations  all  untold 

In  Ihis  dark  spot  I  've  laid — 
The  forest  ruler  and  the  young 

And  tender  Indian  maid ; 
And  moulders  with  their  carcasses 

Behemoth  of  the  glade. 

«  Yet  here  they  may  no  more  remain  ; 

I  fain  would  have  this  room : 
And  they  must  seek  another  rest, 

Of  deeper,  lonelier  gloom ; 
Long  ages  since  I  mark'd  this  spot 

To  be  the  white  man's  tomb. 

"Already  his  coming  steps  I  hear, 

From  the  east's  remotest  line, 
While  over  his  advancing  hosts 

The  forward  banners  shine  : 
And  where  he  builds  his  cities  and  towns, 

I  ever  must  build  mine." 

Anon  a  pale  and  silvery  mist 

Was  girdled  round  the  moon : 
Slowly  the  dead  unclosed  their  eyes, 

On  midnight's  solemn  noon. 
"  Ha !"  mutter'd  the  mocking  sprite,  "  I  fear 

We  've  waken'd  them  too  soon  ! 


1  Now  marshal  all  the  numerous  host 
In  one  concentred  band, 


296 


J.  H.   BRIGHT. 


297 


And  hurry  them  to  the  west,"  said  he, 

"  Where  ocean  meets  the  land : 
They  shall  regard  thy  bidding  voice, 

And  move  at  thy  command." 

Then  first  I  spake — the  sullen  corpse 

Stood  on  the  gloomy  sod, 
Like  the  dry  bones  the  prophet  raised, 

When  bidden  by  his  GOD  ; 
A  might  company,  so  vast, 

Each  on  the  other  trod. 

They  stalk'd  erect  as  if  alive, 

Yet  not  to  life  allied, 
But  lik*»  the  pestilence  that  walks, 

And  wasteth  at  noontide, 
Corruption  animated,  or 

The  grave  personified. 

The  earth-worm  drew  his  slimy  trail 

Across  the  bloodless  cheek, 
And  the  carrion  bird  in  hot  haste  came 

To  gorge  his  thirsty  beak ; 
But,  scared  by  the  living  banquet,  fled, 

Another  prey  to  seek. 

While  ever  as  on  their  way  they  moved, 

No  voice  they  gave,  nor  sound, 
And  before  and  behind,  and  about  their  sides, 

Their  wither'd  arms  they  bound  ; 
As  the  beggar  clasps  his  skinny  hands 

His  tatter'd  garments  round. 

On,  on  we  went  through  the  livelong  night, 

Death  and  his  troop,  and  I ; 
We  turn'd  not  aside  for  forest  or  stream 

Or  mountain  towering  high, 
But  straight  and  swift  as  the  hurricane  sweeps 

Athwart  the  stormy  sky. 

Once,  once  I  stopp'd,  where  something  gleam'd, 

With  a  bright  and  star-like  ray, 
And  I  stoop'd  to  take  the  diamond  up 

From  the  grass  in  which  it  lay ; 
'T  was  an  eye  that  from  its  socket  fell, 

As  some  wretch  toil'd  on  his  way. 

At  length  our  army  reach'd  the  verge 

Of  the  far-off  western  shore ; 
Death  drove  them  into  the  sea,  and  said, 

"  Ye  shall  remove  no  more." 
The  ocean  hymn'd  their  solemn  dirge, 

And  his  waters  swept  them  o'er. 

The  stars  went  out,  the  morning  smiled 

With  rosy  tints  of  light, 
The  bird  began  his  early  hymn, 

And  plumed  his  wings  for  flight : 
And  the  vision  of  death  was  broken  with 

The  breaking  up  of  night. 

HE  WEDDED  AGAIN. 

ERE  death  had  quite  stricken  the  bloom  from  her 

cheek, 

Or  worn  ofF  the  smoothness  and  gloss  of  her  brow, 
When  our  quivering  lips  her  dear  name  could  not 

speak, 

And  our  hearts  vainly  strove  to  GOD'S  judgment 
to  bow; 

38 


He  estranged  himself  from  us,  and  cheerfully  then 
Sought  out  a  new  object,  and  wedded  again. 

The  dust  had  scarce  settled  itself  on  her  lyre, 
And  its  soft,melting  tones  still  held  captive  the  ear, 

While  we  look'd  for  her  fingers  to  glide  o'er  the  wire, 
And  waited  in  fancy  her  sweet  voice  to  hear ; 

He  turn'd  from  her  harp  and  its  melody  then, 

Sought  out  a  new  minstrel  and  wedded  again. 

The  turf  had  not  yet  by  a  stranger  been  trod, 
Nor  the  pansy  a  single  leaf  shed  on  her  grave, 

The  cy  press  had  not  taken  root  in  the  sod,        [gave ; 
Nor  the  stone  lost  the  freshness  the  sculptor  first 

He  turn'd  from  these  mournful  remembrances  then, 

Wove  a  new  bridal  chaplet,  and  wedded  again. 

His  dwelling  to  us,  O,  how  lonely  and  sad ! 

When  we  thought  of  the  light  death  had  stolen 

away, 
Of  the  warm  hearts  which  once  in  its  keeping  it  had, 

And  that  one  was  now  widow'd  and  both  in  decay; 
But  its  deep  desolation  had  fled  even  then — 
He  sought  a  new  idol,  and  wedded  again. 

But  can  site  be  quite  blest  who  presides  at  his  board  7 
Will  no  troublesome  vision  her  happy  home  shade, 

Of  a  future  love  luring  and  charming  her  lord, 
When  she  with  our  lost  one  forgotten  is  laid  1 

She  must  know  he  will  worship  some  other  star  then, 

Seek  out  a  new  love,  and  be  wedded  again. 

SONG. 

SHOULD  sorrow  o'er  thy  brow 

Its  darken'd  shadows  fling, 
And  hopes  that  cheer  thee  now, 

Die  in  their  early  spring ; 
Should  pleasure  at  its  birth 

Fade  like  the  hues  of  even, 
Turn  thou  away  from  earth, — 

There 's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven ! 

If  ever  life  shall  seem 

To  thee  a  toilsome  way, 
And  gladness  cease  to  beam 

Upon  its  clouded  day ; 
If,  like  the  wearied  dove, 

O'er  shoreless  ocean  driven, 
Raise  thou  thine  eye  above, — 

There 's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven ! 

But,  O  !  if  always  flowers 

Throughout  thy  pathway  bloom, 
And  gayly  pass  the  hours, 

Undimn'd  by  earthly  gloom ; 
Still  let  not  every  thought 

To  this  poor  world  be  given, 
Not  always  be  forgot 

Thy  better  rest  in  heaven ! 

When  sickness  pales  thy  cheek, 

And  dims  thy  lustrous  eye, 
And  pulses  low  and  weak 

Tell  of  a  time  to  die — 
Sweet  hope  shall  whisper  then, 

«  Though  thou  from  earth  be  riven, 
There 's  bliss  beyond  thy  ken, — 

There 's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven !" 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


[Born,  1804.J 


MB.  PRENTICE  is  a  native  of  Preston,  in  Con- 
necticut, and  was  educated  at  Brown  University, 
in  Providence,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1823. 
He  edited  for  several  years,  at  Hartford,  "The 
New  England  Weekly  Review,"  in  connection,  I 
believe,  with  JOHN  G.  WHITTIEH;  and  in  1831 


he  removed  to  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  he  has 
since  conducted  the  "  Journal,"  of  that  city,  one 
of  the  most  popular  gazettes  ever  published  in  this 
country.  Nearly  all  his  poems  were  written  while 
he  was  in  the  university.  They  have  never  been 
published  collectively. 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

'T  is  midnight's  holy  hour — and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.  Hark !  on  the  winds 
The  bell's  deep  tones  are  swelling;  'tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest, 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirr'd, 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand,     [form, 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn 
And  Winter  with  his  aged  locks,  and  breathe 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
lake  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever.     'T  is  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  spectre  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  pass'd  away, 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  spectre  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  love, 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale 
Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 
O'er  what  has  pass'd  to  nothingness.     The  year 
Has  gone,  and,  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course, 
It  waved  its  sceptre  o'er  the  beautiful, 
And  they  are  not     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man,  and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 
It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  throng'd 
The  bright  and  joyous,  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  pass'd  o'er 
The  battle-plain,  where  sword  and  spear  and  shield 
Flash'd  in  the  light  of  midday — and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shiver'd,  and  the  grass, 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crush'd  and  mouldering  skeleton.     It  came 
And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 


In  the  dim  land  of  dreams.     Remorseless  Time — 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe — what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity  1     On,  still  on 
He  presses,  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain-crag, — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinion.     Revolutions  sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow ;  cities  rise  and  sink, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water ;  fiery  isles 
Spring,  blazing,  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns ;  mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blacken'd  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain ;  new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations ;  and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  GOD, 
Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away, 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void : — yet  Time — 
Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


LINES  TO  A  LADY. 


LADY,  I  love,  at  eventide, 

When  stars,  as  now,  are  on  the  wave, 
To  stray  in  loneliness,  and  muse 

Upon  the  one  dear  form  that  gave 
Its  sunlight  to  my  boyhood ;  oft 
That  same  sweet  look  sinks,  still  and  soft, 
Upon  my  spirit,  and  appears 
As  lovely  as  in  by-gone  years. 

Eve's  low,  faint  wind  is  breathing  now, 
With  deep  and  soul-like  murmuring, 

Through  the  dark  pines ;  and  thy  sweet  words 
Seem  borne  on  its  mysterious  wing ; 

29,3 


GEORGE   D.   PRENTICE. 


299 


And  oft,  mid  musings  sad  and  lone, 
At  night's  deep  noon,  that  thrilling  tone 
Swells  in  the  wind,  low,  wild,  and  clear, 
Like  music  in  the  dreaming  air. 

When  sleep's  calm  wing  is  on  my  brow, 

And  dreams  of  peace  my  spirit  lull, 
Before  me,  like  a  misty  star, 

That  form  floats  dim  and  beautiful ; 
And,  when  the  gentle  moonbeam  smiles 
On  the  blue  streams  and  dark-green  isles, 
In  every  ray  pour'd  down  the  sky, 
That  same  light  form  seems  stealing  by. 

It  is  a  blessed  picture,  shrined 

In  memory's  urn ;  the  wing  of  years 

Can  change  it  not,  for  there  it  glows, 
Undimm'd  by  "  weaknesses  and  tears ;" 

Deep-hidden  in  its  still  recess, 

It  beams  with  love  and  holiness, 

O'er  hours  of  being,  dark  and  dull, 

Till  life  seems  almost  beautiful. 

The  vision  cannot,  fade  away  ; 

'Tis  in  the  stillness  of  my  heart, 
And  o'er  its  brightness  I  have  mused 

In  solitude ;  it  is  a  part 
Of  my  existence ;  a  dear  flower 
Breathed  on  by  Heaven :  morn's  earliest  hour 
That  flower  bedews,  and  its  blue  eye 
At  eve  still  rests  upon  the  sky. 

Lady,  like  thine,  my  visions  cling 

To  the  dear  shrine  of  buried  years ; 
The  past,  the  past !  it  is  too  bright, 

Too  deeply  beautiful  for  tears  ; 
We  have  been  bless'd ;  though  life  is  made 
A  tear,  a  silence,  and  a  shade, 
And  years  have  left  the  vacant  breast 
To  loneliness — we  have  been  bless'd ! 

Those  still,  those  soft,  those  summer  eyes, 

When  by  our  favourite  stream  we  stood, 
And  watch'd  our  mingling  shadows  there, 

Soft-pictured  in  the  deep-blue  flood, 
Seem'd  one  enchantment.     0  !  we  felt, 
As  there,  at  love's  pure  shrine,  we  knelt, 
That  life  was  sweet,  and  all  its  hours 
A  glorious  dream  of  love  and  flowers. 

And  still  'tis  sweet.     Our  hopes  went  by 

Like  sounds  upon  the  unbroken  sea ; 
Yet  memory  wings  the  spirit  back 

To  deep,  undying  melody; 
And  still,  around  her  early  shrine, 
Fresh  flowers  their  dewy  chaplets  twine, 
Young  Love  his  brightest  garland  wreathes, 
And  Eden's  richest  incense  breathes. 

Our  hopes  are  flown — yet  parted  hours 
Still  in  the  depths  of  memory  lie, 

Like  night-gems  in  the  silent  blue 
Of  summer's  deep  and  brilliant  sky ; 

And  Love's  bright  flashes  seem  again 

To  fall  upon  the  glowing  chain 

Of  our  existence.     Can  it  be 

That  all  is  but  a  mockery  1 


Lady,  adieu !  to  other  climes 

I  go,  from  joy,  and  hope,  and  thee ; 
A  weed  on  Time's  dark  waters  thrown, 

A  wreck  on  life's  wild-heaving  sea ; 
I  go ;  but  O,  the  past,  the  past ! 
Its  spell  is  o'er  my  being  cast, — 
And  still,  to  Love's  remember'd  eves, 
With  all  but  hope,  my  spirit  cleaves. 

Adieu !  adieu !     My  farewell  words 

Are  on  my  lyre,  and  their  wild  flow 
Is  faintly  dying  on  the  chords, 

Broken  and  tuneless.     Be  it  so ! 
Thy  name — O,  may  it  never  swell 
My  strain  again — yet  long  'twill  dwell 
Shrined  in  my  heart,  unbreathed,  unspoken- 
A  treasured  word — a  cherish'd  token. 


THE  DEAD  MARINER. 

SLEEP  on,  sleep  on  !  above  thy  corse 

The  winds  their  Sabbath  keep ; 
The  waves  are  round  thee,  and  thy  breast 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  deep. 
O'er  thee  mild  eve  her  beauty  flings, 
And  there  the  white  gull  lifts  her  wings, 
And  the  blue  halcyon  loves  to  lave 
Her  plumage  in  the  deep  blue  wave. 

Sleep  on ;  ho  willow  o'er  thee  bends 

With  melancholy  air, 
No  violet  springs,  nor  dewy  rose 

Its  soul  of  love  lays  bare ; 
But  there  the  sea-flower,  bright  and  young, 
Is  sweetly  o'er  thy  slumbers  flung, 
And,  like  a  weeping  mourner  fair, 
The  pale  flag  hangs  its  tresses  there. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  glittering  depths 

Of  ocean's  coral  caves 
Are  thy  bright  urn — thy  requiem 

The  music  of  its  waves ; 
The  purple  gems  forever  burn 
In  fadeless  beauty  round  thy  urn, 
And,  pure  and  deep  as  infant  love, 
The  blue  sea  rolls  its  waves  above. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  fearful  wrath 

Of  mingling  cloud  and  deep 
May  leave  its  wild  and  stormy  track 

Above  thy  place  of  sleep ; 
But,  when  the  wave  has  sunk  to  rest, 
As  now,  'twill  murmur  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  the  bright  victims  of  the  sea 
Perchance  will  make  their  home  with  thee. 

Sleep  on ;  thy  corse  is  far  away, 

But  love  bewails  thee  yet ; 
For  thee  the  heart-wrung  sigh  is  breathed, 

And  lovely  eyes  are  wet : 
And  she,  thy  young  and  beauteous  bride, 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  by  thy  side, 
As  oft  she  turns  to  view,  with  tears, 
The  Edert  of  departed  years. 


300 


GEORGE   D.   PRENTICE. 


SABBATH  EVENING. 

Howcalmly  sinks  the  parting  sun ! 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 
And  beautiful  as  dream  of  Heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bow'd  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine ; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds  blow 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer, 
Soft  echo'd  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And,  from  their  sacrifice  of  love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 

The  night-arch  floating  by, 
The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 
Are  living  with  religion — deep 
On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there  ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  fill'd  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild ; 
And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  glory  undefiled ! 
And  holy  aspirations  start, 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 
And  bind — for  earth's  dark  ties  are  riven — 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


TO  A  LADY. 

I  THIXK  of  thee  when  morning  springs 
From  sleep,  with  plumage  bathed  in  dew, 

And,  like  a  young  bird,  lifts  her  wings 
Of  gladness  on  the  welkin  blue. 

And  when,  at  noon,  the  breath  of  love 
O'er  flower  and  stream  is  wandering  free, 

And  sent  in  music  from  the  grove, 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of  thee. 


I  think  of  thee,  when,  soft  and  wide, 
The  evening  spreads  her  robes  of  light, 

And,  like  a  young  and  timid  bride, 
Sits  blushing  in  the  arms  of  night. 

And  when  the  moon's  sweet  crescent  springs 
In  light  o'er  heaven's  deep,  waveless  sea, 

And  stars  are  forth,  like  blessed  things, 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of  thee. 

I  think  of  thee ; — that  eye  of  flame, 
Those  tresses,  falling  bright  and  free, 

That  brow,  where  "  Beauty  writes  her  name," 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of  thee. 


WRITTEN  AT  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

THE  trembling  dew-drops  fall 
Upon  the  shutting  flowers ;  like  souls  at  rest 
The  stars  shine  gloriously :  and  all 
Save  me,  are  blest. 

Mother,  I  love  thy  grave  ! 
The  violet,  with  its  blossoms  blue  and  mild, 
Waves  o'er  thy  head ;  when  shall  it  wave 
Above  thy  child  1 

'T  is  a  sweet  flower,  yet  must 
Its  bright  leaves  to  the  coming  tempest  bow; 
Dear  mother,  't  is  thine  emblem ;  dust 
Is  on  thy  brow. 

And  I  could  love  to  die: 
To  leave  untasted  life's  dark,  bitter  streams — 
By  thee,  as  erst  in  childhood,  lie, 

And  share  thy  dreams. 

And  I  must  linger  here, 
To  stain  the  plumage  of  my  sinless  years, 
And  mourn  the  hopes  to  childhood  dear 
With  bitter  tears. 

Ay,  I  must  linger  here, 
A  lonely  branch  upon  a  wither'd  tree, 
Whose  last  frail  leaf,  untimely  sere, 

Went  down  with  thee ! 

Oft,  from  life's  wither'd  bower, 
In  still  communion  with  the  past,  I  turn, 
And  muse  on  thee,  the  only  flower 
In  memory's  urn. 

And,  when  the  evening  pale 
Bows,  like  a  mourner,  on  the  dim,  blue  wave, 
I  stray  to  hear  the  night-winds  wail 
Around  thy  grave. 

Where  is  thy  spirit  flown  1 
I  gaze  above — thy  look  is  imaged  there; 
I  listen — and  thy  gentle  tone 
Is  on  the  air. 

O,  come,  while  here  I  press 
My  brow  upon  thy  grave  ;  and,  in  those  mild 
And  thrilling  tones  of  tenderness, 

Bless,  bless  thy  child! 

Yes,  bless  your  weeping  child  ; 
And  o'er  thine  urn — religion's  holiest  shrine— 
O,  give  his  spirit,  undefiled, 

To  blend  with  thine. 


WILLIAM    CROSWELL. 


[Born,  1804.] 


THE  Reverend  WILLIAM  CHOSWELL  is  a  son  of 
the  Reverend  Doctor  CKOSWELL,  of  New  Haven, 
and  was  educated  at  Yale  College,  where  he  was 
graduated  in  the  summer  of  1824.  He  was  subse- 
quently, for  two  years,  associated  with  Doctor 
DOAXE,  now  Bishop  of  New  Jersey,  in  the  editor- 
ship of  the  "  Episcopal  Watchman,"  at  Hartford, 
after  which  he  removed  to  Boston,  and  was  for 


THE  SYNAGOGUE. 

"But  even  unto  this  day,  when  Moses  is  read,  the  veil 
is  upon  their  heart.  Nevertheless,  when  it  shall  turn  to 
the  Lord,  the  veil  shall  be  taken  away."— ST.  PAUL. 

I  SAW  them  in  their  synagogue, 

As  in  their  ancient  day, 
And  never  from  my  memory 

The  scene  will  fade  away, 
For,  dazzling  on  my  vision,  still 

The  latticed  galleries  shine 
With  Israel's  loveliest  daughters, 

In  their  beauty  half-divine  ! 

It  is  the  holy  Sabbath  eve, — 

The  solitary  light 
Sheds,  mingled  with  the  hues  of  day, 

A  lustre  nothing  bright ; 
On  swarthy  brow  and  piercing  glance 

It  falls  with  saddening  tinge, 
And  dimly  gilds  the  Pharisee's 

Phylacteries  and  fringe. 
The  two-leaved  doors  slide  slow  apart 

Before  the  eastern  screen, 
As  rise  the  Hebrew  harmonies, 

With  chanted  prayers  between, 
And  mid  the  tissued  vails  disclosed, 

Of  many  a  gorgeous  dye, 
Enveloped  in  their  jewell'd  scarfs, 

The  sacred  records  lie. 

Robed  in  his  sacerdotal  vest, 

A  silvery-headed  man 
With  voice  of  solemn  cadence  o'er 

The  backward  letters  ran, 
And  often  yet  methinks  I  see 

The  glow  and  power  that  sate 
Upon  his  face,  as  forth  he  spread 

The  roll  immaculate. 

And  fervently  that  hour  I  pray'd, 

That  from  the  mighty  scroll 
Its  light,  in  burning  characters, 

Might  break  on  every  soul, 
That  on  their  harden'd  hearts  the  veil 

Might  be  no  longer  dark, 
But  be  forever  rent  in  twain 

Like  that  before  the  ark. 


several  years  minister  of  Christ's  Church,  in  that 
city.  He  is  now  rector  of  St.  Peter's,  in  the  beau- 
tiful village  of  Auburn,  in  the  western  part  of  the 
state  of  New  York.  His  poems  are  nearly  all 
religious.  Bishop  DOANE,  in  a  note  to  his  edition 
of  KEBLE'S  "  Christian  Year,"  remarks  that  "he 
has  more  unwritten  poetry  in  him"  than  any  man 
he  knows. 


For  yet  the  tenfold  film  shall  fall, 

O,  Judah !  from  thy  sight, 
And  every  eye  be  purged  to  read 

Thy  testimonies  right, 
When  thou,  with  all  MESSIAH'S  signs 

In  CHRIST  distinctly  seen, 
Shall,  by  JEHOVAH'S  nameless  name, 

Invoke  the  Nazarene. 


THE  CLOUDS. 
"  Cloud  land !    Gorgeous  land  !" — COLERIDGE. 

I  CANNOT  look  above  and  see 

Yon  high-piled,  pillowy  mass 
Of  evening  clouds,  so  swimmingly 

In  gold  and  purple  pass, 
And  think  not,  LORD,  how  thou  wast  seen 

On  Israel's  desert  way, 
Before  them,  in  thy  shadowy  screen, 

Pavilion'd  all  the  day  ! 

Or,  of  those  robes  of  gorgeous  hue 

Which  the  Redeemer  wore, 
When,  ravish'd  from  his  followers'  view, 

Aloft  his  flight  he  bore, 
When  lifted,  as  on  mighty  wing, 

He  curtained  his  ascent, 
And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  went  triumphing 

Above  the  firmament. 

Is  it  a  trail  of  that  same  pall 

Of  many-colour'd  dyes, 
That  high  above,  o'ermantling  all, 

Hangs  midway  down  the  skies — 
Or  borders  of  those  sweeping  folds 

Which  shall  be  all  unfurl'd 
About  the  Saviour,  when  he  holds 

His  judgment  on  the  world  1 

For  in  like  manner  as  he  went, — 

My  soul,  hast  thou  forgot  ? — 
Shall  be  his  terrible  descent, 

When  man  expecteth  not ! 
Strength,  Son  of  man,  against  that  hour, 

Be  to  our  spirits  given, 
When  thou  shall  come  again  with  power, 

Upon  the  clouds  of  heaven ! 

2C  301 


302 


WILLIAM    CROSWELL. 


THE  ORDINAL. 

ALAS  for  me  if  I  forget 

The  memory  of  that  day 
Which  fills  my  waking  thoughts,  nor  yet 

E'en  sleep  can  take  away  ! 
In  dreams  I  still  renew  the  rites 

Whose  strong  but  mystic  chain 
The  spirit  to  its  GOD  unites, 

And  none  can  part  again. 

How  oft  the  bishop's  form  I  see, 

And  hear  that  thrilling  tone 
Demanding  with  authority 

The  heart  for  GOD  alone ; 
Again  I  kneel  as  then  I  knelt, 

While  he  above  me  stands, 
And  seem  to  feel,  as  then  I  felt, 

The  pressure  of  his  hands. 

Again  the  priests  in  meet  array, 

As  my  weak  spirit  fails, 
Beside  me  bend  them  down  to  pray 

Before  the  chancel-rails ; 
As  then,  the  sacramental  host 

Of  GOD'S  elect  are  by, 
When  many  a  voice  its  utterance  lost, 

And  tears  dimm'd  many  an  eye. 

As  then  they  on  my  vision  rose, 

The  vaulted  aisles  I  see, 
And  desk  and  cushion'd  book  repose 

In  solemn  sanctity, — 
The  mitre  o'er  the  marble  niche, 

The  broken  crook  and  key, 
That  from  a  bishop's  tomb  shone  rich 

With,  polished  tracery ; 

The  hangings,  the  baptismal  font, 

All,  all,  save  me  unchanged, 
The  holy  table,  as  was  wont, 

With  decency  arranged ; 
The  linen  cloth,  the  plate,  the  cup, 

Beneath  their  covering  shine, 
Ere  priestly  hands  are  lifted  up 

To  bless  the  bread  and  wine. 

The  solemn  ceremonial  past, 

And  I  am  set  apart 
To  serve  the  LOUD,  from  first  to  last, 

With  undivided  heart ; 
And  I  have  sworn,  with  pledges  dire, 

Which  GOD  and  man  have  heard, 
To  speak  the  holy  truth  entire, 

In  action  and  in  word. 

0  Thou,  who  in  thy  holy  place 

Hast  set  thine  orders  three, 
Grant  me,  thy  meanest  servant,  grace 

To  win  a  good  degree ; 
That  so,  replenish'd  from  above, 

And  in  my  office  tried, 
Thou  mayst  be  honoured,  and  in  love 

Thy  church  be  edified ! 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

THE  thickly-woven  boughs  they  wreathe 

Through  every  hallow'd  fane 
A  soft,  reviving  odour  breathe 

Of  summer's  gentle  reign  ; 
And  rich  the  ray  of  mild  green  light 

Which,  like  an  emerald's  glow, 
Comes  struggling  through  the  latticed  height 

Upon  the  crowds  below. 

0,  let  the  streams  of  solemn  thought 

Which  in  those  temples  rise, 
From  deeper  sources  spring  than  aught 

Dependent  on  the  skies : 
Then,  though  the  summer's  pride  departs, 

And  winter's  withering  chill 
Rests  on  the  cheerless  woods,  our  hearts 

Shall  be  unchanging  still. 


THE  DEATH  OF  STEPHEN. 

WITH  awful  dread  his  murderers  shook, 

As,  radiant  and  serene, 
The  lustre  of  his  dying  look 

Was  like  an  angel's  seen ; 
Or  MOSES'  face  of  paly  light, 

When  down  the  mount  he  trod, 
All  glowing  from  the  glorious  sight 

And  presence  of  his  GOD. 

To  us,  with  all  his  constancy, 

Be  his  rapt  vision  given, 
To  look  above  by  faith,  and  see 

Revealments  bright  of  heaven. 
And  power  to  speak  our  triumphs  out, 

As  our  last  hour  draws  near, 
While  neither  clouds  of  fear  nor  doubt 

Before  our  view  appear. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  OFFERING. 

WE  come  not  with  a  costly  store, 

O  LORD,  like  them  of  old, 
The  masters  of  the  starry  lore, 

From  Ophir's  shore  of  gold  : 
No  weepings  of  the  incense  tree 

Are  with  the  gifts  we  bring, 
No  odorous  myrrh  of  Araby 

Blends  with  our  offering. 

But  still  our  love  would  bring  its  best, 

A  spirit  keenly  tried 
By  fierce  affliction's  fiery  test, 

And  seven  times  purified: 
The  fragrant  graces  of  the  mind, 

The  virtues  that  delight 
To  give  their  perfume  out,  will  find 

Acceptance  in  thy  sight. 


WALTER    COLTON. 

[Born,  1804.] 


Mr.  COLTOX  is  a  native  of  Rutland,  in  Vermont. 
After  obtaining  a  degree  at  Yale  College,  he  was 
three  years  in  the  theological  seminary  at  Andover. 
In  1820  he  entered  the  navy  as  a  chaplain,  and  after 
a  short  service  in  the  West  India  squadron,  was  or- 
dered to  that  of  the  Mediterranean,  during  his  con- 
nection with  which  he  travelled  through  Southern 
Europe  and  Asia  Minor,  and  visited  Paris  and  Lon- 
don. Among  the  fruits  of  his  tours  are  two  works 


entitled  "  Ship  and  Shore,"  and  "  Athens  and  Con- 
stantinople." He  was  appointed  historiographer  to 
the  South  Sea  Exploring  Expedition,  but  the  ulti- 
mate reduction  of  the  exploring  squadron,  and  the 
resignation  of  his  associates,  induced  him  to  forego 
the  advantages  of  this  office,  and  he  was  subsequent- 
ly attached  several  years  to  the  naval  stations  at 
Philadelphia.  He  is  now  (in  the  autumn  of  1845)  at 
sea  as  chaplain  to  the  United  States  ship  Congress. 


THE   SAILOR. 

A  SAILOR  ever  loves  to  be  in  motion, 

Roaming  about  he  scarce  knows  where  or  why ; 
He  looks  upon  the  dim  and  shadowy  ocean 

As  home,  abhors  the  land  ;  and  e'en  the  sky, 
Boundless  and  beautiful,  has  naught  to  please, 
Except  some  clouds,  which  promise  him  a  breeze. 

He  is  a  child  of  mere  impulse  and  passion, 
Loving  his  friends,  and  generous  to  his  foes, 

And  fickle  as  the  most  ephemeral  fashion, 
Save  in  the  cut  and  colour  of  his  clothes, 

And  in  a  set  of  phrases  which,  on  land, 

The  wisest  head  could  never  understand. 

He  thinks  his  dialect  the  very  best 
That  ever  flow'd  from  any  human  lip, 

And  whether  in  his  prayers,  or  at  a  jest, 
Uses  the  terms  for  managing  a  ship ; 

And  even  in  death  would  order  up  the  helm, 

In  hope  to  clear  the  «  undiscover'd  realm." 

He  makes  a  friend  where'er  he  meets  a  shore, 
One  whom  he  cherishes  with  some  affection ; 

But  leaving  port,  he  thinks  of  her  no  more, 
Unless  it  be,  perchance,  in  some  reflection 

Upon  his  wicked  ways,  then,  with  a  sigh, 

Resolves  on  reformation— ere  he  die. 

In  calms,  he  gazes  at  the  sleeping  sea, 

Or  seeks  his  lines,  and  sets  himself  'to  angling, 

Or  takes  to  politics,  and,  being  free 

Of  facts  and  full  of  feeling,  falls  to  wrangling : 

Then  recollects  a  distant  eye  and  lip, 

And  rues  the  day  on  which  he  saw  a  ship: 

Then  looks  up  to  the  sky  to  watch  each  cloud, 
As  it  displays  its  faint  and  fleeting  form ; 

Then  o'er  the  calm  begins  to  mutter  loud, 

And  swears  he  would  exchange  it  for  a  storm, 

Tornado,  any  thing — to  put  a  close 

To  this  most  dead,  monotonous  repose. 

An  order  given,  and  he  obeys,  of  course, 

Though  'twere  to  run  his  ship  upon  the  rocks — 

Capture  a  squadron  with  a  boat's-crew  force — 
Or  batter  down  the  massive  granite  blocks 

Of  some  huge  fortress  with  a  swivel,  pike, 

Pistol,  aught  that  will  throw  a  ball,  or  strike. 


He  never  shrinks,  whatever  may  betide  ; 

His  weapon  may  be  shiver'd  in  his  hand, 
His  last  companion  shot  down  at  his  side, 

Still  he  maintains  his  firm  and  desperate  stand — 
Bleeding  and  battling — with  his  colours  fast 
As  nail  can  bind  them  to  his  shatter'd  mast. . . . 
I  love  the  sailor — his  eventful  life — 

His  generous  spirit — his  contempt  of  danger — 
His  firmness  in  the  gale,  the  wreck,  and  strife ; 

And  though  a  wild  and  reckless  ocean-ranger, 
GOD  grant  he  make  that  port,  when  life  is  o'er, 
Where  storms  are  hush'd,  and  billows  break  no  more. 


MY  FIRST  LOVE,  AND  MY  LAST. 

CATHAHA,  when  the  many  silent  tears 

Of  beauty,  bending  o'er  thy  bed, 
Bespoke  the  change  familiar  to  our  fears, 

I  could  not  think  thy  spirit  yet  had  fled — 
So  Like  to  life  the  slumber  death  had  cast 
On  thy  sweet  face,  my  first  love  and  my  last. 
I  watch'd  to  see  those  lids  their  light  unfold, 

For  still  thy  forehead  rose  serene  and  fair, 
As  when  those  raven  ringlets  richly  roll'd 

O'er  life,  which  dwelt  in  thought  and  beauty  there : 
Thy  cheek  the  while  was  rosy  with  the  theme 
That  flush'd  along  the  spirit's  mystic  dream. 
Thy  lips  were  circled  with  that  silent  smile 

Which  oft  around  their  dewy  freshness  woke. 
When  some  more  happy  thought  or  harmless  wile 

Upon  thy  warm  and  wandering  fancy  broke  : 
For  thou  wert  Nature's  child,  and  took  the  tone 
Of  every  pulse,  as  if  it  were  thine  own. 

I  watch'd,  and  still  believed  that  thou  wouldst  wake, 
When  others  came  to  place  thee  in  the  shroud : 

I  thought  to  see  this  seeming  slumber  break, 
As  I  have  seen  a  light,  transparent  cloud 

Disperse,  which  o'er  a  star's  sweet  face  had  thrown 

A  shadow  like  to  that  which  veil'd  thine  own. 

But,  no:  there  was  no  token,  look,  or  breath: 
The  tears  of  those  around,  the  tolling  bell 

And  hearse  told  us  at  last  that  this  was  death ! 
I  know  not  if  I  breathed  a  last  farewell ; 

But  since  that  day  my  sweetest  hours  have  pass'd 

In  thought  of  thee,  my  first  love  and  my  last 

303 


WILLIAM    PITT    PALMER. 


[Bon,  1S05.] 


MH.  PALMER  is  descended  from  a  Puritan  an- 
cestor who  came  to  America  in  the  next  ship  after 
the  May  Flower.  His  father  was  a  youthful  sol- 
dier in  the  Revolution,  and  one  of  the  latest,  if 
not  the  last,  of  the  survivors  of  the  Jersey  prison 
ship.  Having  acquired  a  competency  as  the  cap- 
tain of  a  New  York  merchantman,  he  retired  from 
the  sea  early  in  the  present  century,  to  Stock- 
bridge,  Berkshire  county,  Massachusetts,  where  he 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  days,  in  that  sunshine 
of  love  and  respect  which  has  gilded  the  declining 
years  of  so  many  men  of  our  heroic  age.  There, 
on  the  twenty-second  of  February,  1805,  our  poet 
was  born,  and  named  in  honour  of  the  great  orator 
whose  claims  to  gratitude  are  recognised  among  us 
in  a  thousand  living  monuments  which  bear  the 
name  of  WILLIAM  PITT. 


In  his  native  county,  Mr.  PALMER  has  told  me,  the 
first  and  happiest  half  of  his  life  was  spent  on  the 
farm,  in  the  desultory  acquisition  of  such  know- 
ledge as  could  then  be  obtained  from  a  New  Eng- 
land common  school,  and  a  "  college"  with  a  single 
professor.  The  other  half  has  been  chiefly  passed 
in  New  York,  as  a  medical  student,  teacher,  writer 
for  the  gazettes,  and,  for  several  years,  clerk  in  a 
public  office. 

Mr.  PALMER  is  a  man  of  warm  affections,  who 
finds  a  heaven  in  a  quiet  home.  He  is  a  lover 
of  nature,  too,  and  like  most  inhabitants  of  the 
pent-up  city,  whose  early  days  have  been  passed 
in  the  country,  he  delights  in  recollections  of  rural 
life.  Some  of  his  poems  have  much  tenderness 
and  delicacy,  and  they  are  generally  very  complete 
and  polished. 


LIGHT. 

FROM  the  quicken'd  womb  of  the  primal  gloom 

The  sun  roll'd  black  and  bare, 
Till  I  wove  him  a  vest  for  his  Ethiop  breast, 

Of  the  threads  of  my  golden  hair ; 
And  when  the  broad  tent  of  the  firmament 

Arose  on  its  airy  spars, 
I  pencill'd  the  hue  of  its  matchless  blue, 

And  spangled  it  round  with  stars. 

I  painted  the  flowers  of  the  Eden  bowers, 

And  their  leaves  of  living  green, 
And  mine  were  the  dyes  in  the  sinless  eyes 

Of  Eden's  virgin  queen  ; 
And  when  the  fiend's  art,  on  her  trustful  heart, 

Had  fastcn'd  its  mortal  spell, 
In  the  silvery  sphere  of  the  first-born  tear 

To  the  trembling  earth  I  fell. 

When  the  waves  that  burst  o'er  a  world  accursed 

Their  work  of  wrath  hath  sped, 
And  the  Ark's  lone  few,  the  tried  and  true, 

Came  forth  among  the  dead ; 
With  the  wondrous  gleams  of  my  braided  beams 

I  bade  their  terrors  cease ; 
As  I  wrote  on  the  roll  of  the  storm's  dark  scroll 

GOD'S  covenant  of  peace. 

Like  a  pall  at  rest  on  a  pulseless  breast, 

Night's  funeral  shadow  slept, 
Where  shepherd  swains  on  the  Bethlehem  plains 

Their  lonely  vigils  kept ; 
When  I  flash'd  on  their  sight  the  heralds  bright 

Of  heaven's  redeeming  plan, 
As  they  chanted  the  mom  of  a  Saviour  born — 

Joy,  joy  to  the  outcast  man ! 


Equal  favour  I  show  to  the  lofty  and  low, 

On  the  just  and  unjust  I  descend ; 
E'en  die  blind,  whose  vain  spheres  roll  in  darkness 
and  tears, 

Feel  my  smile  the  best  smile  of  a  friend  : 
Nay,  the  flower  of  the  waste  by  my  love  is  embraced, 

As  the  rose  in  the  garden  of  kings ; 
As  the  chrysalis  bier  of  the  worm  I  appear, 

And  lo !  the  gay  butterfly's  wings ! 

The  desolate  Morn,  like  a  mourner  forlorn, 

Conceals  all  the  pride  of  her  charms, 
Till  I  bid  the  bright  Hours  chase  the  Night  from 
her  bowers, 

And  lead  the  young  Day  to  her  arms ; 
And  when  the  gay  rover  seeks  Eve  for  his  lover, 

And  sinks  to  her  balmy  repose, 
I  wrap  their  soft  rest  by  the  zephyr-fann'd  west, 

In  curtains  of  amber  and  rose. 

From  my  sentinel  steep,  by  the  night-brooded  deep, 

I  gaze  with  unslumbering  eye, 
When  the  cynosure  star  of  the  mariner 

Is  blotted  from  the  sky ; 
And  guided  by  me  through  the  merciless  sea, 

Though  sped  by  the  hurricane's  wings, 
His  compassless  bark,  lone,  weltering,  dark, 

To  the  haven-home  safely  he  brings. 

I  waken  the  flowers  in  their  dew-spangled  bowers, 

The  birds  in  their  chambers  of  green, 
And  mountain  and  plain  glow  with  beauty  again, 

As  they  bask  in  my  matinal  sheen. 
O,  if  such  the  glad  worth  of  my  presence  to  earth, 

Though  fitful  and  fleeting  the  while, 
What  glories  must  rest  on  the  home  of  the  bless'd,  i 

Ever  bright  with  the  DEITY'S  smile  ! 

304 


WILLIAM    PITT    PALMER. 


305 


LINES  TO   A   CHRYSALIS. 

MUSING  long  I  asked  me  tills, 

Chrysalis, 

Lying  helpless  in  my  path, 
Obvious  to  mortal  scath 
From  a  careless  passer  by, 
What  thy  life  may  signify  ? 
Why,  from  hope  and  joy  apart, 

Thus  thou  art  1 

Nature  surely  did  amiss, 

Chrysalis, 

When  she  lavish'd  fins  and  wings 
Nerved  with  nicest  moving-springs, 
On  the  mote  and  madripore, 
Wherewithal  to  swim  or  soar ; 
And  dispensed  so  niggardly 

Unto  thee. 

E'en  the  very  worm  may  kiss, 

Chrysalis, 

Roses  on  their  topmost  stems 
Blazon'd  with  their  dewy  gems, 
And  may  rock  him  to  and  fro 
As  the  zephyrs  softly  blow ; 
Whilst  thou  lyest  dark  and  cold 

On  the  mould. 

Quoth  the  Chrysalis,  Sir  Bard, 

Not  so  hard 
Is  my  rounded  destiny 
In  the  great  Economy : 
Nay,  by  humble  reason  view'd, 
There  is  much  for  gratitude 
In  the  shaping  and  upshot 
Of  my  lot. 

Though  I  seem  of  all  things  born 

Most  forlorn, 

Most  obtuse  of  soul  and  sense, 
Next  of  kin  to  Impotence, 
Nay,  to  Death  himself;  yet  ne'er 
Priest  or  prophet,  sage  or  seer, 
May  sublimer  wisdom  teach 
Thdh  I  preach. 

From  my  pulpit  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  god, 

I  proclaim  this  wondrous  truth, 
Farthest  age  is  nearest  youth, 
Nearest  glory's  natal  porch, 
Where  with  pale,  inverted  torch, 
Death  lights  downward  to  the  rest 

Of  the  blest. 

Mark  yon  airy  butterfly's 

Rainbow-dyes ! 

Yesterday  that  shape  divine 

Was  as  darkly  hearsed  as  mine ; 

But  to-morrow  I  shall  be 

Free  and  beautiful  as  she, 

And  sweep  forth  on  wings  of  light, 
Like  a  sprite. 


Soul  of  man  in  crypt  of  clay  ! 

Bide  the  day 

When  thy  latent  wings  shall  be 
Plumed  for  immortality, 
And  with  transport  marvellous 
Cleave  their  dark  sarcophagus, 
O'er  Elysian  fields  to  soar 

Evermore ! 


THE  HOME  VALENTINE. 


STILL  fond  and  true,  though  wedded  long. 

The  bard,  at  eve  retired, 
Sat  smiling  o'er  the  annual  song 

His  home's  dear  Muse  inspired : 
And  as  he  traced  her  virtues  now 

With  all  love's  vernal  glow, 
A  gray  hair  from  his  bended  brow, 
Like  faded  leaf  from  autumn  bough, 

Fell  to  the1  page  below. 

He  paused,  and  with  a  mournful  mien 

The  sad  memento  raised, 
And  long  upon  its  silvery  sheen 

In  pensive  silence  gazed : 
And  if  a  sigh  escaped  him  then, 

It  were  not  strange  to  say ; 
For  fancy's  favourites  are  but  men ; 
And  who  e'er  felt  the  stoic  when 

First  conscious  of  decay  7 

Just  then  a  soft  cheek  press'd  his  own 

With  beauty's  fondest  tear, 
And  sweet  words  breathed  in  sweeter  tone 

Thus  murmur'd  in  his  ear : 
Ah,  sigh  not,  love  to  mark  the  trace 

Of  time's  unsparing  wand  ! 
It  was  not  manhood's  outward  grace, 
No  charm  of  faultless  form  or  face, 

That  won  my  heart  and  hand. 

Lo !  dearest,  mid  these  matron  locks, 

Twin-fated  with  thine  own, 
A  dawn  of  silvery  lustre  mocks 

The  midnight  they  have  known : 
But  time  to  blighted  cheek  and  tress 

May  all  his  snows  impart ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  feel  in  my  caress 
No  chill  of  waning  tenderness, 

No  whiter  of  the  heart ! 

Forgive  me,  dearest  Beatrice ! 

The  grateful  bard  replied, 
As  nearer  and  with  tenderer  kiss 

He  pressed  her  to  his  side : 
Forgive  the  momentary  tear 

To  manhood's  faded  prime ; 
I  should  have  felt,  hadst  thou  been  near, 
Our  hearts  indeed  have  nought  to  fear 

From  all  the  frosts  of  time  ! 


2c  2 


CHARLES   FENNO   HOFFMAN. 


[Bom,  \SOS.} 


THE  author  of  "Greyslaer,"  "Wild  Scenes  in 
the  Forest  and  the  Prairie,"  etc.,  is  a  brother  of 
the  Honourable  OGDEN  HOFFMAN,  and  a  son  of 
the  late  eminent  lawyer  of  the  same  name.*  He 
is  the  child  of  a  second  marriage.  His  maternal 
grandfather  was  Jonx  FF.X>-O,  of  Philadelphia, 
one  of  the  ablest  political  writers  of  the  old  Fede- 
ral party,  during  the  administration  of  WASHING- 
TON. The  family,  which  is  a  numerous  one  in 
the  state  of  New  York,  planted  themselves,  at  an 
early  day,  in  the  valley  of  the  Hudson,  as  appears 
from  the  Dutch  records  of  PETER  STUTVESAXT'S 
storied  reign. 

Mr.  HOFFXAX  was  born  in  New  York,  in  the 
year  1806.  He  was  sent  to  a  Latin  grammar- 
school  in  that  city,  when  six  years  old,  from  which, 
at  the  age  of  nine,  he  was  transferred  to  the 
Poughkeepsie  academy,  a  seminary  upon  the 
Hudson,  about  eighty  miles  from  New  York,  which 
at  that  time  enjoyed  great  reputation.  The  harsh 
treatment  he  received  here  induced  him  to  run 
away,  and  his  father,  finding  that  he  had  not  im- 
proved under  a  course  of  severity,  did  not  insist 
upon  his  return,  but  placed  him  under  the  care  of 
an  accomplished  Scottish  gentleman  in  one  of 
the  rural  villages  of  New  Jersey.  During  a  visit 
home  from  this  place,  and  when  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  he  met  with  an  injury  which  in- 
volved the  necessity  of  the  immediate  amputa- 
tion of  the  right  leg,  above  the  knee.  The  pain- 
ful circumstances  are  minutely  detailed  in  the 
New  York  "Evening  Post,"  of  the  twenty-fifth 
of  October?  1817,  from  which  it  appears,  that 
while,  with  other  lads,  attempting  the  dangerous 
feat  of  leaping  aboard  a  steamer  as  she  passed  a  pier, 
under  full  way,  he  was  caught  between  the  vessel 
and  the  wharf.  The  steamer  swept  by,  and  left 
him  clinging  by  his  hands  to  the  pier,  crushed  in 
a  manner  too  frightful  for  description.  This  de- 
privation, instead  of  acting  as  a  disqualification 
for  the  manly  sports  of  youth,  and  thus  turning 
the  subject  of  it  into  a  retired  student,  seems  rather 
to  have  given  young  HOFFMAN  an  especial  ambi- 
tion to  excel  in  swimming,  riding,  etc.,  to  the  still 
further  neglect  of  perhaps  more  useful  acquire- 
ments. 

When  fifteen  years  old,  he  entered  Columbia 
College,  and  here,  as  at  preparatory  schools,  was 
noted  rather  for  success  in  gymnastic  exercises 


*  Judge  HOFFMAN  was,  in  curly  life,  one  of  the  most 
dislinsuis!i?il  advocates  at  the  American  bar.  He  won 
his  first  ivmse  in  \«w  Jersey  at  the  age  of  seventeen  ;  the 
illness  of  counsel  or  the  indulgence  of  the  court  giving 
him  the  opportunity  to  ?ppak.  At  twenty-one  he  suc- 
ceeded his  father  as  representative,  from  New  York,  in 
the  state  legislature.  At  twenty-six  he  filled  the  office 
of  attorney-general;  and  thenceforth  the  still  youthful 
pleader  was  often  the  successful  competitor  of  HAMIL- 
TON, Hi  RH,  PIXKNKV,  and  other  professional  giants,  for 
the  highest  honours  of  the  legal  forum. 


than  in  those  of  a  more  intellectual  character. 
His  reputation,  judging  from  his  low  position  in 
his  class,  contrasted  with  the  honours  that  were 
awarded  him  by  the  college-societies  at  their  anni- 
versary exhibitions,  was  greater  with  the  students 
than  with  the  faculty,  though  the  honorary  degree 
of  Master  of  Arts,  conferred  upon  him  under  pe- 
culiarly gratifying  circumstances,  after  leaving  the 
institution  in  his  third  or  junior  year,  without 
having  graduated,  clearly  implies  that  he  was  still 
a  favourite  with  his  alma  iniiter.* 

Immediately  after  leaving  college — being  then 
eighteen  years  old — he  commenced  the  study  ot'the 
law  with  the  Honourable  HAHMAMJS  BLF.F.CKF.R, 
of  Albany,  now  Charge  d' Affaires  ot'the  United 
States  at  the  Hague.  When  twenty-one,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  in  the  succeeding  three 
years  he  practised  in  the  courts  of  the  city  of  New 
York.  During  this  period  he  wrote  anonymously 
for  the  New  York  American — having  made  his 
first  essay  as  a  writer  for  the  gazettes  while  in  Al- 
bany— and  I  believe  finally  became  associated  with 
Mr.  CHARLES  KING-  in  the  editorship  of  that 
paper.  Certainly  he  gave  up  the  legal  profession, 
for  the  successful  prosecution  of  which  he  appears 
to  have  been  unfitted  by  his  love  of  books,  society, 
and  the  rod  and  gun.  His  feelings  at  this  period 
are  described  in  some  rhymes,  entitled  "  Forest 
Musings,"  from  which  the  following  stanzas 
quoted,  to  show  the  fine  relish  for  forest-life 
scenery  which  has  thrown  a  peculiar  charm  aro 
every  production  from  his  pen  : — 

The  hunt  is  up — 
The  merry  woodland  shout, 
That  rung  these  echoing  glades  about 

An  hour  agor.e, 
TIath  swept  beyond  the  eastern  hills, 

Where,  pale  and  lone, 
The  moon  her  mystic  circle  fills; 
A  while  across  the  setting  sun's  broad  disc 
The  dusky  larch, 

As  if  to  pierce  the  blue  o'erhanging  arch, 
Lifts  its  tall  obelisk. 
And  now  from  thicket  dark, 

Where,  by  the  mist-wreathed  river, 
The  fire-fly's  spark 
Will  filfiil  quiver, 
And  bubbles  round  the  lily's  cup 
From  larking  trout  come  coursing  up, 
The  doe  hath  led  her  fawn  to  drink ; 

While,  scared  by  step  so  near, 
Uprising  from  the  sedgy  brink 
The  lonely  bittern's  cry  will  sink 

Upon  the  startled  ear. 
And  thus  upon  my  dreaming  youth, 

When  boyhood's  gambols  pleased  no  more, 
And  young  Romance,  in  euise  of  Truth, 
Usurp'd  the  heart  all  their?  Iief«re  ; 

*  At  the  first  semi-centennial  anniversary  of  the  in- 
corporation of  Columbia  College,  the  honorary  degree 
Master  of  Arts  was  conferred  upon  FITZ-GREENT  HAL- 
LECK,  WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT,  and  CHARLES  FEXKO 
HOFFMAN. 

306 


CHARLES    FENNO    HOFFMAN. 


307 


Thus  broke  ambition's  trumpet-note 

On  Visions  wild, 
Yet  blithesome  as  this  river 
On  which  the  smiling  moon-beams  float, 
That  thus  have  there  for  ages  smiled, 
And  will  thus  smile  forever. 
And  now  no  more  the  fresh  green-wood, 

The  forest's  fretted  aisles 
And  leafy  domes  above  them  bent, 
And  solitude 

So  eloquent! 
Mocking  the  varied  skill  that's  blent 

In  art's  most  gor{«jous  piles — 
No  more  can  soothe  my  soul  to  sleep 
Than  they  can  awe  the  sounds  that  sweep 
To  hunter's  horn  and  merriment 
Their  verdant  passes  through, 
When  fresh  the  dun-deer  leaves  his  scent 

Upon  the  morning  dew. 
The  game's  afoot! — and  let  the  chase 

Lead  on,  whate'er  my  destiny — 
Though  fate  her  funeral  drum  may  brace 

Full  soon  for  me  ! 

And  wave  death's  pageant  o'er  me — 
Yet  now  the  new  and  untried  world 
Like  maiden  banner  first  unfurl'd, 

Is  glancing  bright  before  me! 
The  quarry  soars !  and  mine  is  now  the  sky, 
Where,  "at  what  bird  I  please,  my  hawk  shall  fly!" 
Yet  something  whispers  through  the  wood 

A  voice  like  that  perchance 
Which  taught  the  haunter  of  EDEMA'S  grove 
To  tame  the  Roman's  dominating  mood 

And  lower,  for  awhile,  his  conquering  lance 
Before  the  images  of  Law  and  Love — 
Some  mystic  voice  that  ever  since  hath  dwelt 

Along  with  Echo  in  her  dim  retreat, 
A  voice  whose  influence  all,  at  times,  have  felt 
By  wood,  or  glen,  or  where  on  silver  strand 
The  clasping  waves  of  Ocean's  belt 
Do  clashing  meet 

Around  the  land: 
It  whispers  me  that  soon — too  soon 
The  pulses  which  now  beat  so  high 
Impatient  with  the  world  to  cope 
Will,  like  the  hues  of  autumn  sky, 
Be  changed  and  fallen  ere  life's  noon 
Should  tame  its  morning  hope. 
It  tells  me  not  of  heart  betray'd 

Of  health  impair'd, 
Of  fruitless  toil, 

And  ills  alike  by  thousands  shared, 
Of  which  each  year  some  link  is  made 

To  add  to  "  mortal  coil :" 
And  yet  its  strange  prophetic  tone 
So  faintly  murmurs  to  my  soul 
The  fate  to  be  my  own, 
That  all  of  those  may  be 

Reserved  for  me 
Ere  manhood's  early  years  can  o'er  me  roll. 

Yet  why, 

While  Hope  so  jocund  singeth 
And  with  her  plumes  the  gray-beard's  arrow  wingeth, 

Should  I 

Think  only  of  the  barb  itbringeth? 
Though  every  dream  deceive 

That  to  my  youth  is  dearest, 
Until  my  heart  they  leave 
Like  forest  leaf  when  searest — 
Yet  still,  mid  forest  leives, 

Where  now 

Its  tissue  tliiis  my  idle  fancy  weaves, 
Still  with  heart  new-blossoming 
While  leaves,  and  buds,  and  wild  flowers  spring, 

At  Nature's  shrine  I'll  bow; 
Nor  seek  in  vain  that  truth  in  her 
She  keeps  for  her  idolater. 


Since  that  time  Mr.  HOFFMAX  has  devoted  his 
attention  almost  constantly  to  literature.  \Vhile 
connected  with  the  "  American,"  he  published  a 
series  of  brilliant  articles  in  that  paper,  under  the 
signature  of  a  star  (*),  which  attracted  much  at- 
tention. In  1833,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health, 
he  left  New  York  on  a  travelling  tour  for  the  "  far 
west,"  and  his  letters,  written  during  his  absence, 
were  also  first  published  in  that  popular  journal. 
They  were  afterward  included  in  his  "  Winter  in 
the  West,"  of  which  the  first  impression  appeared 
in  New  York,  in  1834,  and  the  second,  soon  after, 
in  London.  This  work  has  passed  through  many 
editions,  and  it  will  continue  to  be  popular  so  long 
as  graphic  descriptions  of  scenery  and  character, 
and  richness  and  purity  of  style,  are  admired.  His 
next  work,  entitled  "  Wild  Scenes  in  the  Forest 
and  the  Prairie,"  was  first  printed  in  1837,  and, 
like  its  predecessor,  it  contains  many  admirable 
pictures  of  scenery,  inwoven  with  legends  of  the 
western  country,  and  descriptive  poetry.  This 
was  followed  by  a  romance,  entitled  "  Greyslaer," 
founded  upon  the  famous  criminal  trial  of  BEAU- 
CHAMP,  for  the  murder  of  Colonel  SHARPS,  the  So- 
licitor-General of  Kentucky, — the  particulars  of 
which,  softened  away  in  the  novel,  are  minutely 
detailed  in  the  appendix  to  his  «  Winter  in  the 
West."  "  Greyslaer"  was  a  successful  novel — 
two  editions  having  appeared  in  the  author's  native 
city,  one  in  Philadelphia,  and  a  fourth  in  London, 
in  the  same  year.  It  placed  him  in  the  front  rank 
of  American  novelists.  He  describes  in  it,  with 
remarkable  felicity,  American  forest-life,  and  sa- 
vage warfare,  and  gives  a  truer  idea  of  the  border 
contests  of  the  Revolution  than  any  formal  his- 
tory of  the  period  that  has  been  published. 

The  Knickerbocker  magazine  was  first  issued 
under  the  editorial  auspices  of  Mr.  HOFFMAX. 
He  subsequently  became  the  proprietor  of  the 
American  Monthly  Magazine,  (one  of  the  ablest 
literary  periodicals  ever  published  in  this  country,) 
and  during  the  long  term  of  which  he  was  the 
chief  editor  of  this  journal,  he  also,  for  one  year, 
conducted  the  New  York  Mirror,  for  its  proprietor, 
and  wrote  a  series  of  zealous  papers  in  favour  of 
international  copyright,  for  the  New  Yorker,  the 
Corsair,  and  other  journals. 

Mr.  HOFFMAN  published  in  1843  «  The  Vigil  of 
Faith,  a  Legend  of  the  Andirondack  Mountains,  and 
other  Poems  ;"in  1844,"  Borrowed  Notes  for  Home 
Circulation,"  (the  title  of  which  was  suggested  by 
an  article  on  «  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America," 
in  "  The  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,")  and  near 
the  close  of  1845,  through  the  house  of  Harper  and 
Brothers,  of  New  York,  the  most  complete  collec- 
tion that  has  been  printed  of  his  poetical  writings. 

The  poetry  of  Mr.  HOFFJIAX  is  graceful  and 
fanciful.  No  American  is  comparable  to  him  as 
a  song-writer.  Although  some  of  his  pieces  are 
exquisitely  finished,  they  have  all  evidently  been 
thrown  off  without  labour,  in  moments  of  feeling. 
A  few  of  his  pieces,  in  which  he  has  copied  the 
style  of  "  the  old  and  antique  song,"  are  equal 
to  the  richest  melodies  of  the  time  of  HEIIHICK 
and  WALLEII. 


308 


CHARLES   FENNO   HOFFMAN. 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  HUDSON. 

WRITTEN   AT   WEST  POINT. 

I  'M  not  romantic,  but,  upon  my  word, 

There  are  some  moments  when  one  can't  help 
feeling 

As  if  his  heart's  chords  were  so  strongly  stirr'd 
By  things  around  him,  that 't  is  vain  concealing 

A  little  music  in  his  soul  still  lingers, 

Whene'er  its  keys  are  touch'd  by  Nature's  fingers : 

And  even  here,  upon  this  settee  lying, 

With  many  a  sleepy  traveller  near  me  snoozing, 

Thoughts  warm  and  wild  are  through  my  bosom 

flying, 
Like  founts  when  first  into  the  sunshine  oozing: 

For  who  can  look  on  mountain,  sky,  and  river, 

Like  these,  and  then  be  cold  and  calm  as  ever  ? 

Bright  Dian,  who,  Camilla-like,  dost  skim  yon 
Azure  fields — thou  who,  once  earth  ward  bending, 

Didst  loose  thy  virgin  zone  to  young  ENDYMION 
On  dewy  Latinos  to  his  arms  descending — 

Thou  whom  the  world  of  old  on  every  shore, 

Type  of  thy  sex,  Triformis,  did  adore : 

Tell  me — where'er  thy  silver  bark  be  steering, 
By  bright  Italian  or  soft  Persian  lands, 

Or  o'er  those  island-studded  seas  careering, 

Whose  pearl-charged  waves  dissolve  on  coral 
strands ; 

Tell  if  thou  visitest,  thou  heavenly  rover, 

A  lovelier  stream  than  this  the  wide  world  over  1 

Doth  Achelous  or  Araxes,  flowing 

Twin-born    from    Pindus,    but    ne'er-meeting 

brothers — 

Doth  Tagus,  o'er  his  golden  pavement  glowing, 
Or   cradle-freighted  Ganges,  the   reproach   of 

mothers, 

The  storied  Rhine,  or  far-famed  Guadalquiver — 
Match  they  in  beauty  my  own  glorious  river ! 

What  though  no  cloister  gray  nor  ivied  column 
Along  these  cliffs  their  sombre  ruins  rear  1 

What  though  no  frowning  tower  nor  temple  solemn 
Of  despots  tell  and  superstition  here — 

What  though  that  mouldering  fort's  fast-crumbling 
walls 

Did  ne'er  enclose  a  baron's  banner'd  halls — 

Its  sinking  arches  once  gave  back  as  proud 
An  echo  to  the  war-blown  clarion's  peal — 

As  gallant  hearts  its  battlements  did  crowd 
As  ever  beat  beneath  a  vest  of  steel, 

When  herald's  trump  on  knighthood's  haughtiest 
day 

Call'd  forth  chivalric  host  to  battle-fray : 

For  here  amid  these  wooils  did  he  keep  court, 
B.-fori1  wh'xe  mighty  soul  the  common  crowd 

Of  heroes,  who  alone  for  fame  have  fought, 

Are  like  the   patriarch's  sheaves  to  Heaven's 
chosen  bovv'd — 

HE  who  his  country's  ea^le  taught  to  soar, 

And  fired  those  stars  which  shine  o'er  every  shore. 


And  sights  and  sounds  at  which  the  world  have 

wonder'd 

Within  these  wild  ravines  have  had  their  birth  ; 
Young  Freedom's  cannon  from  these  glens  have 

thunder'd, 

And  sent  their  startling  echoes  o'er  the  earth ; 
And  not  a  verdant  glade  nor  mountain  hoary 
But  treasures  up  within  the  glorious  story. 

And  yet  not  rich  in  high-soul'd  memories  only, 
Is     every     moon-kiss'd   headland   round     me 
gleaming, 

Each  cavern'd  glen  and  leafy  valley  lonely, 

And  silver  torrent  o'er  the  bald  rock  streaming: 

But  such  soft  fancies  here  may  breathe  around, 

As  make  Vaucluse  and  Clarens  hallow'd  ground. 

Where,  tell  me  where,  pale  watcher  of  the  night — 
Thou  that  to  love  so  oft  has  lent  its  soul, 

Since  the  lorn  Lesbian  languish'd  'neath  thy  light, 
Or  fiery  ROMEO  to  his  JULIET  stole — 

Where  dost  thou  find  a  fitter  place  on  earth 

To  nurse  young  love  in  hearts  like  theirs  to  birth  ? 

O,  loiter  not  upon  that  fairy  shore, 

To  watch  the  lazy  barks  in  distance  glide, 

When  sunset  brightens  on  their  sails  no  more, 
And  stern-lights  twinkle  in  the  dusky  tide — 

Loiter  not  there,  young  heart,  at  that  soft  hour, 

What  time  the  bird  of  night  proclaims  love's  power. 

Even  as  I  gaze  upon  my  memory's  track, 
Bright  as  that  coil  of  light  along  the  deep, 

A  scene  of  early  youth  comes  dream-like  back. 
Where  two  stand  gazing  from  yon  tide-wash'd 
steep — 

A  sanguine  stripling,  just  toward  manhood  flushing, 

A  girl  scarce  yet  in  ripen'd  beauty  blushing. 

The  hour  is  his — and,  while  his  hopes  are  soaring, 
Doubts  he  th.it  maiden  will  become  his  bride ! 

Can  she  resist  that  gush  of  wild  adoring, 
Fresh  from  a  heart  full-volumcd  as  the  tide] 

Tremulous,  but  radiant  is  that  peerless  daughter 

Of  loveliness — as  is  the  star-paved  water ! 

The  moist  leaves  glimmer  as  they  glimmer'd  then — 
Alas !  how  oft  have  they  been  since  renew'd  ! 

How  oft  the  whip-poor-will  from  yonder  glen 
Each  year  has  whistled  to  her  callow  brood  ! 

How  oft  have  lovers  by  yon  star's  same  beam 

Dream'd  here  of  bliss — and  wakcn'd  from  their 
dream ! 

But  now,  bright  Peri  of  the  skies,  descending, 
Thy  pearly  car  hangs  o'er  yon  mountain's  crest, 

And  Night,  more  nearly  now  each  step  attending, 
As  if  to  hide  thy  envied  place  of  rest, 

Closes  at  last  thy  very  couch  beside, 

A  matron  curtaining  a  virgin  bride. 

Farewell !  Though  tears  on  every  leaf  arc  starting : 
While  through  the  shadowy  boughs  thy  glances 
quiver, 

As  of  the  good  when  heavenward  hence  departing, 
Shines  thy  last  smile  upon  the  placid  river. 

So — could  I  fling  o'er  glory's  title  one  ray — 

Would  I  too  steal  from  tliis  dark  world  away. 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


309 


THE  BOB-0-LINKUM. 

THOU  vocal  sprite — thou  feather5 J  troubadour! 

In  pilgrim  weeds  through  many  a  clime  a  ranger, 
Com'st  thou  to  doff  thy  russet  suit  once  more, 

And  play  in  foppish  trim  the  masquing  stranger] 
Philosophers  may  teach  thy  whereabouts  and  nature, 

But  wise,  as  all  of  us,  perforce,  must  think  'em, 
The  school-boy  best  hath  fix'd  thy  nomenclature, 

And  poets,  too,  must  call  thee  Bob-0-Linkum. 

Say !  art  thou,  long  mid  forest  glooms  benighted, 

So  glad  to  skim  our  laughing  meadows  over — 
With  our  gay  orchards  here  so  much  delighted, 

It  makes  thee  musical,  thou  airy  rover  1 
Or  are  those  buoyant  notes  the  pilfer'd  treasure 

Of  fairy  isles,  which  thou  hast  learn'd  to  ravish 
Of  all  their  sweetest  minstrelsy  at  pleasure, 

And,  Ariel-like,  again  on  men  to  lavish  ? 

They  tell  sad  stories  of  thy  mad-cap  freaks 

Wherever  o'er  the  land  thy  pathway  ranges; 
And  even  in  a  brace  of  wandering  weeks, 

They  say,  alike  thy  song  and  plumage  changes ; 
Here  both  are  gay  ;  and  when  the  buds  put  forth, 

And  leafy  June  is  shading  rock  and  river. 
Thou  art  unmatdi'd,  blithe  warbler  of  the  North, 

While  through  the  balmy  air  thy  clear  notes 
quiver. 

Joyous,  yet  tender — was  that  gush  of  song 

Caught  from  the  brooks,  where  mid  its  wild  flowers 
The  silent  prairie  listens  all  day  loner,  [smiling 

The  only  captive  to  such  sweet  beguiling; 
Or  didst  thou,  flitting  through  the  verdurous  halls 

And  column'd  isles  of  western  groves  symphoni- 
Learn  from  the  tuneful  woods, rare  madrigals,  [ous, 

To  make  our  flowering  pastures  here  harmonious"? 

Cauaht'st  thou  thy  carol  from  Otawa  maid,      [ing, 

Where,  through  the  liquid  fields  of  wild  rice  plash- 
Brushing  the  ears  from  off  the  burden'd  blade, 

Her  birch  canoe  o'er  some  lone  lake  is  flashing  ? 
Or  did  the  reeds  of  some  savannah  South, 

Detain  thee  while  thy  northern  flight  pursuing, 
To  place  those  melodies  in  thy  sweet  mouth, 

The  spice-fed  winds  had  taught  them  in  their 
wooing  1 

Unthrifty  prodigal ! — is  no  thought  of  ill 

Thy  ceaseless  roundelay  disturbing  ever  1 
Or  doth  each  pulse  in  choiring  cadence  still 

Throb  on  in  music  till  at  rest  for  ever? 
Yet  now  in  wilder'd  maze  of  concord  floating, 

'T  would  seem  that  glorious  hymning  to  prolong, 
Old  Time  in  hearing  thee  might  fall  a-doating 

And  pause  to  listen  to  thy  rapturous  song ! 


THE   REMONSTRANCE. 

You  give  up  the  world  !  why,  as  well  might  the  sun, 

When  tired  of  drinking  the  dew  from  the  flowers, 

While  his  rays,  like  young  hopes,  stealing  off  one 

by  one, 

Die  away  with  the  muezzin's  last  note  from  the 
towers, 


Declare  that  he  never  would  gladden  again, 

With  one  rosy  smile,  the  young  morn  in  its  birth ; 

But  leave  weeping  Day,  with  her  sorrowful  train 
Of  hours,  to  grope  o'er  a  pall-cover'd  earth. 

The  light  of  that  soul  once  so  brilliant  and  steady, 

So  far  can  the  incense  of  flattery  smother, 
That,  at  thought  of  the  world  of  hearts  conquer'd 
already, 

Like  Macedon's  madman,  you  weep  for  another  1 
0  !  if  sated  with  this,  you  would  seek  worlds  untried, 

And  fresh  as  was  ours,  when  first  we  began  it, 
Let  me  know  but  the  sphere  where  you  next  will 
abide, 

And  that  instant,  for  one,  I  am  off  for  that  planet 


^  PRIMEVAL    WOODS. 

YES  !  even  here,  not  less  than  in  the  crowd, 
Here,  where  yon  vault  in  formal  sweep  seems  piled 
Upon  the  pines,  monotonously  proud, 
Fit  dome  for  fane,  within  whose  hoary  veil 
No  ribald  voice  an  echo  hath  defiled— 
W'here  Silence  seems  articulate ;  up-stealing 
Like  a  low  anthem's  heavenward  wail : — 
Oppressive  on  my  bosom  weighs  the  feeling 
Of  thoughts  that  language  cannot  shape  aloud; 
For  song  too  solemn,  and  for  prayer  too  wild, — 
Thoughts,  which  beneath  no  human  power  could 

quail, 

For  lack  of  utterance,  in  abasement  bow'd, — 
The  cavern'd  waves  that  struggle  for  revealing. 
Upon  whose  idle  foam  alone  God  s  light  hath  smiled. 

Ere  long  thine  every  stream  shall  find  a  tongue, 
Land  of  the  Many  Waters !     But  the  sound 
Of  human  music,  these  wild  hills  among, 
Hath  no  one  save  the  Indian  mother  flung 
Its  spell  of  tenderness  ?     Oh,  o'er  this  ground 
So  redolent  of  Ueauty,  hath  there  play'd  no  breath 
Of  human  poesy — none  beside  the  word 
Of  Love,  as,  murmur'd  these  old  boughs  beneath, 
Some  fierce  and  savage  suitor  it  hath  stirr'd 
To  gentle  issues — none  but  these  been  heard  1 
No  mind,  no  soul  here  kindled  but  my  own  1 
Doth  not  one  hollow  trunk  about  resound 
With  the  faint  echoes  of  a  song  long  flown, 
By  shadows  like  itself  now  haply  heard  alone  1 

And  Ye,  with  all  this  primal  growth  must  go ! 
And  loiterers  beneath  some  lowly  spreading  shade, 
Where  pasture-kissing  breezes  shall,  ere  then,  have 

play'd, 

A  century  hence,  will  doubt  that  there  could  grow 
From  that  meek  land  such  Titans  of  the  glade ! 
Yet  wherefore  primal?  when  beneath  my  tread 
Are  roots  whose  thrifty  growth,  perchance,  hath 

arm'd 

The  Anak  spearman  when  his  trump  alarm'd! 
Roots  that  the  Deluge  wave  hath  plunged  below ; 
Stvds  that  the  Deluge  wind  hath  scattered  ; 
Berries  that  Eden's  warblers  may  have  fed ; 
Safe  in  the  slime  of  earlier  worlds  embalmM  : 
Again  to  quicken,  germinate  and  blow,     [charm'd. 
Again  to  charm  the  land  as  erst  the  land  they 


310 


CHARLES    FENNO    HOFFMAN. 


LE    FAINEANT. 


«  Now  arouse  thee,  Sir  Knight,  from  thine  indolent 

case, 

Fling  boldly  thy  banner  abroad  in  the  breeze, 
Strike  home  for  thy  lady — strive  hard  for  the  prize, 
And  thy  guerdon  shall  beam  from  her  love-lighted 

eyes!" 

"  I  shrink  not  the  trial,"  that  bluff  knight  replied — 
"  But  I  battle — not  I — for  an  unwilling  bride  ; 
Where  the  boldest  may  venture  to  do  and  to  dare, 
My  pennon  shall  flutter — my  bugle  peal  there ! 

"  I  quail  not  at  aught  in  the  struggle  of  life, 
I'm  not  all  unproved  even  now  in  the  strife, 
But  the  wreath  that  I  win,  all  unaided — alone, 
Round  a  faltering  brow  it  shall  never  be  thrown !" 

«  Now  fie  on  thy  manhood,  to  deem  it  a  sin 
That  she  loveth  the  glory  thy  falchion  might  win ; 
Let  them  doubt  of  thy  prowess  and  fortune  no  more ; 
Up  !  Sir  Knight,  for  thy  lady — and  do  thy  devoir !" 

"  She  hath  shrunk  from  my  side,  she  hath  fail'd  in 

her  trust, 

Not  relied  on  my  blade,  but  remember'd  its  rust ; 
It  shall  brighten  once  more  in  the  field  of  its  fame, 
But  it  is  not  for  her  I  would  now  win  a  name." 

The  knight  rode  away,  and  the  lady  she  sigh'd, 
When  he  featly  as  ever  his  steed  would  bestride, 
While  the  mould  from  the  banner  he  shook  to  the 

wind 
Seem'd  to  fall  on  the  breast  he  left  aching  behind. 

But  the  rust  on  his  glaive  and  the  rust  in  his  heart 
Had  corroded  too  long  and  too  deep  to  depart, 
And  the  brand  only  brighten'd  in  honour  once  more, 
When  the  heart  ceased  to  beat  on  the  fray-trampled 
shore. 


TO  AN  AUTUMN  ROSE. 

TELL  her  I  love  her — love  her  for  those  eyes 
Now  soft  with  feeling,  radiant  now  with  mirth 
Which,  like  a  lake  reflecting  autumn  skies, 
Reveal  two  heavens  here  to  us  on  Earth — 
The  one  in  which  their  soulful  beauty  lies, 
And  that  wherein  such  soulfulness  has  birth: 
Go  to  my  lady  ere  the  season  flies, 
And  the  rude  winter  comes  thy  bloom  to  blast — 
Go !  and  with  all  of  eloquence  thou  hast, 
The  burning  story  of  my  love  discover, 
And  if  the  theme  should  fail,  alas !  to  move  her, 
Tell  her  when  youth's  gay  budding-time  is  past, 
And  summer's  gaudy  flowering  is  over, 
Like  thee,  my  love  will  blossom  to  the  last ! 


SYMPATHY. 


WELL  !  call  it  Friendship .'  have  I  ask'd  for  more, 
Even  in  those  moments,  when  I  gave  thee  most 1 
'Twas  but  for  thee,  I  look'd  so  far  before ! 
I  saw  our  bark  was  hurrying  blindly  on, 
A  guideless  tiling  upon  a  dangerous  coast — 


With  thcc — with  thee,  where  would  I  not  have  gone  1 
But  could  I  see  thee  drift  upon  the  shore, 
Unknowing  drift  upon  a  shore,  unknown  1 
Yiv,  call  it  Friendship,  and  let  no  revealing 
If  love  be  there,  e'er  make  love's  wild  name  heard, 
It  will  not  die,  if  it  be  worth  concealing  ! 
Call  it  then  Friendship— but  oh,  let  that  word 
Speak  but  for  me — for  me,  a  deeper  feeling 
Than  ever  yet  a  lover's  bosom  stirr'd  ! 


A  PORTRAIT. 


NOT  hers  the  charms  whioh  Laura's  lover  drew, 
Or  Titian's  pencil  on  the  canvas  threw ; 
No  soul  enkindled  beneath  southern  skies 
Glow'd  on  her  cheek  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes ; 
No  prurient  charms  set  off  her  slender  form 
With  swell  voluptuous  and  with  contour  warm ; 
While  each  proportion  was  by  Nature  told 
In  maiden  beauty's  most  bewitching  mould. 
High  on  her  peerless  brow — a  radiant  throne 
IJnmix'd  with  aught  of  earth — pale  genius  sat  alone. 
And  yet,  at  times,  within  her  eye  there  dwelt 
Softness  that  would  the  sternest  bosom  melt ; 
A  depth  of  tenderness  which  show'd,  when  woke, 
That  woman  there  as  well  as  angel  spoke. 
Yet  well  that  eye  could  flash  resentment's  rays, 
Or,  proudly  scornful,  check  the  boldest  gaze  ; 
Chill  burning  passion  with  a  calm  disdain, 
Or  with  one  glance  rekindle  it  again. 
Her  mouth — Oh !  never  fascination  met 
Near  woman's  lips  half  so  alluring  yet : 
For  round  her  mouth  there  play'd,  at  times,  a  smile, 
Such  as  did  man  from  Paradise  beguile ; 
Such,  could  it  light  him  through  this  world  of  pain, 
As  he'd  not  barter  Eden  to  regain. 
What  though  that  smile  might  beam  alike  on  all ; 
What  though  that  glance  on  each  as  kindly  fall ; 
What  though  you  knew,  while  worshipping  their 

power, 

Your  homage  but  the  pastime  of  the  hour, 
Still  they,  however  guarded  were  the  heart, 
Could  every  feeling  from  its  fastness  start — 
Deceive  one  still,  howe'er  deceived  before, 
And  make  him  wish  thus  to  lie  cheated  more, 
Till,  grown  at  last  in  such  illusions  gray, 
Faith  follow'd  Hope  and  stole  with  Love  away. 
Such  was  Alinda ;  such  in  her  combined 
Those  charms  which  round  our  very  nature  wind ; 
Which,  when  together  they  in  one  conspire, 
He  who  admires  must  love — who  sees,  admire. 
Variably  perilous ;  upon  the  sight 
Now  beam'd  her  beauty  in  resistless  light, 
And  subtly  now  into  the  heart  it  stole, 
And,  ere  it  startled,  occupied  the  whole. 
'Twas  well  for  her,  that  lovely  mist-hief,  well 
That  she  could  not  the  pangs  it  waken'd  tell; 
That,  like  the  princess  in  the  fairy  tale, 
No  soft  emotions  could  her  soul  assail ; 
For  Nature, — that  Alinda  should  not  feel 
For  wounds  her  eyes  might  make,  but  never  heal, — 
In  mercy,  while  she  did  each  gift  impart 
Of  rarest  excellence,  withheld  a  heart  ! 


310 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


LE    FAINEANT. 


With  tlioo — with  tht-e,  where  would  I  not  have  gone  ? 
.Hut-canlil  T  coo  thpp  ilrift  nnon  the  shore. 


312 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


LOVE  AND  POLITICS. 

A  BIHTH-DAT  MEDITATION. 

ANOTHER  year !  alas,  how  swift, 
ALIXDA,  do  these  years  flit  by, 
Like  shadows  thrown  by  clouds  that  drift 

In  flakes  along  a  wintry  sky. 
Another  year !  another  leaf 
Is  turn'd  within  life's  volume  brief, 
And  yet  not  one  bright  page  appears 
Of  mine  within  that  book  of  years. 

There  are  some  moments  when  I  feel 

As  if  it  should  not  yet  be  so ; 
As  if  the  years  that  from  me  steal 

Had  not  a  right  alike  to  go, 
And  lose  themselves  in  Time's  dark  sea, 
Unbuoy'd  up  by  aught  from  me ; 
Aught  that  the  future  yet  might  claim 
To  rescue  from  their  wreck  a  name. 

But  it  was  love  that  taught  me  rhyme, 

And  it  was  thou  that  taught  me  love ; 
And  if  I  in  this  idle  chime 

Of  words  a  useless  sluggard  prove, 
It  was  thine  eyes  the  habit  nurs'd, 
And  in  their  light  I  learn'd  it  first. 
It  is  thine  eyes  which,  day  by  day, 
Consume  my  time  and  heart  away. 

And  often  bitter  thoughts  arise 

Of  what  I  've  lost  in  loving  thee, 
And  in  my  breast  my  spirit  dies, 

The  gloomy  cloud  around  to  see, 
Of  baffled  hopes  and  ruined  powers 
Of  mind,  and  miserable  hours — 
Of  self-upbraiding,  and  despair — 
Of  heart,  too  strong  and  fierce  to  bear. 

"  Why,  what  a  peasant  slave  am  I," 

To  bow  my  mind  and  bend  my  knee 
To  woman  in  idolatry, 

Who  takes  no  thought  of  mine  or  me. 
O,  GOD  !  that  I  could  breathe  my  life 
On  battle-plain  in  charging  strife — 
In  one  mad  impulse  pour  my  soul 
Far  beyond  passion's  base  control. 

Thus  do  my  jarring  thoughts  revolve 

Their  gather'd  causes  of  offence, 
Until  I  in  my  heart  resolve 

To  dash  thine  angel  image  thence ; 
When  some  bright  look,  some  accent  kind, 
Comes  freshly  in  my  heated  mind, 
And  scares,  like  newly-flushing  day, 
These  brooding  thoughts  like  owls  away. 

And  then  for  hours  and  hours  I  muse 

On  things  that  might,  yet  will  not  be, 
Till,  one  by  one,  my  feelings  lose 

Their  passionate  intensity, 
And  steal  away  in  visions  soft, 
Which  on  wild  wing  those  feelings  waft 
Far,  far  beyond  the  drear  domain 
Of  Reason  and  her  freezing  reign. 


And  now  again  from  their  gay  track 

I  call,  as  I  despondent  sit, 
Once  more  these  truant  fancies  back, 

Which  round  my  brain  so  idly  flit ; 
And  some  I  treasure,  some  I  blush 
To  own — and  these  I  try  to  crush — 
And  some,  too  wild  for  reason's  reign, 
I  loose  in  idle  r^yme  again. 

And  even  thus  my  moments  fly, 

And  even  thus  my  hours  decay, 
And  even  thus  my  years  slip  by, 

My  life  itself  is  wiled  away ; 
But  distant  still  the  mounting  hope, 
The  burning  wish  with  men  to  cope 
In  aught  that  minds  of  iron  mould 
May  do  or  dare  for  fame  or  gold. 

Another  year !  another  year, 

ALIXDA,  it  shall  not  be  so; 
Both  love  and  lays  forswear  I  here, 

As  I've  forsworn  thee  long  ago. 
That  name,  which  thou  wouldst  never  share, 
Proudly  shall  Fame  emblazon  where 
On  pumps  and  corners  posters  stick  it, 
The  highest  on  the  JACKSON  ticket 

WHAT  IS  SOLITUDE? 

NOT  in  the  shadowy  wood, 

Not  in  the  crag-hung  glen, 
Not  where  the  echoes  brood 

In  caves  untrod  by  men ; 
Not  by  the  bleak  sea-shore, 

Where  loitering  surges  break, 
Not  on  the  mountain  hoar, 

Not  by  the  breezeless  lake, 
Not  on  the  desert  plain, 

Where  man  hath  never  stood, 
Whether  on  isle  or  main — 

Not  there  is  solitude ! 

Birds  are  in  woodland  bowers, 

Voices  in  lonely  dells, 
Streams  to  the  listening  hours 

Talk  in  earth's  secret  cells  ; 
Over  the  gray-ribb'd  sand 

Breathe  ocean's  frothing  lips, 
Over  the  still  lake's  strand 

The  flower  toward  it  dips ; 
Pluming  the  mountain's  crest, 

Life  tosses  in  its  pines ; 
Coursing  the  desert's  breast, 

Life  in  the  steed's  mane  shines. 

Leave — if  thou  wouldst  be  lonely — 

Leave  Nature  for  the  crowd ; 
Seek  there  for  one — one  only — 

With  kindred  mind  endow'd ! 
There — as  with  Nature  erst 

Closely  thou  wouldst  commune — 
The  deep  soul-music,  nursed 

In  either  heart,  attune  ! 
Heart-wearied,  thou  wilt  own, 

Vainly  that  phantom  woo'd, 
That  thou  at  last  hast  known 

What  is  true  solitude  ! 


CHARLES   FENNO   HOFFMAN. 


313 


INDIAN  SUMMER,  1828. 

LIGHT  as  love's  smiles,  the  silvery  mist  at  morn 
Floats  in  loose  flakes  along  the  limpid  ri^pr ; 
The  blue  bird's  notes  upon  the  soft  breeze  borne, 
As  high  in  air  he  carols,  faintly  quiver ; 
The  weeping  birch,  like  banners  idly  waving, 
Bends  to  the  stream,  its  spicy  branches  laving ; 
Beaded  with  dew,  the  witch-elm's  tassels  shiver ; 
The  timid  rabbit  from  the  furze  is  peeping, 
And  from  the  springy  spray  the  squirrel's  gayly 
leaping. 

I  love  thee,  Autumn,  for  thy  scenery  ere 
The  blasts  of  winter  chase  the  varied  dyes 
That  richly  deck  the  slow-declining  year ; 
I  love  the  splendour  of  thy  sunset  skies, 
The  gorgeous  hues  that  tinge  each  failing  leaf, 
Lovely  as  beauty's  cheek,  as  woman's  love  too, 
I  love  the  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  flics,  [brief; 
As  on  the  wind  he  pours  his  parting  lay, 
And  wings  his   loitering  flight  to  summer  climes 
away. 

O,  Nature  !  still  I  fondly  turn  to  thee, 
With  feelings  fresh  as  e'er  my  childhood's  were ; — 
Though  wild  and  passion-toss'd  my  youth  may  be, 
Toward  thee  I  still  the  same  devotion  bear ; 
To  thee — to  thee — though  health  and  hope  no  more 
Life's  wasted  verdure  may  to  me  restore — 
I  still  can,  child-like,  come  as  when  in  prayer 
I  bow'd  my  head  upon  a  mother's  knee, 
And  deem'd  the  world,  like  her,  all  truth  and  purity. 


TOWN  REPININGS. 


RIVER  !  O,  river !  thou  rovest  free, 

From  the  mountain  height  to  the  fresh  blue  sea ! 

Free  thyself,  but  with  silver  chain, 

Linking  each  charm  of  land  and  main, 

From  the  splinter'd  crag  thou  leap'st  below, 

Through  leafy  glades  at  will  to  flow — 

Lingering  now,  by  the  steep's  moss'd  edge — 

Loitering  now  mid  the  dallying  sedge : 

And  pausing  ever,  to  call  thy  waves 

From  grassy  meadows  and  fern-clad  caves — 

And  then,  with  a  prouder  tide  to  break 

From  wooded  valley,  to  breezy  lake  : 

Yet  all  of  these  scenes,  though  fair  they  be, 

River  !  O,  river  !  are  bann'd  to  me. 

River  !  0,  river  !   upon  thy  tide 
Full  many  a  freighted  bark  doth  glide ; 
Would  that  thou  thus  couldst  bear  away 
The  thoughts  that  burthen  my  weary  day ! 
Or  that  I,  from  all  save  them  made  free, 
Though  laden  still,  might  rove  with  thee ! 
True  that  thy  waves  brief  lifetime  find, 
And  live  at  the  will  of  the  wanton  wind — 
True  that  thou  seekest  the  ocean's  flow, 
To  be  lost  therein  for  evermoe. 
Yet  the  slave  who  worships  at  Glory's  shrine, 
But  toils  for  a  bubble  as  frail  as  thine : 
But  loses  his  freedom  here,  to  be 
Forgotten  as  soon  as  in  death  set  free. 
40 


TO  A  LADY  BLUSHING. 

THK  lilies  faintly  to  the  roses  yield, 

As  on  thy  lovely  cheek  they  struggling  vie, 

(Who  would  not  strive  upon  so  sweet  a  field 
To  win  the  mastery1?) 

And  thoughts  are  in  thy  speaking  eyes  reveal'd, 

Pure  as  the  fount  the  prophet's  rod  unseal'd. 

I  could  not  wish  that  in  thy  bosom  aught 

Should  e'er  one  moment's  transient  pain  awaken, 

Yet  can't  regret  that  thou — forgive  the  thought—- 
As flowers  when  shaken 

Will  yield  their  sweetest  fragrance  to  the  wind, 

Should,  ruffled  thus,  betray  thy  heavenly  mind. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

THE  conflict  is  over,  the  struggle  is  past, 

I  have  look'd — I  have  loved — I  have  worshipp'd 

my  last, 
And  now  back  to  the  world,  and  let  Fate  do  her 

worst 

On  the  heart  that  for  thee  such  devotion  hath  nursed : 
To  thee  its  best  feelings  were  trusted  away, 
And  life  hath  hereafter  not  one  to  betray. 

Yet  not  in  resentment  thy  love  I  resign ; 
I  blame  not — upbraid  not — one  motive  of  thine ; 
I  ask  not  what  change  has  come  over  thy  heart, 
I  reck  not  what  chances  have  doom'd  us  to  part ; 
I  but  know  thou  hast  told  me  to  love  thee  no  more, 
And  I  still  must  obey  where  I  once  did  adore. 

Farewell,  then,  thou  loved  one — 0 !  loved  but  too 

well, 

Too  deeply,  too  blindly,  for  language  to  tell — 
Farewell !  thou  hast  trampled  love's  faith  in  the  dust, 
Thou  hast  torn  from  my  bosom  its  hope  and  its  trust ! 
Yet,  if  thy  life's  current  with  bliss  it  would  swell, 
I  would  pour  out  my  own  in  this  last  fond  farewell ! 


I  WILL  LOVE  HER  NO  MORE. 


I  WILL  love  her  no  more — 'tis  a  waste  of  the  heart, 
This  lavish  of  feeling — a  prodigal's  part  : 
Who,  heedless  the  treasure  a  life  could  not  earn, 
Squanders  forth  where  he  vainly  may  look  for  return. 

I  will  love  her  no  more ;  it  is  folly  to  give 
Our  best  years  to  one,  when  for  many  we  live. 
And  he  who  the  world  will  thus  barter  for  one, 
I  ween  by  such  traffic  must  soon  be  undone. 

I  will  love  her  no  more ;  it  is  heathenish  thus 
To  bow  to  an  idol  which  bends  not  to  us  ; 
Which  heeds  not,  which  hears  not,  which  recks 

not  for  aught 
That  the  worship  of  years  to  its  altar  hath  brought. 

I  will  love  her  no  more ;  for  no  love  is  without 
Its  limit  in  measure,  and  mine  hath  run  out ; 
She  engrosseth  it  all,  and,  till  some  she  restore, 
Than  this  moment  I  love  hei,  how  can  I  love  more  ? 
3D 


314 


CHARLES    FENNO    HOFFMAN. 


THEY  ARE   MOCKERY  ALL. 

THEY  are  mockery  all — those  skies,  those  skies — 

Their  untroubled  depths  of  blue — 
They  are  mockery  all — these  eyes,  these  eyes, 

Which  seem  so  warm  and  true, 
Each  tranquil  star  in  the  one  that  lies, 
Each  meteor  glance  that  at  random  flies 

The  other's  lashes  through ; 
They  are  mockery  all,  these  flowers  of  spring, 

Which  her  airs  so  softly  woo — 
And  the  love  to  which  we  would  madly  cHng, 

Ay !  it  is  mockery  too ; 
The  winds  are  false  which  the  perfume  stir, 

And  the  looks  deceive  to  which  we  sue, 
And  love  but  leads  to  the  sepulchre, 

Which  the  flowers  spring  to  strew. 


MELODY. 

WHEX  the  flowers  of  Friendship  or  Love  have  de- 

cay'd, 

In  the  heart  that  has  trusted  and  once  been  betray'd, 
No  sunshine  of  kindness  then-  bloom  can  restore ; 
For  the  verdure  of  feeling  will  quicken  no  more ! 

Hope  cheated  too  often  when  life's  in  its  spring, 
From  the  bosom  that  nursed  it  for  ever  takes  wing ! 
And  Memory  comes,  as  its.  promises  fade, 
To  brood  o'er  the  havoc  that  Passion  has  made. 

As  'tis  said  that  the  swallow  the  tenement  leaves 
Where  ruin  endangers  her  nest  in  the  eaves, 
While  the  desolate  owl  takes  her  place  on  the  wall, 
And  builds  in  the  mansion  that  nods  to  its  fall. 


MORNING  HYMN. 

"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  !"    The  Eternal  spoke, 

And  from  the  abyss  where  darkness  rode 
The  earliest  dawn  of  nature  broke, 

And  light  around  creation  flow'd. 
The  glad  earth  smiled  to  see  the  day, 

The  first-born  day,  come  blushing  in ; 
The  young  day  smiled  to  shed  its  ray 

Upon  a  world  untouch'd  by  sin. 

«  Let  there  be  light !"  O'er  heaven  and  earth, 

The  GOD  who  first  the  day-beam  pour'd, 
Utter'd  again  his  fiat  forth, 

And  shed  the  gospel's  light  abroad, 
And,  like  the  dawn,  its  cheering  rays 

On  rich  and  poor  were  meant  to  fall, 
Inspiring  their  Redeemer's  praise, 

In  lowly  cot  and  lordly  hall. 

Then  come,  when  in  the  orient  first 

Flushes  the  signal-light  for  prayer ; 
Come  with  the  earliest  beams  that  burst 

From  GOD'S  bright  throne  of  glory  there. 
Come  kneel  to  Him  who  through  the  night 

Hath  watch'd  above  thy  sleeping  soul, 
To  Him  whose  mercies,  like  his  light, 

Are  shed  abroad  from  pole  to  pole. 


THE  WESTERN  HUNTER  TO  HIS 
MISTRESS. 

WEXD,  love,  with  me,  to  the  deep  woods,  wend, 

Wh^re  far  in  the  forest  the  wild  flowers  keep, 
Where  no  watching  eye  shall  over  us  bend, 

Save  the  blossoms  that  into  thy  bower  peep. 
Thou  shall  gather  from  buds  of  the  oriole's  hue, 

Whose  flaming  wings  round  our  pathway  flit, 
From  the  saffron  orchis  and  lupin  blue, 

And  those  like  the  foam  on  my  courser's  bit 

One  steed  and  one  saddle  us  both  shall  bear, 

One  hand  of  each  on  the  bridle  meet ; 
And  beneath  the  wrist  that  entwines  me  there, 

An  answering  pulse  from  my  heart  shall  beat. 
I  will  sing  thec  many  a  joyous  lay, 

As  we  chase  the  deer  by  the  blue  lake-side, 
While  the  winds  that  over  the  prairie  play 

Shall  fan  the  cheek  of  my  woodland  bride. 

Our  home  shall  be  by  the  cool,  bright  streams, 

Where  the  beaver  chooses  her  safe  retreat, 
And  our  hearth  shall  smile  like  the  sun's  warm 
gleams  [meet. 

Through  the  branches  around  our  lodge  that 
Then  wend  with  me,  to  the  deep  woods  wend, 

Where  far  in  the  forest  the  wild  flowers  keep, 
Where  no  watching  eye  shall  over  us  bend, 

Save  the  blossoms  that  into  thy  bower  peep. 


THY  NAME. 

IT  comes  to  me  when  healths  go  round, 
And  o'er  the  wine  their  garlands  wreathing 

The  flowers  of  wit,  with  music  wound, 
Are  freshly  from  the  goblet  breathing ; 

From  sparkling  song  and  sally  gay 

It  comes  to  steal  my  heart  away, 

And  fill  my  soul,  mid  festal  glee, 

With  sad,  sweet,  silent  thoughts  of  thee. 

It  comes  to  me  upon  the  mart, 

Where  care  in  jostling  crowds  is  rife ; 
Where  Avarice  goads  the  sordid  heart, 

Or  cold  Ambition  prompts  the  strife ; 
It  comes  to  whisper,  if  I  'm  there, 
'T  is  but  with  thee  each  prize  to  share, 
For  Fame  were  not  success  to  me, 
Nor  riches  wealth  unshared  with  thee. 

It  comes  to  me  when  smiles  arc  bright 
On  gentle  lips  that  murmur  round  me, 

And  kindling  glances  flash  delight 

In  eyes  whose  spell  would  once  have  bound  me. 

It  comes — but  comes  to  bring  alone 

Remembrance  of  some  look  or  tone, 

Dearer  than  aught  I  hear  or  see, 

Because  'twas  born  or  breathed  by  thee. 

It  comes  to  me  where  cloister'd  boughs 

Their  shadows  cast  upon  the  sod ; 
A  while  in  Nature's  fane  my  vows 

Are  lifted  from  her  shrine  to  GOD  ; 
It  comes  to  tell  that  all  of  worth 
I  dream  in  heaven  or  know  on  earth, 
However  bright  or  drar  it  be, 
Is  blended  with  my  thought  of  thee. 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


315 


ROSALIE  CLARE. 

WHO  owns  not  she 's  peerless,  who  calls  her  not  fair, 
Who  questions  the  beauty  of  ROSALIE  CLARE  7 
Let  him  saddle  his  courser  and  spur  to  the  field, 
And,  though  harness'd  in  proof,  he  must  perish  or 

yield ; 

For  no  gallant  can  splinter,  no  charger  may  dare 
The  lance  that  is  couch'd  for  young  ROSALIE  CLARE. 

When  goblets  are  flowing,  and  wit  at  the  board 
Sparkles  high,  while  the  blood  of  the  red  grape  is 

pour'd, 

And  fond  wishes  for  fair  ones  around  offer'd  up 
From  each  lip  that  is  wet  with  the  dew  of  the  cup, 
What  name  on  the  brimmer  floats  oftener  there, 
Or  is  whisper'd  more  warmly,  than  ROSALIE  CLARE  1 

They  may  talk  of  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine, 
Of  the  maids  of  the  Ebro,  the  Arno,  or  Rhine ; 
Of  the  houris  that  gladden  the  East  with  their 
smiles,  [isles ; 

Where  the  sea's  studded  over  with  green  summer 
But  what  flower  of  far-away  clime  can  compare 
With  the  blossom  of  ours — bright  ROSALIE  CLARE? 

Who  owns  not  she 's  peerless,  who  calls  her  not  fair! 
Let  him  meet  but  the  glances  of  ROSALIE  CLARE  ! 
Let  him  list  to  her  voice,  let  him  gaze  on  her  form, 
And  if,  seeing  and  hearing,  his  soul  do  not  warm, 
Let  him  go  breathe  it  out  in  some  less  happy  air 
Than  that  which  is  bless'd  by  sweet  ROSALIECLARE. 


THINK  OF  ME,  DEAREST. 


THINK  of  me,  dearest,  when  day  is  breaking 

Away  from  the  sable  chains  of  night, 
When  the  sun,  his  ocean-couch  forsaking, 
Like  a  giant  first  in  his  strength  awaking, 

Is  flinging  abroad  his  limbs  of  light ; 
As  the  breeze  that  first  travels  with  morning  forth, 
Giving  life  to  her  steps  o'er  the  quickening  earth — 
As  the  dream  that  has  cheated  my  soul  through  the 

night, 
Let  me  in  thy  thoughts  come  fresh  with  the  light. 

Think  of  me,  dearest,  when  day  is  sinking 

In  the  soft  embrace  of  twilight  gray, 
When  the  starry  eyes  of  heaven  are  winking, 
And  the  weary  flowers  their  tears  are  drinking, 

As  they  start  like  gems  on  the  moon-touch'd  spray. 
Let  me  come  warm  in  thy  thoughts  at  eve, 
As  the  glowing  track  which  the  sunbeams  leave, 
When  they,  blushing,  tremble  along  the  deep, 
While  stealing  away  to  their  place  of  sleep. 

Think  of  me,  dearest,  when  round  thee  smiling 
Are  eyes  that  melt  while  they  gaze  on  thee ; 

When  words  are  winning  and  looks  are  wiling, 

And  those  words  and  looks,  of  others,  beguiling 
Thy  fluttering  heart  from  love  and  me. 

Let  me  come  true  in  thy  thoughts  in  that  hour ; 

Let  my  trust  and  my  faith — my  devotion — have 
power, 

When  all  that  can  lure  to  thy  young  soul  is  nearest, 

To  summon  each  truant  thought  back  to  me,  dearest. 


WE  PARTED  IN  SADNESS. 

WE  parted  in  sadness,  but  spoke  not  of  parting ; 

We  talk'd  not  of  hopes  that  we  both  must  resign, 
I  saw  not  her  eyes,  and  but  one  tear-drop  starting, 

Fell  down  on  her  hand  as  it  trembled  in  mine : 
Each  felt  that  the  past  we  could  never  recover, 

Each  felt  that  the  future  no  hope  could  restore ; 
She  shudder 'd  at  wringing  the  heart  of  her  lover, 

I  dared  not  to  say  I  must  meet  her  no  more. 

Long  years  have  gone  by,  and  the  spring-time  smiles 
ever 

As  o'er  our  young  loves  itfirst  smiled  in  their  birth. 
Long  years  have  gone  by ,  yet  that  parting,  0 !  never 

Can  it  be  forgotten  by  either  on  earth.  [ven, 
The  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  carols  toward  hea- 

Must  tell  herof  swift-winged  hopes  thatweremine, 
And  the  dew  that  steals  over  each  blossom  at  even 

Tells  me  of  the  tear-drop  that  wept  their  decline. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  MINT  JULEPS. 

And  first  behold  this  cordial  Julep  here, 
That  flames  and  dances  in  its  crystal  bounds, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups  mixed; 
Not  that  Nepenthes  which  the  wife  of  THOME 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  HELENA, 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  Joy  as  this, 
To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst. 

MILTON—  Comus. 

'T  is  said  that  the  gods,  on  Olympus  of  old, 
(And  who  the  bnght  legend  profanes  with  a 
doubt?) 

One  night,  'mid  their  revels,  by  BACCHUS  were  told 
That  his  last  butt  of  nectar  had  somehow  run  out ! 

But,  determined  to  send  round  the  goblet  once  more, 
They  sued  to  the  fairer  immortals  for  aid  [o'er, 

In  composing  a  draught,  which,  till  drinking  were 
Should  cast  every  wine  ever  drank  in  the  shade. 

Grave  CERES  herself  blithely  yielded  her  corn, 
And  the  spirit  that  lives  in  each  amber  hued  grain, 

And  which  first  had  its  birth  from  the  dews  of  the 

morn, 
Was  taught  to  steal  out  in  bright  dew-drops  again. 

Po^roxA,  whose  choicest  of  fruits  on  the  board 
Were  scatter'd  profusely  in  every  one's  reach, 

When  called  on  a  tribute  to  cull  from  the  hoard, 
Express'd  the  mild  juice  of  the  delicate  peach. 

The  liquids  were  mingled,  while  VEXXTS  looked  on, 
With  glances  so  fraught  with  sweet  magical 

power, 

That  the  honey  of  Hybla,  e'en  when  they  were  gone, 
Has  never  been  missed  in  the  draught  from  that 
hour. 

FLORA  then,  from  her  bosom  of  fragrancy,  shook, 
And  with  roseate  fingers  press'd  down  in  the  bowl, 

All  dripping  and  fresh  as  it  came  from  the  brook, 
The  herb  whose  aroma  should  flavour  the  whole. 

The  draught  was  delicious,  each  god  did  exclaim, 
Though  something  yet  wanting  they  all  did  be- 
But  juleps  the  drink  of  immortals  became,    [wail; 
When  JOVE  himself  added  a  handful  of  hail. 


316 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT. 


jrw  and  bright  in  liquid  light 
Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in, 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

0  !  if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 
We  here  a  while  would  now  beguile 
The  gray  beard  of  his  pinions, 

To  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 
Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 

We'll  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


SEEK  NOT  TO  UNDERSTAND  HER. 

WHY  seek  her  heart  to  understand, 

If  but  enough  thou  knowest 
To  prove  that  all  thy  love,  like  sand, 

Upon  the  wind  thou  throwest? 
The  ill  thou  makest  out  at  last 
Doth  but  reflect  the  bitter  past, 
While  all  the  good  thou  learnest  yet, 
But  makes  her  harder  to  forget. 

What  matters  all  the  nobleness 
Which  in  her  breast  resideth, 
And  what  the  warmth  and  tenderness 

Her  mien  of  coldness  hideth, 
If  but  ungenerous  thoughts  prevail 
When  thou  her  bosom  wouldst  assail, 
While  tenderness  and  warmth  doth  ne'er, 
By  any  chance,  toward  thee  appear. 

Sum  up  each  token  thou  hast  won 

Of  kindred  feeling  there — 
How  few  for  Hope,  to  build  upon, 

How  many  for  Despair ! 
And  if  e'er  word  or  look  declareth 
Love  or  aversion,  which  she  beareth, 
While  of  the  first,  no  proof  thou  hast, 
How  many  are  there  of  the  last ! 

Then  strive  no  more  to  understand 

Her  heart,  of  whom  thou  knowest 
Enough  to  prove  thy  love  like  sand 

Upon  the  wind  thou  throwest : 
The  ill  thou  makest  out  at  last 
Doth  but  reflect  the  bitter  past, 
While  all  the  good  thou  learnest  yet 
But  makes  her  harder  to  forget. 


ASK  NOT  WHY  I  SHOULD  LOVE  HER. 

ASK  me  not  why  I  should  love  her  : 

Look  upon  those  soul-full  eyes ! 
Look  while  mirth  or  feeling  move  her, 

And  see  there  how  sweetly  rise 
Thoughts  gay  and  gentle  from  a  breast, 
Which  is  of  innocence  the  nest — 
Which,  though  each  joy  were  from  it  shred, 
By  truth  would  still  be  tenanted  ! 

See,  from  those  sweet  windows  peeping, 

Emotions  tender,  bright,  and  pure, 
And  wonder  not  the  faith  I  'm  keeping 

Every  trial  can  endure! 
Wonder  not  that  looks  so  winning 
Still  for  me  new  ties  arc  spinning ; 
Wonder  not  that  heart  so  true 
Keeps  mine  from  ever  changing  too. 


SHE  LOVES,  BUT  'TIS  NOT  ME. 

SHE  loves,  but  'tis  not  me  she  loves: 

Not  me  on  whom  she  ponders, 
When,  in  some  dream  of  tenderness, 

Her  truant  fancy  wanders. 
The  forms  that  flit  her  visions  through 

Are  like  the  shapes  of  old, 
Where  tales  of  prince  and  paladin 

On  tapestry  are  told. 
Man  may  not  hope  her  heart  to  win, 

Be  his  of  common  mould. 

But  I — though  spurs  are  won  no  more 

Where  herald's  trump  is  pealing, 
Nor  thrones  carved  out  for  lady  fair 

Where  steel-clad  ranks  are  wheeling — 
I  loose  the  falcon  of  my  hopes 

Upon  as  proud  a  flight 
As  those  who  hawk'd  at  high  renown, 

In  song-ennobled  fight. 
If  daring,  then,  true  love  may  crown, 

My  love  she  must  requite. 


THY    SMILES. 

'T  is  hard  to  share  her  smiles  with  many ! 

And  while  she  is  so  dear  to  me, 
To  fear  that  I,  far  less  than  any, 

Call  out  her  spirit's  witchery ! 
To  find  my  inmost  heart  when  near  her 

Trembling  at  every  glance  and  tone, 
And  feel  the  while  each  charm  grow  dearer 

That  will  not  beam  for  me  alone. 

How  can  she  thus,  sweet  spendthrift,  squander 

The  treasures  one  alone  can  prize  ! 
How  can  her  eyes  to  all  thus  wander, 

When  I  but  live  in  those  sweet  eyes ! 
Those  syren  tones  so  lightly  spoken 

Cause  many  a  heart  I  know  to  thrill ; 
But  mine,  and  only  mine,  till  broken, 

In  every  pulse  must  answer  still. 


N.   P.  WILLIS. 

[Bom,  1807.J 


NATHANIEL  P.  WILLIS  was  born  at  Portland, 
in  Maine,  on  the  twentieth  day  of  January,  1807. 
During  his  childhood  his  parents  removed  to  Bos- 
ton ;  and  at  the  Latin  school  in  that  city,  and  at 
the  Philips  Academy  in  Andover,  he  pursued  his 
studios  until  he  entered  Yale  College,  in  1823. 
While  he  resided  at  New  Haven,  as  a  student,  he 
won  a  high  reputation,  for  so  young  an  author,  by 
a  series  of  "  Scripture  Sketches,"  and  a  few  other 
brief  poems ;  and  it  is  supposed  that  the  warm  and 
too  indiscriminate  praises  bestowed  upon  these  pro- 
ductions, influenced  unfavourably  his  subsequent 
progress  in  the  poetic  art.  He  was  graduated  in 
1827,  and  in  the  following  year  he  published  a 
"  Poem  delivered  before  the  Society  of  United 
Brothers  of  Brown  University,"  which,  as  well  as 
his  "  Sketches,"  issued  soon  after  he  left  college, 
was  very  favourably  noticed  in  the  best  periodicals 
of  the  time.  He  also  edited  "  The  Token,"  a  well- 
known  annuary,  for  1828;  and  about  the  same 
period  published,  in  several  volumes,  "The  Le- 
gendary," and  established  "The  American  Month- 
ly Magazine."  To  this  periodical  several  young 
writers,  who  afterward  became  distinguished,  were 
contributors ;  but  the  articles  by  its  editor,  consti- 
tuting a  large  portion  of  each  number,  gave  to 
the  work  its  character,  and  were  of  all  its  contents 
the  most  popular.  In  1830  it  was  united  to  the 
"New  York  Mirror,"  of  which  Mr.  WILLIS  be- 
came one  of  the  conductors ;  and  he  soon  after 
sailed  for  Europe,  to  be  absent  several  years. 

He  travelled  over  Great  Britain,  and  the  most 
interesting  portions  of  the  continent,  mixing  largely 
in  society,  and  visiting  every  thing  worthy  of  his 
regard  as  a  man  of  letters,  or  as  an  American ;  and 
his  "First Impressions"  were  given  in  his  letters  to 
the  «  Mirror,"  in  which  he  described,  with  remark- 
able spirit  and  fidelity,  and  in  a  style  peculiarly 
graceful  and  elegant,  scenery  and  incidents,  and 
social  life  among  the  polite  classes  in  Europe.  His 
letters  were  collected  and  republished  in  London, 
under  the  title  of  "  Pcncillings  by  the  Way,"  and 
violently  attacked  in  several  of  the  leading  periodi- 
cals, ostensibly  on  account  of  thoir  too  great  free- 
dom of  personal  detail.  Captain  MAH.IITAT,  who 
was  at  the  time  editing  a  monthly  magazine,  wrote 
an  article,  characteristically  gross  and  malignant, 
which  led  to  a  hostile  meeting  at  Chatham,  and  Mr. 
LOCKHATIT,  in  the  "Quarterly  Review,"  published 
a  "criticism"  alike  illiberal  and  unfair.  Mr. 
WILLIS  perhaps  erred  in  giving  to  the  public 
dinner-table  conversations,  and  soaio  of  his  de- 
scriptions of  manners;  but  Captain  MAKRTAT 
hhnsi'lf  is  not  undeserving  of  censure  on  account 
of  the  "  personalities"  in  his  writings  ;  and  for 
other  reasons  he  could  not  have  been  the  most 
suitable  person  in  England  to  avenge  the  wrong 
it  was  alleged  Mr.  WILLIS  had  offered  to  soci- 
ety. That  the  author  of  "  Peter's  Letters  to 


his  Kinsfolk,"  a  work  which  is  filled  with  far 
more  reprehensible  personal  allusions  than  are 
to  be  found  in  the  "  Pencillings,"  should  have 
ventured  to  attack  the  work  on  this  ground,  may 
excite  surprise  among  those  who  have  not  ob- 
served that  the  "  Quarterly  Review"  is  spoken  of 
with  little  reverence  in  the  letters  of  the  American 
traveller. 

In  1835  Mr.  WILLIS  was  married  in  England. 
He  soon  after  published  his  "  Inklings  of  Adven- 
ture," a  collection  of  tales  and  sketches  originally 
written  for  a  London  magazine,  under  the  signature 
of  "Philip  Slingsby;"  and  in  1837  he  returned 
to  the  United  States,  and  retired  to  his  beautiful 
estate  on  the  Susquehanna,  named  "Glenmary," 
in  compliment  to  one  of  the  most  admirable  wives 
that  ever  gladdened  a  poet's  solitude.  In  the  early 
part  of  1839,  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  "The 
Corsair,"  a  literary  gazette,  and  in  the  autumn  of 
that  year  went  again  to  London,  where,  in  the 
following  winter,  he  published  his  "  Loiterings  of 
Travel,"  in  three  volumes,  and  "Two  Ways  of 
Dying  for  a  Husband,"  comprising  the  plays  "  Bi- 
anca  Visconti,"  and  "Tortesa  the  Usurer."  In 
1840  appeared  the  illustrated  edition  of  his  poems, 
and  his  "  Letters  from  Under  a  Bridge,"  and  he 
retired  a  second  time  to  his  seat  in  western  New 
York,  where  he  now  resides.  Besides  the  works 
already  mentioned,  he  is  the  author  of  "Ameri- 
can Scenery,"  and  of  "  Ireland," — two  works  illus- 
trated in  a  splendid  manner  by  BARTLETT, — and 
of  numerous  papers  in  the  reviews,  magazines, 
and  other  periodicals. 

The  prose  and  poetry  of  Mi  WILLIS  are  alike 
distinguished  for  exquisite  finish  and  melody.  His 
language  is  pure,  varied,  and  rich ;  his  imagina- 
tion brilliant,  and  his  wit  of  the  finest  quality. 
Many  of  his  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  are 
written  pictures ;  and  no  other  author  has  repre- 
sented with  equal  vivacity  and  truth  the  manners 
of  the  age.  His  dramatic  poems  have  been  the 
most  successful  works  of  their  kind  produced  in 
America.  They  exhibit  a  deep  acquaintance  with 
the  common  sympathies  and  passions,  and  are  as 
remarkable  as  his  other  writings  for  affluence  of 
language  and  imagery,  and  descriptive  power. 

His  leading  characteristics  are  essentially  differ- 
ent from  those  of  his  contemporaries.  DANA  and 
BRYAST  are  the  teachers  of  a  high,  religious  phi- 
losophy; HALT.ECK  and  HOLMES  excel  in  humour 
and  delicate  satire;  LONGFELLOW  has  a  fine  ima- 
gination and  is  unequalled  as  an  artist;  but  WIL- 
LIS is  more  than  any  other  the  poet  of  society, — 
familiar  with  the  secret  springs  of  action  in  social 
life, — and  moved  himself  by  t!i"  same  influences 
which  guide  his  fellows.  His  genius  is  various  : 
"  Parrhasius,"  "Spring,"  "  Hagar  in  the  Wilder- 
ness," "The  Annoycr,"  and  other  pieces,  present 
strong  contrasts ;  and  thev  are  alike  excellent. 
2D2"  317 


318 


N.   P.   WILLIS. 


MELANIE. 


I  STOOD  on  yonder  rocky  brow,* 

And  marvell'd  at  the  Sybil's  fane, 
When  I  was  not  what  I  am  now. 

My  life  was  then  untouch'd  of  pain ; 
And,  as  the  breeze  that  stirr'd  my  hair, 

My  spirit  freshen'd  in  the  sky, 
And  all  things  that  were  true  and  fair 

Lay  closely  to  my  loving  eye, 
With  nothing  shadowy  between — 
I  was  a  boy  of  seventeen. 
Yon  wondrous  temple  crests  the  rock, 

As  light  upon  its  giddy  base, 
As  stirless  with  the  torrent's  shock, 

As  pure  in  its  proportion'd  grace, 
And  seems  a  thing  of  air,  as  then, 
Afloat  above  this  fairy  glen  ; 

But  though  mine  eye  will  kindle  still 
In  looking  on  the  shapes  of  art, 

The  link  is  lost  that  sent  the  thrill, 
Like  lightning,  instant  to  my  heart. 
And  thus  may  break,  before  we  die, 
The  electric  chain  'twixt  soul  and  eye ! 

Ten  years — like  yon  bright  valley,  sown. 

Alternately  with  weeds  and  flowers — 
Had  swiftly,  if  not  gayly,  flown, 

And  still  I  loved  the  rosy  hours ; 
And  if  there  lurk'd  within  my  breast 

Some  nerve  that  had  been  overstrung 
And  quiver'd  in  my  hours  of  rest, 

Like  bells  by  their  own  echo  rung, 
I  was  with  Hope  a  masker  yet, 

And  well  could  hide  the  look  of  sadness, 
And,  if  my  heart  would  not  forget, 

I  knew,  at  least,  the  trick  of  gladness, 
And  when  another  sang  the  strain, 
I  mingled  in  the  old  refrain. 

'T  were  idle  to  remember  now, 

Had  I  the  heart,  my  thwarted  schemes. 
I  bear  beneath  this  alter'd  brow 

The  ashes  of  a  thousand  dreams : 
Some  wrought  of  wild  Ambition's  fingers, 

Some  colour'd  of  Love's  pencil  well, 
But  none  of  which  a  shadow  lingers, 

And  none,  whose  story  I  could  tell. 
Enough,  that  when  I  climb'd  again 

To  Tivoli's  romantic  steep, 
Life  had  no  joy,  and  scarce  a  pain, 

Whose  wells  I  had  not  tasted  deep ; 
And  from  my  lips  the  thirst  had  pass'd 
For  every  fount  save  one — the  sweetest — and  the 

last 
The  last — the  last !  My  friends  were  dead, 

Or  false  ;  my  mother  in  her  grave ; 
Above  my  father's  honour'd  head 

The  spa  had  lock'd  its  hiding  wave ; 
Ambition  had  but  foil'd  my  grasp, 
And  Love  had  pcrish'd  in  my  clasp ; 


*  The  story  is  told  during  a  walk  around  the  Casca- 
telles  of  Tivoli. 


And  still,  I  say,  I  did  not  slack 
My  love  of  life,  and  hope  of  pleasure, 

But  gather'd  my  affections  back  ; 
And,  as  the  miser  hugs  his  treasure, 

When  plague  and  ruin  bid  him  flee, 
I  closer  clung  to  mine — my  loved,  lost  MELASIE  ! 

The  last  of  the  DE  BHEVEHX  race, 

My  sister  claiin'd  no  kinsman's  care  ; 
And,  looking  from  each  other's  face, 

The  eye  stole  upward  unaware — 
For  there  was  naught  whereon  to  lean 
Each  other's  heart  and  heaven  between — 

Yet  that  was  world  enough  for  me, 
And,  for  a  brief,  but  blessed  while, 

There  seem'd  no  care  for  MELANIE, 
If  she  could  see  her  brother  smile ; 

But  life,  with  her,  was  at  the  flow, 
And  every  wave  went  sparkling  higher, 

While  mine  was  ebbing,  fast  and  low, 
From  the  same  shore  of  vain  desire, 

And  knew  I,  with  prophetic  heart, 
That  we  were  wearing  aye  insensibly  apart. 


We  came  to  Italy.     I  felt 

A  yearning  for  its  sunny  sky; 
My  very  spirit  seem'd  to  melt 

As  swept  its  first  warm  breezes  by. 
From  lip  and  cheek  a  chilling  mist, 

From  life  and  soul  a  frozen  rime 
By  every  breath  seem'd  softly  kiss'd : 

GOD'S  blessing  on  its  radiant  clime ! 
It  was  an  endless  joy  to  me 

To  see  my  sister's  new  delight ; 
From  Venice,  in  its  golden  sea, 

To  Paestum,  in  its  purple  light, 
By  sweet  Val  d'Arno's  tinted  hills, 

In  Vallombrosa's  convent  gloom, 
Mid  Terni's  vale  of  singing  rills, 

By  deathless  lairs  in  solemn  Rome, 
In  gay  Palermo's  "Golden  Shell," 
At  Arethusa's  hidden  well, 

We  loiter'd  like  the  impassion'd  sun, 
That  slept  so  lovingly  on  all, 

And  made  a  home  of  every  one — 
Ruin,  and  fane,  and  waterfall — 

And  crown'd  the  dying  day  with  glory, 
If  we  had  seen,  since  morn,  but  one  old  haunt  of 
story. 

We  came,  with  spring,  to  Tivoli. 

My  sister  loved  its  laughing  air 
And  merry  waters,  though,  for  me, 
My  heart  was  in  another  key ; 

And  sometimes  I  could  scarcely  bear 
The  mirth  of  their  eternal  play. 
*       And,  like  a  child  that  longs  for  home, 
When  weary  of  its  holiday. 

I  sigh'd  for  melancholy  Rome. 
Perhaps — the  fancy  haunts  me  still — 
'Twas  but  a  boding  sense  of  ill. 

It  was  a  morn,  of  such  a  day 

As  might  have  dawn'd  on  Eden  first, 

Early  in  the  Italian  May. 

Vine-leaf  and  flower  had  newly  burst, 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


319 


And,  on  the  burden  of  the  air, 

The  breath  of  buds  came  faint  and  rare ; 

And,  far  in  the  transparent  sky, 
The  small,  earth-keeping  birds  were  seen, 

Soaring  deliriously  high ; 
And  through  the  clefts  of  newer  green 

Yon  waters  dash'd  their  living  pearls ; 
And,  with  a  gayer  smile  and  bow, 

Troop'd  on  the  merry  village-girls  ; 
And,  from  the  Contadina's  brow, 

The  low-slouch'd  hat  vvas  backward  thrown, 

With  air  that  scarcely  seem'd  his  own; 
And  MKLAXIE,  with  lips  apart, 

And  clasped  hands  upon  my  arm, 
Flung  open  her  impassion'd  heart, 

And  bless'd  life's  mere  and  breathing  charm, 
And  sang  old  songs,  and  gather'd  flowers, 
And  passionately  bless'd  once  more  life's  thrilling 
hours. 

In  happiness  and  idleness 

We  wander'd  down  yon  sunny  vale, — 
0,  mocking  eyes !  a  golden  tress 

Floats  back  upon  this  summer  gale ! 
A  foot  is  tripping  on  the  grass  ! 

A  laugh  rings  merry  in  mine  ear ! 
I  see  a  bounding  shadow  pass  ! — 

O,  GOD  !  my  sister  once  was  here  ! 
Come  with  me,  friend ; — we  rested  yon ; 

There  grew  a  flower  she  pluck'd  and  wore ; 
She  sat  upon  this  mossy  stone ! 

That  broken  fountain,  running  o'er 
With  the  same  ring,  like  silver  bells ; 

She  listen'd  to  its  babbling  flow, 
And  said,  "  Perhaps  the  gossip  tells 

Some  fountain  nymph's  love-story  now!" 
And,  as  her  laugh  rang  clear  and  wild, 
A  youth — a  painter — pass'd  and  smiled. 

He  gave  the  greeting  of  the  morn 

With  voice  that  linger'd  in  mine  ear. 
I  knew  him  sad  and  gentle  born 

By  those  two  words,  so  calm  and  clear. 
His  frame  was  slight,  his  forehead  high, 

And  swept  by  threads  of  raven  hair ; 
The  fire  of  thought  was  in  his  eye, 

And  he  was  pale  and  marble  fair ; 
And  Grecian  chisel  never  caught 
The  soul  in  those  slight  features  wrought 

I  watch'd  his  graceful  step  of  pride, 
Till  hidden  by  yon  leaning  tree, 

And  loved  him  e'er  the  echo  died: 
And  so,  alas  !  did  MELANIE  ! 

We  sat  and  watch'd  the  fount  a  while 
In  silence,  but  our  thoughts  were  one ; 

And  then  arose,  and,  with  a  smile 
Of  sympathy,  we  saunter'd  on ; 

And  she  by  sudden  fits  was  gay, 

And  then  her  laughter  died  away ; 
And,  in  this  changefulncss  of  mood, 

Forgotten  now  those  May-day  spells, 
We  turn'd  where  VAHRO'S  villa  stood, 

And,  gazing  on  the  Cascatcllcs, 

(Who?o  hurrying  waters,  wild  and  white, 
Seem'd  madden'd  as  they  burst  to  light,) 


I  chanced  to  turn  my  eyes  away, 

And,  lo  !  upon  a  bank  alone, 
The  youthful  painter,  sleeping,  lay ! 

His  pencils  on  the  grass  were  thrown, 
And  by  his  side  a  sketch  was  flung, 

And  near  him  as  I  lightly  crept, 

To  see  the  picture  as  he  slept, 
Upon  his  feet  he  lightly  sprung; 

And,  gazing  with  a  wild  surprise 
Upon  the  face  of  MKLAMK, 

He  said — and  dropp'd  his  earnest  eyes — 
"Forgive  me !  but  I  dream'd  of  thee !" 

His  sketch,  the  while,  was  in  my  hand, 
And,  for  the  lines  I  look'd  to  trace — 

A  torrent  by  a  palace  spann'd, 

Half-classic  and  half-fairy-land — 
I  only  found — my  sister's  face ! 

in. 

Our  life  was  changed.     Another  love 

In  its  lone  woof  began  to  twine ; 
But,  ah  !  the  golden  thread  was  wove 

Between  my  sister's  heart  and  mine ! 
She  who  had  lived  for  me  before — 

She  who  had  smiled  for  me  alone — 
Would  live  and  smile  for  me  no  more ! 

The  echo  to  my  heart  was  gone  ! 
It  seem'd  to  me  the  very  skies 
Had  shone  through  those  averted  eyes ; 

The  air  had  breathed  of  balm — the  flower 
Of  radiant  beauty  seem'd  to  be 

But  as  she  loved  them,  hour  by  hour, 
And  murmur'd  of  that  love  to  me  ! 
O,  though  it  be  so  heavenly  high 

The  selfishness  of  earth  above, 
That,  of  the  watchers  in  the  sky, 

He  sleeps  who  guards  a  brother's  love — 
Though  to  a  sister's  present  weal — 

The  deep  devotion  far  transcends 
The  utmost  that  the  soul  can  feel 

For  even  its  own  higher  ends — 
Though  next  to  Gon,  and  more  than  heaven 
For  his  own  sake,  he  loves  her,  even — 

'T  is  difficult  to  see  another, 
A  passing  stranger  of  a  day, 

Who  never  hath  been  friend  or  brother, 
Pluck  with  a  look  her  heart  away, — 

To  see  the  fair,  unsullied  brow, 
Ne'er  kiss'd  before  without  a  prayer, 

Upon  a  stranger's  bosom  now, 
Who  for  the  boon  took  little  care, 

Who  is  enrich'd.  he  knows  nol  why ; 
Who  suddenly  hath  found  a  treasure 

Golconda  were  too  poor  to  buy ; 
And  he,  perhaps,  too  cold  to  measure, 
(Albeit,  in  hrr  forgetful  dream, 
The  unconscious  idol  happier  seem,) 

'T  is  difficult  at  once  to  crush 
The  rebel  mourner  in  the  breast, 

To  press  the  heart  to  earth,  and  hush 
Its  bitter  jealousy  to  rest, — 

And  difficult — the  eye  gets  dim — 

The  lip  wants  power  to  smile  on  him  ! 

I  thank  sweet  MART  Mother  now, 

Who  gave  me  strength  those  pangs  to  hide, 


320 


N.   P.   WILLIS. 


And  touch'd  mine  eyes  and  lit  my  brow 
With  sunshine  that  my  heart  belied. 

I  never  spoke  of  wealth  or  race, 

To  one  who  ask'd  so  much  of  me, — 

I  look'd  but  in  my  sister's  face, 

And  mused  if  she  would  happier  be; 

And,  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day, 
I  loved  the  gentle  painter  more, 
And  in  the  same  soft  measure  wore 

My  selfish  jealousy  away ; 

And  I  began  to  watch  his  mood, 

And  feel,  with  her,  love's  trembling  care, 
And  bade  GOD  bless  him  as  he  woo'd 

That  loving  girl,  so  fond  and  fair, 

And  on  my  mind  would  sometimes  press 
A  fear  that  she  might  love  him  less. 

But  MELANIE — I  little  dream'd 

What  spells  the  stirring  heart  may  move — 
PYGMALION'S  statue  never  seem'd 

More  changed  with  life,  than  she  with  love. 
The  pearl-tint  of  the  early  dawn 

Flush'd  into  day-spring's  rosy  hue ; 
The  meek,  moss-folded  bud  of  morn 

Flung  open  to  the  light  and  dew; 
The  first  and  half-seen  star  of  even 
Wax'd  clear  amid  the  deepening  heaven — 

Similitudes  perchance  may  be ; 
But  these  are  changes  oftener  seen, 

And  do  not  image  half  to  me 
My  sister's  change  of  face  and  mien. 

'T  was  written  in  her  very  air, 

That  love  had  pass'd  and  enter'd  there. 


A  calm  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease. 
The  sadness  of  its  sunny  skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruin'd  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane, 

The  broken  column,  vast  and  prone— 
It  may  be  joy,  it  may  be  pain, 

Amid  such  wrecks  to  walk  alone ; 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there, 
As  if,  whate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  strengthen'd  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things ; 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings ; 

And  even  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghost-like  in  the  CESAR'S  home, 

As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 
In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Rome, 

And  drew  their  sap  all  kingly  yet ! 
And  every  stone  your  feet  beneath 

Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thought, 
And  sculptures  in  the  dust  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were  wrought, 
And  sunder' d  arch,  and  plunder'd  tomb 
Ktill  thunder  back  the  echo,  "Rome!" 

Vet  gayly  o'er  Egeria's  fount 

The  ivy  flings  its  emerald  veil. 
And  flowers  grow  fair  on  Numa's  mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  span  the  dale, 


And  soft,  from  Caracalla's  Baths, 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the  breeze, 
While  climb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths 

To  grass-grown  architrave  and  frieze ; 
And  gracefully  Albano's  hill 

Curves  into  the  horizon's  line, 
And  sweetly  sings  that  classic  rill, 

And  fairly  stands  that  nameless  shrine; 
And  here,  O,  many  a  sultry  noon 
And  starry  eve,  that  happy  June, 

Came  ANGELO  and  MELANIE, 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tune — 
For  while  Love  talk'd  with  them,  Hope  walk'd 
apart  with  me ! 

T. 

I  shrink  from  the  embitter'd  close 

Of  my  own  melancholy  tale. 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  waked  my  woes — 

And  nerve  and  voice  together  fail ! 
The  throb  beats  faster  at  my  brow, 

My  brain  feels  warm  with  starting  tears, 
And  I  shall  weep— but  heed  not  thou ! 

'T  will  soothe  a  while  the  ache  of  years. 
The  heart  transfix'd — worn  out  with  grief — 
Will  turn  the  arrow  for  relief. 
The  painter  was  a  child  of  shame  ! 

It  stirr'd  my  pride  to  know  it  first, 
For  I  had  question'd  but  his  name, 

And  thought,  alas !  I  knew  the  worst, 
Believing  him  unknown  and  poor. 
His  blood,  indeed,  was  not  obscure ; 

A  high-born  Conti  was  his  mother, 
But,  though  he  knew  one  parent's  face, 

He  never  had  beheld  the  other, 
Nor  knew  his  country  or  his  race. 

The  Roman  hid  his  daughter's  shame 
Within  St.  Mona's  convent  wall, 

And  gave  the  boy  a  painter's  name — 
And  little  else  to  live  withal ! 

And,  with  a  noble's  high  desires 
Forever  mounting  in  his  heart, 

The  boy  consumed  with  hidden  fires, 
But  wrought  in  silence  at  his  art; 

And  sometimes  at  St.  Mona's  shrine, 
Worn  thin  with  penance  harsh  and  long, 

He  saw  his  mother's  form  divine, 
And  loved  her  for  their  mutual  wrong. 
I  said  my  pride  was  stirr'd — but  no ! 

The  voice  that  told  its  bitter  tale 
Was  touch'd  so  mournfully  with  wo, 

And,  as  he  ceased,  all  deathly  pale, 
He  loosed  the  hand  of  MELAXIE, 
And  gazed  so  gaspingly  on  me — 

The  demon  in  my  bosom  died  ! 
"  Not  thine,"  I  said,  "  another's  guilt ; 

I  break  no  hearts  for  silly  pride  ; 
So,  kiss  yon  weeper  if  thou  wilt !" 

TI. 

St.  Mona's  morning  mass  was  done  ; 

The  shrine-lamps  struggled  with  the  day ; 
And,  rising  slowly,  one  by  one, 

Stole  the  last  worshippers  away. 
The  organist  play'd  out  the  hymn, 

The  incense,  to  St.  MAHY  swung, 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


321 


Had  mounted  to  the  cherubim, 

Or  to  the  pillars  thinly  clung; 
And  boyish  chorister  replaced 

The  missal  that  was  read  no  more, 
And  closed,  with  half-irreverent  haste, 

Confessional  and  chancel-door ; 
And  as,  through  aisle  and  oriel  pane, 

The  sun  wore  round  his  slanting  beam, 
The  dying  martyr  stirr'd  again, 

And  warriors  battled  in  its  gleam ; 
And  costly  tomb  and  sculptured  knight 
Show'd  warm  and  wondrous  in  the  light. 

I  have  not  said  that  MELANIE 
Was  radiantly  fair — 

This  earth  again  may  never  see 
A  loveliness  so  rare  ! 

She  glided  up  St.  Mona's  aisle 
That  morning  as  a  bride, 

And,  full  as  was  my  heart  the  while, 

I  bless'd  her  in  my  pride ! 
The  fountain  may  not  fail  the  less 

Whose  sands  are  golden  ore, 
And  a  sister  for  her  loveliness 

May  not  be  loved  the  more ; 
But  as,  the  fount's  full  heart  beneath, 

Those  golden  sparkles  shine, 
My  sister's  beauty  seem'd  to  breathe 

Its  brightness  over  mine ! 
St.  Mona  has  a  chapel  dim 

Within  the  altar's  fretted  pale, 
Where  faintly  comes  the  swelling  hymn, 

And  dies,  half-lost,  the  anthem's  wail. 
And  here,  in  twilight  meet  for  prayer, 

A  single  lamp  hangs  o'er  the  shrine, 
And  RAPHAEL'S  MAHT,  soft  and  fair, 

Looks  down  with  sweetness  half-divine, 
And  here  St.  Mona's  nuns  alway 
Through  latticed  bars  are  seen  to  pray. 

Ave  and  sacrament  were  o'er, 

And  AXGELO  and  MELANIE 
Still  knelt  the  holy  shrine  before ; 

But  prayer,  that  morn,  was  not  for  me ! 
My  heart  was  lock'd !     The  lip  might  stir, 

The  frame  might  agonize — and  yet, 

0  GOD  !  I  could  not  pray  for  her  ! 
A  seal  upon  my  soul  was  set — 

My  brow  was  hot — my  brain  opprest — 
And  fiends  seem'd  muttering  round,  "  Your  bridal 

is  unblest!" 
With  forehead  to  the  lattice  laid, 

And  thin,  white  fingers  straining  through, 
A  nun  the  while  had  softly  pray'd. 

O,  e'en  in  prayer  that  voice  I  knew ! 
Each  faltering  word,  each  mournful  tone, 

Each  pleading  cadence,  half-suppress'd — 
Such  music  had  its  like  alone 

On  lips  that  stole  it  at  her  breast ! 
And  ere  the  orison  was  done 

1  loved  the  mother  as  the  son ! 

And  now,  the  marriage-vow  to  hear, 

The  nun  unveil'd  her  brow; 
When,  sudden,  to  my  startled  ear, 
There  crept  a  whisper,  hoarse,  like  fear, 

«DE  BREVERX!  is  it  thou,.'" 
41 


The  priest  let  fall  the  golden  ring, 

The  bridegroom  stood  aghast ; 
While,  like  some  wierd  and  frantic  thing, 

The  nun  was  muttering  fast ; 
And  as,  in  dread,  I  nearer  drew, 
She  thrust  her  arms  the  lattice  through, 
And  held  me  to  her  straining  view ; 

But  suddenly  begun 
To  steal  upon  her  brain  a  light, 
That  stagger'd  soul,  and  sense,  and  sight, 
And,  with  a  mouth  all  ashy  white, 

She  shriek'd,  "  //  is  his  son  ! 
The  bridegroom  is  thy  blood — thy  brother! 
RonoLPH  BE  BHEVERN  wrong1  d  his  mother  !" 

And,  as  that  doom  of  love  was  heard, 
My  sister  sunk,  and  died,  without  a  sign  or  word ! 

I  shed  no  tear  for  her.     She  died 

With  her  last  sunshine  in  her  eyes. 
Earth  held  for  her  no  joy  beside 

The  hope  just  shatter'd,   -and  she  lies 
In  a  green  nook  of  yonder  dell ; 

And  near  her,  in  a  newer  bed, 
Her  lover — brother — sleeps  as  well ! 

Peace  to  the  broken-hearted  dead  ! 


THE   CONFESSIONAL. 


I  THOUGHT  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

On  ocean  many  a  weary  night, 
When  heaved  the  long  and  sullen  sea, 

With  only  waves  and  stars  in  sight. 
We  stole  along  by  isles  of  balm, 

We  furl'd  before  the  coming  gale, 
We  slept  amid  the  breathless  calm, 

We  flew  beneath  the  straining  sail, — 
But  thou  wert  lost  for  years  to  me, 
And  day  and  night  I  thought  of  thee! 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

In  France,  amid  the  gay  saloon, 
Where  eyes  as  dark  as  eyes  may  be 

Are  many  as  the  leaves  in  June : 
Where  life  is  love,  and  e'en  the  air 

Is  pregnant  with  impassion'd  thought, 
And  song,  and  dance,  and  music  are 

With  one  warm  meaning  only  fraught, 
My  half-snared  heart  broke  lightly  free, 
And,  with  a  blush,  I  thought  of  thee ! 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

In  Florence,  where  the  fiery  hearts 
Of  Italy  are  breathed  away 

In  wonders  of  the  deathless  arts ; 
Where  strays  the  Contadina,  down 

Val  d'  Arno,  with  song  of  old ; 
Where  clime  and  women  seldom  frown, 

And  life  runs  over  sands  of  gold  ; 
I  stray'd  to  lonely  Fiesolc, 
On  many  an  eve,  and  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 
In  Rome,  when,  on  the  Palatine, 

Night  left  the  Cesar's  palace  free 
To  Time's  forgetful  foot  and  mine ; 


322 


N.   P.   WILLIS. 


Or,  on  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

When  moonlight  touch'd  the  ivied  stone, 
Reclining,  with  a  thought  of  all 

That  o'er  this  scene  hath  come  and  gone, 
The  shades  of  Rome  would  start  and  flee 
Unconsciously — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

In  Vallombrosa's  holy  shade, 
Where  nobles  bom  the  friars  be, 

By  life's  rude  changes  humbler  made. 
Here  MILTOST  framed  his  Paradise ; 

I  slept  within  his  very  cell ; 
And,  as  I  closed  my  weary  eyes, 

I  thought  the  cowl  would  fit  me  well ; 
The  cloisters  breathed,  it  seem'd  to  me, 
Of  heart's-ease — but  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

In  Venice,  on  a  night  in  June; 
When,  through  the  city  of  the  sea, 

Like  dust  of  silver,  slept  the  moon. 
Slow  turn'd  his  oar  the  gondolier, 

And,  as  the  black  barks  glided  by, 
The  water,  to  my  leaning  ear, 

Bore  back  the  lover's  passing  sigh ; 
It  was  no  place  alone  to  be, 
I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

In  the  Ionian  isles,  when  straying 
With  wise  ULTSSES  by  the  sea, 

Old  HOMER'S  songs  around  me  playing; 
Or,  watching  the  bewitch'd  caique, 

That  o'er  the  star-lit  waters  flew, 
I  listen'd  to  the  helmsman  Greek, 

Who  sung  the  song  that  SAPPHO  knew : 
The  poet's  spell,  the  bark,  the  sea, 
All  vanish'd  as  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

In  Greece,  when  rose  the  Parthenon 
Majestic  o'er  the  Egean  sea, 

And  heroes  with  it,  one  by  one ; 
When,  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 

Where  LAIS  and  LKOSTTIUM  stray'd 
Discussing  PLATO'S  mystic  theme, 

I  lay  at  noontide  in  the  shade — 
The  Egean  wind,  the  whispering  tree 
Had  voices — and  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee— I  thought  of  thee 

In  Asia,  on  the  Dardanelles, 
Where,  swiftly  as  the  waters  flee, 

Each  wave  some  sweet  old  story  tells ; 
And,  seated  by  the  marble  tank 

Which  sleeps  by  Ilium's  ruins  old, 
(The  fount  where  peerless  HELE^  drank, 

And  VENUS  laved  her  locks  of  gold,) 
I  thrill'd  such  classic  haunts  to  see, 
Yet  even  here  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee 

Where  glide  the  Bosphor's  lovely  waters, 

All  palace-lined  from  sea  to  sea : 

And  ever  on  its  shores  the  daughters 

Of  the  delicious  east  are  seen, 

Printing  the  brink  with  slipper'd  feet, 


And,  0,  the  snowy  folds  between, 

What  eyes  of  heaven  your  glances  meet ! 
Peris  of  light  no  fairer  be, 
Yet,  in  Stamboul,  I  thought  of  thee. 

I've  thought  of  thee — I've  thought  of  thee, 

Through  change  that  teaches  to  forget ; 
Thy  face  looks  up  from  every  sea, 

In  every  star  thine  eyes  are  set. 
Though  roving  beneath  orient  skies, 

Whose  golden  beauty  breathes  of  rest, 
I  envy  every  bird  that  flies 

Into  the  far  and  clouded  west ; 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of  thee ! 
O,  dearest !  hast  thou  thought  of  me ! 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  EUROPE. 


BRIGHT  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast, 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue ; 

Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 
And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew ! 

Strain  home !  0  lithe  and  quivering  spars ! 

Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars ! 

The  wind  blows  fair,  the  vessel  feels 

The  pressure  of  the  rising  breeze, 
And,  swiftest  of  a  thousand  keels, 

She  leaps  to  the  careering  seas ! 
O,  fair,  fair  cloud  of  snowy  sail, 

In  whose  white  breast  I  seem  to  lie, 
How  oft,  when  blew  this  eastern  gale, 

I've  seen  your  semblance  in  the  sky, 
And  long'd,  with  breaking  heart,  to  flee 
On  such  white  pinions  o'er  the  sea ! 

Adieu,  0  lands  of  fame  and  eld  ! 

I  turn  to  watch  our  foamy  track, 
And  thoughts  with  which  I  first  beheld 

Yon  clouded  line,  come  hurrying  back ; 
My  lips  are  dry  with  vague  desire, 

My  cheek  once  more  is  hot  with  joy ; 
My  pulse,  my  brain,  my  soul  on  fire ! 

O,  what  has  changed  that  traveller-boy ! 
As  leaves  the  ship  this  dying  foam,         [home ! 
His  visions  fade  behind — his  weary  heart  speeds 

Adieu,  O  soft  and  southern  shore. 

Where  dwelt  the  stars  long  miss'd  in  heaven ; 
Those  forms  of  beauty,  seen  no  more, 

Yet  once  to  Art's  rapt  vision  given  ! 
O,  still  the  enamour'd  sun  delays, 

And  pries  through  fount  and  crumbling  fane, 
To  win  to  his  adoring  gaze 

Those  children  of  the  sky  again ! 
Irradiate  beauty,  such  as  never 

That  light  on  other  earth  hath  shone, 
Hath  made  this  land  her  home  forever; 

And,  could  I  live  for  this  alone, 
Were  not  my  birthright  brighter  far 

Than  such  voluptuous  slave's  can  be; 
Held  not  the  west  one  glorious  star, 

New-born  and  blazing  for  the  free, 
Soar'd  not  to  heaven  our  eagle  yet, 
Rome,  with  her  helot  sons,  should  teach  me  to  forget ! 


N.   P.  WILLIS. 


323 


Adieu,  O,  fatherland !     I  see 

Your  white  cliffs  on  the  horizon's  rim, 
And,  though  to  freer  skies  I  flee, 

My  heart  swells,  and  my  eyes  are  dim! 
As  knows  the  dove  the  task  yjan  give  her, 

When  loosed  upon  a  foreign  shore ; 
As  spreads  the  rain-drop  in  the  river 

In  which  it  may  have  flow'd  before — 
To  England,  over  vale  and  mountain, 

My  fancy  flew  from  climes  more  fair, 
My  blood,  that  knew  its  parent  fountain, 

Ran  warm  and  fast  in  England's  air. 

My  mother !  in  thy  prayer  to-night 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears ! 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the  light, 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years ! 
Sleep  safe,  0  wave-worn  mariner, 

Fear  not,  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea ! 
The  ear  of  Heaven  bends  low  to  her! 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me ! 
The  wind-toss'd  spider  needs  no  token 

How  stands  the  tree  when  lightnings  blaze: 
And,  by  a  thread  from  heaven  unbroken, 

I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays ! 

Dear  mother !  when  our  lips  can  speak, 

When  first  our  tears  will  let  us  see, 
When  I  can  gaze  upon  thy  cheek, 

And  thou,  with  thy  dear  eyes,  on  me — 
'Twill  be  a  pastime  little  sad 

To  trace  what  weight  Time's  heavy  fingers 
Upon  each  other's  forms  have  had ; 

For  all  may  flee,  so  feeling  lingers ! 
But  there's  a  change,  beloved  mother, 

To  stir  far  deeper  thoughts  of  thine ; 
I  come — but  with  me  comes  another, 

To  share  the  heart  once  only  mine ! 
Thou,  on  whose  thoughts, -when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven ; 
Thou,  who  hast  watch'd  one  treasure  only, 

Water'd  one  flower  with  tears  at  even : 
Room  in  thy  heart !     The  hearth  she  left 

Is  darken'd  to  make  light  to  ours ! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts  that  languish  more  than  flowers ; 
She  was  their  light,  their  very  air —       [prayer ! 
Room,  mother,  in  thy  heart !  place  for  her  in  thy 


SPRING. 

TUT.  Spring  is  here,  the  delicate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers ; 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours ; 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods; 

And  nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods ; 

Yet,  even  there,  a  restless  thought  will  steal, 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 


Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 

The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  June, 
And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet: 

Strange,  that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There 's  no  contentment  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream; 

Bird-like,  the  prison'd  soul  will  lift  its  eye 

And  pine  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 


TO,  ERMENGARDE. 

I  Kiaow  not  if  the  sunshine  waste, 

The  world  is  dark  since  thou  art  gone ! 
The  hours  are,  0 !  so  leaden-paced  ! 

The  birds  sing,  and  the  stars  float  on, 
But  sing  not  well,  and  look  not  fair; 
A  weight  is  in  the  summer  air, 

And  sadness  in  the  sight  of  flowers ; 
And  if  I  go  where  others  smile, 

Their  love  but  makes  me  think  of  ours, 
And  Heaven  gets  my  heart  the  while. 
Like  one  upon  a  desert  isle, 

I  languish  of  the  dreary  hours ; 
I  never  thought  a  life  could  be 
So  flung  upon  one  hope,  as  mine,  dear  love,  on  thee ! 

I  sit  and  watch  the  summer  sky : 

There  comes  a  cloud  through  heaven  alone ; 
A  thousand  stars  are  shining  nigh, 

It  feels  no  light,  but  darkles  on ! 
Yet  now  it  nears  the  lovelier  moon, 

And,  flashing  through  its  fringe  of  snow, 
There  steals  a  rosier  dye,  and  soon 

Its  bosom  is  one  fiery  glow ! 
The  queen  of  life  within  it  lies, 

Yet  mark  how  lovers  meet  to  part: 
The  cloud  already  onward  flies, 

And  shadows  sink  into  its  heart; 
And  (dost  thou  see  them  where  thou  art?) 

Fade  fast,  fade  all  those  glorious  dyes ! 
Its  light,  like  mine,  is  seen  no  more, 
And,  like  my  own,  its  heart  seems  darker  than 
before. 

Where  press,  this  hour,  those  fairy  feet  ? 

Where  look,  this  hour,  those  eyes  of  blue  7 
What  music  in  thine  ear  is  sweet  1 

What  odour  breathes  thy  lattice  through  1 
What  word  is  on  thy  lip  ?    What  tone, 
What  look,  replying  to  thine  own  1 
Thy  steps  along  the  Danube  stray, 

Alas,  it  seeks  an  orient  sea ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  seem  so  far  away, 

Flow'd  but  its  waters  back  to  me ! 
I  bless  the  slowly-coming  moon, 

Because  its  eye  look'd  late  in  thine ; 
I  envy  the  west  wind  of  June, 

Whose  wings  will  bear  it  up  the  Rhine ; 
The  flower  I  press  upon  my  brow 
Were  sweeter  if  its  like  perfumed  thy  chamber  now! 


324 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


HAGAR  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

THE  morning  broke.  Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.   Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dyes ;  and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;  and  the  light, 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air,  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  HAGAR.    The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odours  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  singing,  as  if  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;  but,  O  !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  ABRAHAM'S  tent    Her  lips  were  press'd 
Till  the  blood  started  ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swell'd  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.     Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  he~aven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasp'd  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  train'd  to  balance  oh  the  tented  floor, 
Sandall'd  for  journeying.     He  had  look'd  up 
Into  his  mother's  face,  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  dimpled  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straighten'd  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swell'd, 
Had  they  but  match'd  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily?     His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  on  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  GOD, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigour  is  not  there ;  and,  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
O,  man  may  bear  with  suffering:  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain,  that  wrings  mortality ;  but  tear 
One  chord  affection  clings  to,  part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love, 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand 
In  silent  blessing  on  the  fair-hair'd  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

Should  HACAR  weep?  May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  leaning  trust  again? 
O,  no !  by  all  her  loveliness,  by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no ! 
Make  her  a  slave ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies ;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness, — yet  give 


One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 

An  emblem  of  devoted  ness  like  hers. 

But,  0  !  estrange  her  once — it  boots  not  how — 

By  wrong  or  silence,  any  thing  that  tells 

A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness — 

And  there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  of  heaven 

Her  pride  o'crmastereth  not. 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow 
Her  press'd  lip  arch'd,  and  her  clear  eye  undimm'd, 
As  it  had  been  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  press'd 
His  hand  till  it  was  pain'd  :  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  pass'd,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest;  but  HAGAR  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  open'd  his  parch'd  lips 
For  water;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 
She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky, — 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 
Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 
Why  GOD  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 
She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.     She  lifted  him, 
And  bore  him  further  on,  and  laid  his  head 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub ; 
And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 
And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 
Till  he  should  die;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourn'd : 

"GoD  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die ;  I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle-joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die  ? 

"I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  them  wert  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers ; 

Or  wearing  rosy  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

"O,  no!  and  when  I  watch'd  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  far  Nile, 
How  pray'd  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee  ! 

"And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breasthathwon  thee, 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press; 

And,  O  !  my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillow'd  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair!" 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


325 


She  stood  beside  the  well  her  GOD  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laugh'd 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisp'd 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


THOUGHTS 

WHILE  MAKING  A  GRAVE  FOR  A  FIRST  CHILD,  BORN  DEAD. 

Roo:vt,  gentle  flowers!  my  child  would  pass  to  heaven! 
Ye  look'd  not  for  her  yet  with  your  soft  eyes, 
0,  watchful  ushers  at  Death's  narrow  door ! 
But,  lo !  while  you  delay  to  let  her  forth, 
Angels,  beyond,  stay  for  her!     One  long  kiss 
From  lips  all  pale  with  agony,  and  tears, 
Wrung  after  anguish  had  dried  up  with  fire 
The  eyes  that  wept  them,  were  the  cup  of  life 
Held  as  a  welcome  to  her.    Weep,  O,  mother ! 
But  not  that  from  this  cup  of  bitterness 
A  cherub  of  the  sky  has  turn'd  away. 

One  look  upon  her  face  ere  she  depart ! 
My  daughter !  it  is  soon  to  let  thee  go ! 
My  daughter !  with  thy  birth  has  gush'd  a  spring 
I  knew  not  of:  filling  my  heart  with  tears, 
And  turning  with  strange  tenderness  to  thee  ! 
A  love — O,  Gon,  it  seems  so — which  must  flow 
Far  as  thou  fleest,  and  'twixt  Heaven  and  me, 
Henceforward,  be  a  sweet  and  yearning  chain, 
Drawing  me  after  thee  !     And  so  farewell ! 
T  is  a  harsh  world  in  which  affection  knows 
No  place  to  treasure  up  its  loved  and  lost 
But  the  lone  grave  !  Thou,  who  so  late  was  sleeping 
Warm  in  the  close  fold  of  a  mother's  heart, 
Scarce  from  her  breast  a  single  pulse  receiving, 
But  it  was  sent  thee  with  some  tender  thought — 
How  can  I  leave  thee  here  !    Alas,  for  man ! 
The  herb  in  its  humility  may  fall, 
And  waste  into  the  bright  and  genial  air, 
While  we.  by  hands  that  minister'd  in  life 
Nothing  but  love  to  us,  are  thrust  away, 
The  earth  thrown  in  upon  our  just  cold  bosoms, 
And  the  warm  sunshine  trodden  out  forever ! 

Yet  have  I  chosen  for  thy  grave,  my  child, 
A  bank  where  I  have  lain  in  summer  hours, 
And  thought  how  little  it  would  seem  like  death 
To  sleep  amid  such  loveliness.     The  brook 
Tripping  with  laughter  down  the  rocky  steps 
That  lead  us  to  thy  bed,  would  still  trip  on, 
Breaking  the  dread  hush  of  the  mourners  gone; 
The  birds  are  never  silent  that  build  here, 
Trying  to  sing  down  the  more  vocal  waters ; 
The  slope  is  beautiful  with  moss  and  flowers ; 
And,  far  below,  seen  under  arching  leaves, 
Glitters  the  warm  sun  on  the  village  spire, 
Pointing  the  living  after  thee.     And  this 
Seems  like  a  comfort,  and,  replacing  now 
The  flowers  that  have  made  room  for  thee,  I  go 
To  whisper  the  same  peace  to  her  who  lies 
Robb'd  of  her  child,  and  lonely.    'T  is  the  work 
Of  many  a  dark  hour,  and  of  many  a  prayer, 
To  bring  the  heart  back  from  an  infant  gone! 
Hope  must  give  o'er,  and  busy  fancy  blot 
Its  images  from  all  the  silent  rooms, 


And  every  sight  and  sound  familiar  to  her 

Undo  its  sweetest  link ;  and  so,  at  last, 

The  fountain  that,  once  loosed,  must  flow  forever, 

Will  hide  and  waste  in  silence.   When  the  smile 

Steals  to  her  pallid  lip  again,  and  spring 

Wakens  its  buds  above  thee,  we  will  come, 

And,  standing  by  thy  music-haunted  grave, 

Look  on  each  other  cheerfully,  and  say, 

A  child  that  we  have  loved  is  gone  to  heaven, 

And  by  this  gate  of  flowers  she  pass'd  away  ! 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

Ox  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air ; 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  pass'd, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gain'd  at  last. 
'T  is  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There 's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel, 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 
Chime  of  the  hour,  or  funeral  knell — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 
When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon, 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night," 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer, — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirr'd, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smoothe  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen ! 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  ie  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world,  and  soar, 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smoothe  thy  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 
•    I  would  that,  in  such  wings  of  gold, 
I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold ; 
I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved, 
(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved,) 
And,  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 
Smoothe  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe ; 
And  never  sad  with  others'  sadness, 
And  never  glad  with  others'  gladness, 
Listen,  unstirr'd,  to  knell  or  chime, 
And,  lapp'd  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 
2E 


326 


N.   P.   WILLIS. 


APRIL. 

"A  violet  hy  a  mossy  stone, 
Half-hidden  from  the  eye, 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky." 

WORDSWORTH. 

I  HAVE  found  violets.     April  hath  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer-time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning,  and  at  eve 
The  tame  dove  lingers  till  the  twilight  falls, 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His  beautiful,  bright  neck ;  and,  from  the  hills, 
A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea, 
Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 
Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 
Are  lifted  by  the  grass ;  and  so  I  know 
That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 
The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 
Take  of  my  violets !     I  found  them  where 
The  liquid  south  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 
That  lean'd  to  running  water.    There 's  to  me 
A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers, 
That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 
With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 
The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  breathe  out 
Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 
Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world. 
I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 
Of  April  and  hunt  violets,  when  the  rain 
Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 
So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 
It  may  be  deem'd  too  idle,  but  the  young 
Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  Heaven, 
And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 
Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 
And  read  it,  when  the  "fever  of  the  world" 
Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 
Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoison'd,  it  will  be 
Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow, 
And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 
To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April-time. 


THE  ANNOYER. 

LOVE  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  everywhere, 

Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song,  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 

From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume, 
And  the  serried  spears,  and  the  many  men, 

May  not  deny  him  room. 
He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream, 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  morning  light, 

Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 


He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun, 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 
And  sighs  in  his  ear  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 
The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the  river, 

The  cloud,  and  the  open  sky, — 
He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver, 

Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat, 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 
For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  spell  of  thought  has  he ; 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet, 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 
Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
In  every  home  of  human  thought 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 


TO  A  FACE  BELOVED. 

THE  music  of  the  waken'd  lyre 

Dies  not  upon  the  quivering  strings, 
Nor  burns  alone  the  minstrel's  fire 

Upon  the  lip  that  trembling  sings ; 
Nor  shines  the  moon  in  heaven  unseen, 

Nor  shuts  the  flower  its  fragrant  cells, 
Nor  sleeps  the  fountain's  wealth,  I  ween, 

Forever  in  its  sparry  wells ; 
The  spells  of  the  enchanter  lie  [eye. 

Not  on  his  own  lone  heart,  his  own  rapt  ear  and 

I  look  upon  a  face  as  fair 

As  ever  made  a  lip  of  heaven 
Falter  amid  its  music-prayer  ! 

The  first-lit  star  of  summer  even 
Springs  not  so  softly  on  the  eye, 

Nor  grows,  with  watching,  half  so  bright, 
Nor,  mid  its  sisters  of  the  sky, 

So  seems  of  heaven  the  dearest  light ; 
Men  murmur  where  that  face  is  seen — 
My  youth's  angelic  dream  was  of  that  look  and  mien. 

Yet,  though  we  deem  the  stars  are  blest, 

And  envy,  in  our  grief,  the  flower 
That  bears  but  sweetness  in  its  breast, 

And  fear'd  the  enchanter  for  his  power, 
And  love  the  minstrel  for  his  spell 
He  winds  out  of  his  lyre  so  well ; 
The  stars  are  almoners  of  light, 

The  lyrist  of  melodious  air, 
The  fountain  of  its  waters  bright, 

And  every  thing  most  sweet  and  fair 
Of  that  by  which  it  charms  the  ear, 
The  eye  of  him  that  passes  near ; 
A  lamp  is  lit  in  woman's  eye 
That  souls,  else  lost  on  earth,  remember  angels  by. 


EDWARD   SANFORD. 


[Born,  1807.] 


EDWARD  SANTORH,  a  son  of  the  late  Chancellor 
SAXFORD,  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  New  York. 
He  was  graduated  at  the  Union  College  in  1824, 
and  in  the  following  year  became  a  law  student 
in  the  office  of  BEXJAMIX  F.  BUTLKR,  afterward 
Attorney -General  of  the  United  States.  He  sub- 
sequently practised  several  years  in  the  courts  of 


ADDRESS  TO  BLACK  HAWK. 

THERE  's  beauty  on  thy  brow,  old  chief!  the  high 

And  manly  beauty  of  the  Roman  mould, 
And  the  keen  flashing  of  thy  full,  dark  eye 

Speaks  of  a  heart  that  years  have  not  made  cold; 
Of  passions  scathed  not  by  the  blight  of  tune ; 

Ambition,  that  survives  the  battle-rout. 
The  man  within  thee  scorns  to  play  the  mime 

To  gaping  crowds,  that  compass  thee  about. 
Thou  walkest,  with  thy  warriors  by  thy  side, 
Wrapp'd  in  fierce  hate,  and  high,  unconquer'd  pride. 

Chief  of  a  hundred  warriors !  dost  thou  yet — 

Vanquished  and  captive — dost  thou  deem  that  here 
The  glowing  day-star  of  thy  glory  set — 

Dull  night  has  closed  upon  thy  bright  career  1 
Old  forest-lion,  caught  and  caged  at  last, 

Dost  pant  to  roam  again  thy  native  wild  1 
To  gloat  upon  the  lifeblood  flowing  fast 

Of  thy  crush'd  victims ;  and  to  slay  the  child, 
To  dabble  in  the  gore  of  wives  and  mothers,  [thers  1 
And  kill,  old  Turk!  thy  harmless,  pale-faced  bro- 

For  it  was  cruel,  BLACK  HAWK,  thus  to  flutter 

The  dove-cotes  of  the  peaceful  pioneers, 
To  let  thy  tribe  commit  such  fierce  and  utter 

Slaughter  among  the  folks  of  the  frontiers. 
Though  thine  be  old,  hereditary  hate, 

Bo,,rot  in  wrongs,  and  nursed  in  blood,  until 
It  had  become  a  madness,  'tis  too  late  [will 

To  crush  the  hordes  who  have  the  power  and 
To  rob  thee  of  thy  hunting-grounds  and  fountains, 
And  drive  thee  backward  to  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

Spite  of  thy  looks  of  cold  indifference,     [wonder; 

There's  much  thou'st  seen  that  must  excite  thy 
Wakes  not  upon  thy  quick  and  startled  sense 

The  cannon's  harsh  and  pealing  voice  of  thunder  1 
Our  big  canoes,  with  white  and  widespread  wings, 

That  sweep  the  waters  as  birds  sweep  the  sky ; 
Our  steamboats,  with  their  iron  lungs,  like  things 

Of  breathing  life,  that  dash  and  hurry  by  ? 
Or,  if  thou  scorn'st  the  wonders  of  the  ocean, 
What  think'st  thou  of  our  railroad  locomotion  1 

Thou  'st  seen  our  museums,  beheld  the  dummies 
That  grin  in  darkness  in  their  coffin  cases ; 

What  think'st  thou  of  the  art  of  making  mummies, 
So  that  the  worms  shrink  from  their  dry  embraces] 


New  York,  but  finally  abandoned  his  profession 
to  conduct  the  "  Standard,"  an  able  democratic 
journal,  with  which  he  was  connected  during  the 
political  contest  which  resulted  in  the  election  of 
Mr.  VAN  BUREX  to  the  Presidency,  after  which  he 
was  for  a  time  one  of  the  editors  of  "  The  Globe," 
at  Washington.  He  now  resides  in  New  York. 


Thou'st  seen  the  mimic  tyrants  of  the  stage 
Strutting,  in  paint  and  feathers,  for  an  hour ; 

Thou'st  heard  the  bellowing  of  their  tragic  rage, 
Seen  their  eyes  glisten,and  their  dark  brows  lower. 

Anon,  thou  'st  seen  them,  when  their  wrath  cool'd 
down, 

Pass  in  a  moment  from  a  king — to  clown. 

Thou  seest  these  tilings  unmoved !  sayst  so,  old 

fellow  ]    « 
Then  tell  us,  have  the  white  man's  glowing 

daughters 
Set  thy  cold  blood  in  motion  1    ITas't  been  mellow 

By  a  sly  cup  or  so  of  our  fire-waters  1 
They  are  thy  people's  deadliest  poison.     They 
First  make  them  cowards,  and  then  white  men's 

slaves ; 
And  sloth,  and  penury,  and  passion's  prey, 

And  lives  of  misery,  and  early  graves. 
For,  by  their  power,  believe  me,  not  a  day  goes 
But  kills  some  Foxes,  Sacs,  and  Winnebagoes. 

Say,  does  thy  wandering  heart  stray  far  away, 

To  the  deep  bosom  of  thy  forest-home  1 
The  hill-side,  where  thy  young  pappooses  play, 

And  ask,  amid  their  sports,  when  thou  wilt  come  1 
Come  not  the  wailings  of  thy  gentle  squaws 

For  their  lost  warrior  loud  upon  thine  ear, 
Piercing  athwart  the  thunder  of  huzzas, 

That,  yell'd  at  every  corner,  meet  thee  here  ? 
The  wife  who  made  that  shell-deck'd  wampum  belt, 
Thy  rugged  heart  must  think  of  her — and  melt 

Chafes  not  thy  heart,  as  chafes  the  panting  breast 

Of  the  caged  bird  against  his  prison-bars, 
That  thou,  the  crowned  warrior  of  the  West, 

The  victor  of  a  hundred  forest-wars, 
Shouldst  in  thy  age  become  a  raree-show, 

Led,  like  a  walking  bear,  about  the  town, 
A  new-caught  monster,  who  is  all  the  go, 

And  stared  at,  gratis,  by  the  gaping  clown  ? 
Boils  not  thy  blood,  while  thus  thou'rt  led  about, 
The  sport  and  mockery  of  the  rabble  rout  1 

Whence  came  thy  cold  philosophy  ?  whence  came, 
Thou  tearless,  stern,  and  uncomplaining  one, 

The  power  that  taught  thee  thus  to  veil  the  flame 
Of  thv  fierce  passions  1     Thou  despiscst  fun, 

32 


328 


EDWARD    SANFORD. 


And  thy  proud  spirit  scorns  the  white  men's  glee, 
Save  thy  fierce  sport,  when  at  the  funeral-pile 

Of  a  bound  warrior  in  his  agony, 

Who  meets  thy  horrid  laugh  with  dying  smile. 

Thy  face,  in  length,  reminds  one  of  a  Quaker's  ; 

Thy  dances,  too,  are  solemn  as  a  Shaker's. 

Proud  scion  of  a  noble  stem !  thy  tree 

Is  blanch'd,  and  bare,  and  sear'd,  and  leafless 
I  '11  not  insult  its  fallen  majesty,  [now. 

Nor  drive.with  careless  hand,  the  ruthless  plough 
Over  its  roots.     Torn  from  its  parent  mould, 

Rich,  warm,  and  deep,  its  fresh,  free,  balmy  air, 
No  second  verdure  quickens  in  our  cold, 

New,  barren  earth ;  no  life  sustains  it  there, 
But,  even  though  prostrate,  'tis  a  noble  thing, 
Though  crownless,  powerless, "  every  inch  a  lung." 

Give  us  thy  hand,  old  nobleman  of  nature, 

Proud  ruler  of  the  forest  aristocracy; 
The  best  of  blood  glows  in  thy  every  feature, 

And  thy  curl'd  lip  speaks  scorn  for  our  democracy. 
Thou  wear'st  thy  titles  on  that  godlike  brow ; 

Let  him  who  doubts  them  meet  thine  eagle-eye, 
He  '11  quail  beneath  its  glance,  and  disavow 

All  question  of  thy  noble  family ; 
For  thou  mayst  here  become,  with  strict  propriety, 
A  leader  in  our  city  good  society. 


TO  A  MUSQUITO. 

His  voice  was  ever  soft,  gentle,  and  low. — King  Lear. 


THOU  sweet  musician,  that  around  my  bed 

Dost  nightly  come  and  wind  thy  little  horn, 
By  what  unseen  and  secret  influence  led, 

Feed'st  thou  my  ear  with  music  till  't  is  morn  1 
The  wind-harp's  tones  are  not  more  soft  than  thine, 

The  hum  of  falling  waters  not  more  sweet: 
I  own,  indeed,  I  own  thy  song  divine,          [meet, 

And  when  next  year's  warm  summer  nights  we 
(Till  then,  farewell !)  I  promise  thee  to  be 
A  patient  listener  to  thy  minstrelsy. 

Thou  tiny  minstrel,  who  bid  thee  discourse 

Such  eloquent  music  ?  was 't  thy  tuneful  sire  1 
Some  old  musician  ?  or  didst  take  a  course 

Of  lessons  from  some  master  of  the  lyre  ? 
Who  bid  thee  twang  so  sweetly  thy  small  trump  ? 

Did  NORTOV  form  thy  notes  so  clear  and  full  1 
Art  a  phrenologist,  and  is  the  bump 

Of  song  developed  in  thy  little  skull  1 
A  t  N  i  B  to '  s  hast  thou  been  when  crowds  stood  mute, 
Drinking  the  birdlike  tones  of  CUDDY'S  flute  1 

Tell  me  the  burden  of  thy  ceaseless  song. 

Is  it  thy  evening  hymn  of  grateful  prayer, 
Or  lay  of  love,  thou  pipest  through  the  long, 

Still  night !  With  song  dost  drive  away  d  ull  care? 
Art  thou  a  vieux  garcon,  a  gay  deceiver, 

A  wandering  blade,  roaming  in  search  of  sweets, 
Pledging  thy  faith  to  every  fond  believer, 

Who  thy  advance  with  halfway  shyness  meets '! 
Or  art  o'  the  softer  sex,  and  sing'st  in  glee, 
"  In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free  ?" 


Thou  little  siren,  when  the  nymphs  of  yore 

Charm'd  with  their  songs  till  men  forgot  to  dine, 
And  starved,  though  music-fed,  upon  their  shore, 

Their  voices  breathed  no  softer  lays  than  thine. 
They  sang  but  to  entice,  and  thou  dost  sing 

As  if  to  lull  our  senses  to  repose, 
2That  thou  mayst  use,  unharm'd,  thy  little  sting, 

The  very  moment  we  begin  to  doze ; 
Thou  worse  than  siren,  thirsty,  fierce  blood-sipper, 
Thou  living  vampire,  and  thou  gallinipper  ! 

Nature  is  full  of  music,  sweetly  sings 

The  bard,  (and  thou  dost  sing  most  sweetly  too,) 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  created  things, 

Thou  art  the  living  proof  the  bard  sings  true. 
Nature  is  full  of  thee ;  on  every  shore, 

'Neath  the  hot  sky  of  Congo's  dusky  child, 
From  warm  Peru  to  icy  Labrador, 

The  world's  free  citizen,  thou  roamest  wild. 
Wherever  "  mountains  rise  or  oceans  roll," 
Thy  voice  is  heard,  from  « Indus  to  the  Pole." 

The  incarnation  of  Queen  MAB  art  thou, 

"  The  fairies'  midwife  ;" — thou  dost  nightly  sip, 
With  amorous  proboscis  bending  low, 

The  honey-dew  from  many  a  lady's  lip — 
(Though  that  they  «  straight  on  kisses  dream,"  I 
doubt — ) 

On  smiling  faces,  and  on  eyes  that  weep, 
Thou  lightest,  and  oft  with  «  sympathetic  snout" 

"  Ticklest  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep ; 
And  sometimes  dwellest,  if  I  rightly  scan, 
"  On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman." 

Yet  thou  canst  glory  in  a  noble  birth. 

As  rose  the  sea-born  YEXUS  from  the  wave, 
So  didst  thou  rise  to  life ;  the  teeming  earth, 

The  living  water  and  the  fresh  air  gave 
A  portion  of  their  elements  to  create 

Thy  little  form,  though  beauty  dwells  not  there. 
So  lean  and  gaunt,  that  economic  fate 

Meant  thee  to  Jeed  on  music  or  on  air. 
Our  vein's  pure  juices  were  not  made  for  thee, 
Thou  living,  singing,  stinging  atomy. 

The  hues  of  dying  sunset  are  most  fair, 

And  twilight's  tints  just  fading  into  night, 
Most  dusky  soft,  and  so  thy  soft  notes  are 

By  far  the  sweetest  when  thou  takest  thy  flight. 
The  swan's  last  note  is  sweetest,  so  is  thine; 

Sweet  are  the  wind-harp's  tones  at  distance  heard ; 
'Tis  sweet  at  distance,  at  the  day's  decline, 

To  hear  the  opening  song  of  evening's  bird. 
But  notes  of  harp  or  bird  at  distance  float 
Less  sweetly  on  the  ear  than  thy  last  note. 

The  autumn-winds  are  wailing:  'tis  thy  dirge; 

Its  leaves  are  sear,  prophetic  of  thy  doom. 
Soon  the  cold  rain  will  whelm  thee,  as  the  surge 

Whelms  the  toss'd  mariner  in  its  watery  tomb : 
Then  soar,  and  sing  thy  little  life  away ! 

Albeit  thy  voice  is  somewhat  husky  now. 
'Tis  well  to  end  in  music  life's  last  day, 

Of  one  so  gleeful  and  so  blithe  as  thou : 
For  thou  wilt  soon  live  through  its  joyous  hours, 
And  pass  away  with  autumn's  dying  flowers. 


J.    0.   ROCKWELL. 


[Born,  1S07.    Died,  1831.] 


.  JAMES  OTIS  ROCKWELL  was  born  in  Lebanon, 
an  agricultural  town  in  Connecticut,  in  1807.  At 
an  early  age  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer,  in 
Utica,  and  in  his  sixteenth  year  he  began  to  write 
verses  for  the  newspapers.  Two  years  afterward 
he  went  to  New  York,  and  subsequently  to  Boston, 
in  each  of  which  cities  he  laboured  as  a  journey- 
man compositor.  He  had  now  acquired  considera- 
ble reputation  by  his  poetical  writings,  and  was 
engaged  as  associate  editor  of  the  "  Statesman," 
an  old  and  influential  journal  published  in  Boston, 
with  which,  I  believe,  he  continued  until  1829, 
when  he  became  the  conductor  of  the  Providence 
"  Patriot,"  with  which  he  was  connected  at  the 
time  of  his  death. 

He  was  poor,  and  in  his  youth  he  had  been  left 
nearly  to  his  own  direction.  He  chose  to  learn 
the  business  of  printing,  because  he  thought  it 
would  afford  him  opportunities  to  improve  his 
mind  ;  and  his  education  was  acquired  by  diligent 
study  during  the  leisure  hours  of  his  apprentice- 
ship. When  he  removed  to  Providence,  it  became 
necessary  for  him  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  political  questions.  He  felt  but  little 
interest  in  public  affairs,  and  shrank  instinctively 
from  the  strife  of  partisanship ;  but  it  seemed  the 
only  avenue  to  competence  and  reputation,  and  he 
embarked  in  it  with  apparent  ardour.  Journalism, 
in  the  hands  of  able  and  honourable  men,  is  the 
noblest  of  callings ;  in  the  hands  of  the  ignorant 
and  mercenary,  it  is  among  the  meanest.  There 
are  at  all  times  connected  with  the  press,  persons 
of  the  baser  sort,  who  derive  their  support  and 
chief  enjoyment  from  ministering  to  the  worst  pas- 
sions; and  by  some  of  this  class  ROCKWELL'S  pri- 
vate character  was  assailed,  and  he  was  taunted 
with  his  obscure  parentage,  defective  education, 
and  former  vocation,  as  if  to  have  elevated  his  po- 
sition in  society,  by  perseverance  and  the  force  of 
mind,  were  a  ground  of  accusation.  He  had  too 
little  energy  in  his  nature  to  regard  such  assaults 
with  the  indifference  they  merited ;  and  complained 
in  some  of  his  letters  that  they  "  robbed  him  of  rest 
and  of  all  pleasure."  With  constantly  increasing 
reputation,  however,  he  continued  his  editorial  la- 
bours until  the  summer  of  1831,  when,  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty -four  years,  he  was  suddenly  called 
to  a  better  world.  He  felt  unwell,  one  morning, 
and,  in  a  brief  paragraph,  apologized  for  the  appa- 
rent neglect  of  his  gazette.  The  next  number 
of  it  wore  the  signs  of  mourning  for  his  death. 
A  friend  of  ROCKWELL'S,*  in  a  notice  of  him 
published  in  the  "Southern  Literary  Messenger," 
mentions  as  the  immediate  cause  of  his  death,  that 
he  "was  troubled  at  the  thought  of  some  obliga- 

*  Reverend  CHARLES  W.  EVEREST,  of  Meriden,  Con- 
necticut. 

42 


tion  which,  from  not  receiving  money  then  due  to 
him,  he  was  unable  to  meet,  and  shrank  from  the 
prospect  of  a  debtor's  prison."  That  it  was  in 
some  way  a  result  of  his  extreme  sensitiveness, 
was  generally  believed  among  his  friends  at  the 
time.  WHITTJEU,  who  was  then  editor  of  the 
"New  England  Weekly  Review,"  soon  after  wrote 
the  following  lines  to  his  memory : 

"The  turf  is  smooth  above  him  !  and  this  rain 
Will  moisten  the  rent  roots,  and  summon  back 
The  perishing  life  of  its  green-bladed  grass, 
And  the  crush'd  flower  will  lift  its  head  again 
Smilingly  unto  heaven,  as  if  it  kept 
No  vigil  with  the  dead.    Well— it  is  meet 
That  the  green  grass  should  tremble,  and  the  flowers 
Blow  wild  about  his  resting-place.     His  mind 
Was  in  itself  a  flower  but  half-disclosed — 
A  bud  of  blessed  promise  which  the  storm 
Visited  rudely,  and  the  passer  by 
Smote  down  in  wantonness.     But  we  may  trust 
That  it  hath  found  a  dwelling,  where  the  sun 
Of  a  more  holy  clime  will  visit  it, 
And  the  pure  dews  of  mercy  will  descend, 
Through  Heaven's  own  atmosphere,  upon  its  head. 

"His  form  is  now  before  me,  with  no  trace 
Of  death  in  its  fine  lineaments,  and  there 
Is  a  faint  crimson  on  his  youthful  cheek, 
And  his  free  lip  is  softening  with  the  smile 
Which  in  his  eye  is  kindling.    I  can  feel 
The  parting  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  hear 
His  last  'Goo  bless  you !'    Strange— that  he  is  thero 
Distinct  before  me  like  a  breathing  thing, 
Even  when  I  know  that  he  is  with  the  dead, 
And  that  the  dump  earth  hides  him.    I  would  not 
Think  of  him  otherwise — his  image  lives 
Within  my  memory  as  he  seem'd  befoie 
The  curse  of  blighted  feeling,  and  the  toil 
And  fever  of  an  uncongenial  strife,  had  left 
Their  traces  on  his  aspect.    Peace  to  him ! 
He  wrestled  nobly  wilh  the  weariness 
And  trials  of  our  being — smiling  on, 
While  poison  mingled  with  his  springs  of  life, 
And  wearing  a  calm  brow,  while  on  his  heart 
Anguish  was  resting  like  a  hand  of  fire — 
Until  at  last  the  agony  of  thought 
Grew  insupportable,  and  madness  came 
Darkly  upon  him,— and  the  sufferer  died ! 

"  Nor  died  he  unlamented  !     To  his  grave 
The  beautiful  and  gifted  shall  go  up, 
And  muse  upon  the  sleeper.     And  young  lips 
Shall  murmur  in  the  broken  tones  of  grief — 
His  own  sweet  melodies— and  if  the  ear 
Of  the  freed  spirit  heedeth  aught  beneath 
The  brightness  of  its  new  inheritance, 
It  may  be  joyful  to  the  parted  one 
To  feel  that  earth  remembers  him  in  love !" 
The  specimens  of  ROCKWELL'S  poetry  which 
have  fallen  under  my  notice  show  him  to  have 
possessed  considerable   fancy   and    de^p  feeling 
His  imagery  is  not  always  well  chosen,  and  his  ver- 
sification is  sometimes  defective  ;  but  his  thoughts 
are  often  original,  and  the  general  effect  of  his 
pieces  is  striking.     His  later  poems  are  his  best, 
and  probably  he  would  have  produced  works  of 
much  merit  had  he  lived  to  a  maturer  age. 

2  E  2  329 


330 


J.   O.   ROCKWELL. 


THE  SUM  OF  LIFE. 

SEARCHER  of  gold,  whose  days  and  nights 
All  waste  away  in  anxious  care, 

Estranged  from  all  of  life's  delights, 
Unlearn'd  in  all  that  is  most  fair — 

Who  sailcst  not  with  easy  glide, 

But  delvest  in  the  depths  of  tide, 
And  strugglest  in  the  foam ; 

O  !  come  and  view  this  land  of  graves, 

Death's  northern  sea  of  frozen  waves, 
And  mark  thee  out  thy  home. 

Lover  of  woman,  whose  sad  heart 

Wastes  like  a  fountain  in  the  sun, 
Clings  most,  where  most  its  pain  does  start, 

Dies  by  the  light  it  lives  upon ; 
Come  to  the  land  of  graves ;  for  here 
Are  beauty's  smile,  and  beauty's  tear, 

Gather'd  in  holy  trust ; 
Here  slumber  forms  as  fair  as  those 
Whose  cheeks,  now  living,  shame  the  rose, 
Their  glory  turn'd  to  dust. 

Lover  of  fame,  whose  foolish  thought 
Steals  onward  o'er  the  wave  of  time, 

Tell  me,  what  goodness  hath  it  brought, 
Atoning  for  that  restless  crime? 

The  spirit-mansion  desolate, 

And  open  to  the  storms  of  fate, 
The  absent  soul  in  fear ; 

Bring  home  thy  thoughts  and  come  with  me, 

And  see  where  all  thy  pride  must  be : 
Searcher  of  fame,  look  here ! 

And,  warrior,  thou  with  snowy  plume, 

That  goest  to  the  bugle's  call, 
Come  and  look  down ;  this  lonely  tomb 

Shall  hold  thee  and  thy  glories  all : 
The  haughty  brow,  the  manly  frame, 
The  daring  deeds,  the  sounding  fame, 

Are  trophies  but  for  death ! 
And  millions  who  have  toil'd  like  thee, 
Are  stay'd,  and  here  they  sleep ;  and  see, 
Does  glory  lend  them  breath  1 


TO  ANN. 

THOU  wert  as  a  lake  that  lieth 

In  a  bright  and  sunny  way ; 
I  was  as  a  bird  that  flieth 

O'er  it  on  a  pleasant  day ; 
When  I  look'd  upon  thy  features 

Presence  then  some  feeling  lent ; 
But  thou  knowest,  most  false  of  creatures, 

With  thy  form  thy  image  went. 

With  a  kiss  my  vow  was  greeted, 

As  I  knelt  before  thy  shrine ; 
But  I  saw  that  kiss  repeated 

On  another  lip  than  mine ; 
And  a  solemn  vow  was  spoken 

That  thy  heart  should  not  be  changed ; 
But  that  binding  vow  was  broken, 

And  thy  spirit  was  estranged. 


I  could  blame  thee  for  awaking 

Thoughts  the  world  will  but  deride  ; 
Calling  out,  and  then  forsaking 

Flowers  the  winter  wind  will  chide ; 
Gulling  to  the  midway  ocean 

Barks  that  tremble  by  the  shore ; 
But  I  hush  the  sad  emotion, 

And  will  punish  thee  no  more. 


THE  LOST  AT  SEA. 

WIFE,  who  in  thy  deep  devotion 

Puttest  up  a  prayer  for  one 
Sailing  on  the  stormy  ocean, 

Hope  no  more — his  course  is  done. 
Dream  not,  when  upon  thy  pillow, 

That  he  slumbers  by  thy  side ; 
For  his  corse  beneath  the  billow 

Heaveth  with  the  restless  tide. 

Children,  who,  as  sweet  flowers  growing, 

Laugh  amid  the  sorrowing  rains, 
Know  ye  many  clouds  are  throwing 

Shadows  on  your  sire's  remains  ? 
Where  the  hoarse,  gray  surge  is  rolling 

With  a  mountain's  motion  on, 
Dream  ye  that  its  voice  is  tolling 

For  your  father  lost  and  gone  1 

When  the  sun  look'd  on  the  water, 

As  a  hero  on  his  grave, 
Tinging  with  the  hue  of  slaughter 

Every  blue  and  leaping  wave, 
Under  the  majestic  ocean, 

Where  the  giant  current  roll'd, 
Slept  thy  sire,  without  emotion, 

Sweetly  by  a  beam  of  gold ; 

And  the  silent  sunbeams  slanted, 

Wavering  through  the  crystal  deep, 
Till  their  wonted  splendours  haunted 

Those  shut  eyelids  in  their  sleep. 
Sands,  like  crumbled  silver  gleaming, 

Sparkled  through  his  raven  hair ; 
But  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dreaming 

Bound  him  in  its  silence  there. 

So  we  left  him ;  and  to  tell  thee 

Of  our  sorrow  and  thine  own, 
Of  the  wo  that  then  befell  thee, 

Come  we  weary  and  alone. 
That  thine  eye  is  quickly  shaded, 

That  thy  heart-blood  wildly  flows, 
That  thy  cheek's  clear  hue  is  faded, 

Are  the  fruits  of  these  new  woes. 

Children,  whose  meek  eyes,  inquiring, 

Linger  on  your  mother's  face — 
Know  ye  that  she  is  expiring, 

That  ye  are  an  orphan  race  1 
GOD  be  with  you  on  the  morrow, 

Father,  mother, — both  no  more ; 
One  within  a  grave  of  sorrow, 

One  upon  the  ocean's  floor  ! 


J.   O.   ROCKWELL. 


331 


THE  DEATH-BED  OF  BEAUTY. 

SHE  sleeps  in  beauty,  like  the  dying  rose 

By  the  warm  skies  and  winds  of  June  forsaken ; 
Or  like  the  sun,  when  dimm'd  with  clouds  it  goes 

To  its  clear  ocean-bed,  by  light  winds  shaken : 
Or  like  the  moon,  when  through  its  robes  of  snow 

It  smiles  with  angel  meekness — or  like  sorrow 
When  it  is  soothed  by  resignation's  glow, 

Or  like  herself, — she  will  be  dead  to-morrow. 

How  still  she  sleeps !    The  young  and  sinless  girl ! 

And  the  faint  breath  upon  her  red  lips  trembles ! 
Waving,  almost  in  death,  the  raven  curl 

That  floats  around  her ;  and  she  most  resembles 
The  fall  of  night  upon  the  ocean  foam, 

Wherefrom  the  sun-light  hath  not  yet  departed; 
And  where  the  winds  are  faint.  She  stealeth  home, 

Unsullied  girl !  an  angel  broken-hearted ! 

O,  bitter  world  !  that  hadst  so  cold  an  eye 

To  look  upon  so  fair  a  type  of  heaven ; 
She  could  not  dwell  beneath  a  winter  sky, 

And  her  heart-strings  were  frozen  here  and  riven, 
And  now  she  lies  in  ruins — look  and  weep! 

How  lightly  leans  her  cheek  upon  the  pillow ! 
And  how  the  bloom  of  her  fair  face  doth  keep 

Changed,  like  a  stricken  dolphin  on  the  billow. 


TO  THE  ICE-MOUNTAIN. 

GRAVE  of  waters  gone  to  rest ! 

Jewel,  dazzling  all  the  main ! 
Father  of  the  silver  crest ! 

Wandering  on  the  trackless  plain, 
Sleeping  mid  the  wavy  roar, 

Sailing  mid  the  angry  storm, 
Ploughing  ocean's  oozy  floor, 

Piling  to  the  clouds  thy  form ! 

Wandering  monument  of  rain, 

Prison'd  by  the  sullen  north ! 
But  to  melt  thy  hated  chain, 

Is  it  that  thou  comest  forth  1 
Wend  thee  to  the  sunny  south, 

To  the  glassy  summer  sea, 
And  the  breathings  of  her  mouth 

Shall  unchain  and  gladden  thee ! 

Roamer  in  the  hidden  path, 

'Neath  the  green  and  clouded  wave ! 
Trampling  in  thy  reckless  wrath, 

On  the  lost,  but  cherish'd  brave ; 
Parting  love's  death-link'd  embrace — 

Crushing  beauty's  skeleton — 
Tell  us  what  the  hidden  race 

With  our  mourned  lost  have  done ! 

Floating  isle,  which  in  the  sun 

Art  an  icy  coronal ; 
And  beneath  the  viewless  dun, 

Throw'st  o'er  barks  a  wavy  pall ; 
Shining  death  upon  the  sea ! 

Wend  thee  to  the  southern  main ; 
Warm  skies  wait  to  welcome  thee ! 

Mingle  with  the  wave  again ! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

WHEN  the  summer  sun  was  in  the  west, 

Its  crimson  radiance  fell, 
Some  on  the  blue  and  changeful  sea, 

And  some  in  the  prisoner's  cell. 
And  then  his  eye  with  a  smile  would  beam, 

And  the  blood  would  leave  his  brain, 
And  the  verdure  of  his  soul  return, 

Like  sere  grass  after  rain ! 

But  when  the  tempest  wreathed  and  spread 

A  mantle  o'er  the  sun, 
He  gather'd  back  his  woes  again, 

And  brooded  thereupon ; 
And  thus  he  lived,  till  Time  one  day 

Led  Death  to  break  his  chain :    " 
And  then  the  prisoner  went  away, 

And  he  was  free  again ! 


TO  A  WAVE. 

LIST  !  thou  child  of  wind  and  sea, 

Tell  me  of  the  far-off'  deep, 
Where  the  tempest's  breath  is  free, 

And  the  waters  never  sleep  ! 
Thou  perchance  the  storm  hast  aided, 

In  its  work  of  stern  despair, 
Or  perchance  thy  hand  hath  braided, 

In  deep  caves,  the  mermaid's  hair. 

Wave !  now  on  the  golden  sands, 

Silent  as  thou  art,  and  broken, 
Bear'st  thou  not  from  distant  strands 

To  my  heart  some  pleasant  token  ? 
Tales  of  mountains  of  the  south, 

Spangles  of  the  ore  of  silver ; 
Which,  with  playful  singing  mouth, 

Thou  hast  leap'd  on  high  to  pilfer  1 

Mournful  wave !  I  deem'd  thy  song 

Was  telling  of  a  floating  prison, 
Which,  when  tempests  swept  along, 

And  the  mighty  winds  were  risen, 
Founder'd  in  the  ocean's  grasp. 

While  the  brave  and  fair  were  dying, 
Wave !  didst  mark  a  white  hand  clasp 

In  thy  folds,  as  thou  wert  flying  1 

Hast  thou  seen  the  hallow'd  rock 

Where  the  pride  of  kings  reposes, 
Crown'd  with  many  a  misty  lock, 

Wreathed  with  sapphire,  green,  and  roses! 
Or  with  joyous,  playful  leap, 

Hast  thou  been  a  tribute  flinging, 
Up  that  bold  and  jutty  steep, 

Pearls  upon  the  south  wind  stringing? 

Faded  Wave !  a  joy  to  thee, 

Now  thy  flight  and  toil  are  over ! 
0,  may  my  departure  be 

Calm  as  thine,  thou  ocean-rover ! 
When  this  soul's  last  pain  or  mirth 

On  the  shore  of  time  is  driven, 
Be  its  lot  like  thine  on  earth, 

To  be  lost  away  in  heaven  ! 


THOMAS   WARD. 

[Bom,  1807.] 


DOCTOR  WAHD  was  born  at  Newark,  in  New 
Jersey,  on  the  eighth  of  June,  1807.  His  father, 
General  THOMAS  WAHD,  is  one  of  the  oldest, 
wealthiest,  and  most  respectable  citizens  of  that 
town ;  and  has  held  various  offices  of  public  trust 
in  his  native  state,  and  represented  his  district  in 
the  national  Congress. 

Doctor  WARD  received  his  classical  education 
at  the  academies  in  Bloomfield  and  Newark,  and 
the  college  at  Princeton.  He  chose  the  profession 
of  physic,  and,  after  the  usual  preparation,  obtained 
his  degree  of  Doctor  of  Medicine  in  the  spring  of 
1829,  at  the  Rutgers  Medical  College,  in  New 
York.  In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  he  went 
to  Paris,  to  avail  himself  of  the  facilities  afforded 
in  that  capital  for  the  prosecution  of  every  branch 
of  medical  inquiry ;  and,  after  two  years'  absence, 
during  which  he  accomplished  the  usual  tour 
through  Italy,  Switzerland,  Holland,  and  Great 
Britain,  he  returned  to  New  York,  and  commenced 
the  practice  of  medicine  in  that  city.  In  the  course 


of  two  or  three  years,  however,  he  gradually  with- 
drew from  business,  his  circumstances  permitting 
him  to  exchange  devotion  to  his  profession  for 
the  more  congenial  pursuits  of  literature  and  gene- 
ral knowledge.  He  is  married,  and  still  resides  in 
New  York;  spending  his  summers,  however,  in 
his  native  city,  and  among  the  more  romantic  and 
beautiful  scenes  of  New  Jersey.  His  first  literary 
efforts  were  brief  satirical  pieces,  in  verse  and 
prose,  published  in  a  country  gazette,  in  1825  and 
1826.  It  was  not  until  after  his  return  from  Eu- 
rope, when  he  adopted  the  signature  of  "FiAccus," 
and  began  to  write  for  the  "New  York  American," 
that  he  attracted  much  attention.  His  principal 
work,  "Passaic,  a  Group  of  Poems  touching  that 
River,"  appeared  in  1841.  It  contains  some  fine 
descriptive  passages,  and  its  versification  is  gene- 
rally correct  and  musical.  "The  Monomania  of 
Money-getting,"  a  satire,  and  many  of  his  minor 
pieces,  are  more  distinguished  for  vigour  and  spright- 
liness,  than  for  mere  poetical  qualities. 


MUSINGS  ON  RIVERS. 

BEAUTIFUL  rivers !  that  adown  the  vale 
With  graceful  passage  journey  to  the  deep, 
Let  me  along  your  grassy  marge  recline 
At  ease,  and  musing,  meditate  the  strange 
Bright  history  of  your  life ;  yes,  from  your  birth, 
Has  beauty's  shadow  chased  your  every  step ; 
The  blue  sea  was  your  mother,  and  the  sun 
Your  glorious  sire :  clouds  your  voluptuous  cradle, 
Roof 'd  with  o'erarching  rainbows ;  and  your  fall 
To  earth  was  checr'd  with  shout  of  happy  birds, 
With  brighten'd  faces  of  reviving  flowers 
And  meadows,  while  the  sympathising  west 
Took  holiday,  and  donn'd  her  richest  robes. 
From  deep,  mysterious  wanderings  your  springs 
Break  bubbling  into  beauty ;  where  they  lie 
In  infant  helplessness  a  while,  but  soon 
Gathering  in  tiny  brooks,  they  gambol  down 
The  steep  sides  of  the  mountain,  laughing,  shouting, 
Teasing  the  wild  flowers,  and  at  every  turn 
Meeting  new  playmates  still  to  swell  their  ranks ; 
Which,  with  the  rich  increase  resistless  grown, 
Shed  foam  and  thunder,  that  the  echoing  wood 
Rings  with  tbe  boisterous  glee ;  while  o'er  their  heads, 
Catching  their  spirit  blithe,  young  rainbows  sport, 
The  frolic  children  of  the  wanton  sun. 

Nor  is  your  swelling  prime,  or  green  old  age, 
Though  calm,  unlovely ;  still,  where'er  ye  move, 
Your  train  is  beauty ;  trees  stand  grouping  by 
To  mark  your  graceful  progress :  giddy  flowers, 
And  vain,  as  beauties  wont,  stoop  o'er  the  verge 
To  greet  their  faces  in  your  flattering  glass ; 
The  thirsty  herd  are  following  at  your  side ; 
And  water-birds,  in  clustering  fleets,  convoy 


Your  sea-bound  tides ;  and  jaded  man,  released 

From  worldly  thraldom,  here  his  dwelling  plants, 

Here  pauses  in  your  pleasant  neighbourhood, 

Sure  of  repose  along  your  tranquil  shores. 

And  when  your  end  approaches,  and  ye  blend 

With  the  eternal  ocean,  ye  shall  fade 

As  placidly  as  when  an  infant  dies  ; 

And  the  death-angel  shall  your  powers  withdraw 

Gently  as  twilight  takes  the  parting  day, 

And,  with  a  soft  and  gradual  decline 

That  cheats  the  senses,  lets  it  down  to  night. 

Bountiful  rivers !  not  upon  the  earth 
Is  record  traced  of  GOD'S  exuberant  grace 
So  deeply  graven  as  the  channels  worn 
By  ever-flowing  streams:  arteries  of  earth, 
That,  widely  branching,  circulate  its  blood : 
Whose  ever-throbbing  pulses  are  the  tides. 
The  whole  vast  enginery  of  Nature,  all 
The  roused  and  labouring  elements  combine 
In  their  production ;  for  the  mighty  end 
Is  growth,  is  life  to  every  living  thing. 
The  sun  himself  is  charter'd  for  the  work : 
His  arm  uplifts  the  main,  and  at  his  smile 
The  fluttering  vapours  take  their  flight  for  heaven, 
Shaking  the  briny  sea-dregs  from  their  wings; 
Here,  wrought  by  unseen  fingers,  soon  is  wove 
The  cloudy  tissue,  till  a  mighty  fleet, 
Freighted  with  treasures  bound  for  distant  shores, 
Floats  waiting  for  the  breeze ;  loosed  on  the  sky 
Rush  the   strong  tempests,  that,  with  sweeping 
Impel  the  vast  flotilla  to  its  port ;  [breath, 

Where,  overhanging  wide  the  arid  plain, 
Drops  the  rich  mercy  down;  and  oft,  when  summer 
Withers  the  harvest,  and  the  lazy  clouds 
Drag  idly  at  the  bidding  of  the  breeze, 

332 


THOMAS    WARD. 


333 


New  riders  spur  them,  and  enraged  they  rush, 
Bestrode  by  thunders,  that,  with  hideous  shouts 
And  crackling  thongs  of  fire,  urge  them  along. 

As  falls  the  blessing,  how  the  satiate  earth 
And  all  her  race  shed  grateful  smiles ! — not  here 
The  bounty  ceases :  when  the  drenching  streams 
Have,  inly  sinking,  quench'd  the  greedy  thirst 
Of  plants,  of  woods,  some  kind,  invisible  hand 
In  bright,  perennial  springs  draws  up  again 
For  needy  man  and  beast ;  and,  as  the  brooks 
Grow  strong,  apprenticed  to  the  use  of  man, 
The  ponderous  wheel  they  turn,  the  web  to  weave, 
The  stubborn  metal  forge ;  and,  when  advanced 
To  sober  age  at  last,  ye  seek  the  sea, 
Bearing  the  wealth  of  commerce  on  your  backs, 
Ye  seem  the  unpaid  carriers  of  the  sky 
Vouchsafed  to  earth  for  burden ;  and  your  host 
Of  shining  branches,  linking  land  to  land, 
Seem  bands  of  friendship — silver  chains  of  love, 
To  bind  the  world  in  brotherhood  and  peace. 

Back  to  the  primal  chaos  fancy  sweeps 
To  trace  your  dim  beginning;  when  dull  earth 
Lay  sunken  low,  one  level,  plashy  marsh, 
Girdled  with  mists ;  while  saurian  reptiles,  strange, 
Measureless  monsters,  through  the  cloggy  plain 
Paddled  and  flounder'd  ;  and  the  Almighty  voice, 
Like  silver  trumpet,  from  their  hidden  dens 
Summon'd  the  central  and  resistless  fires, 
That  with  a  groan  from  pole  to  pole  upheave 
The  mountain-masses,  and,  with  dreadful  rent, 
Fracture  the  rocky  crust ;  then  Andes  rose, 
And  Alps  their  granite  pyramids  shot  up, 
Barren  of  soil ;  but  gathering  vapours  round 
Their  stony  scalps,  condensed  to  drops,  from  drops 
To  brooks,  from  brooks  to  rivers,  which  set  out 
Over  that  rugged  and  untravell'd  land, 
The  first  exploring  pilgrims,  to  the  sea. 
Tedious  their  route,  precipitous  and  vague, 
Seeking  with  humbleness  the  lowliest  paths: 
Oft  shut  in  valleys  deep,  forlorn  they  turn 
And  find  no  vent;  till,  gather'd  into  lakes, 
Topping  the  basin's  brimming  lip,  they  plunge 
Headlong,  and  hurry  to  the  level  main, 
Rejoicing:  misty  ages  did  they  run, 
And,  with  unceasing  friction,  all  the  while 
Fritter'd  to  granular  atoms  the  dense  rock, 
And  greund  it  into  soil — then  dropp'd  (O !  sure 
Fromheaven)  the  precious  seed:  first  mosses, lichens 
Seized  on  the  sterile  flint,  and  from  their  dust 
Sprang  herbs  and  flowers:  last  from  the  deepening 

mould 

Uprose  to  heaven  in  pride  the  princely  tree, 
And  earth  was  fitted  for  her  coming  lord. 


TO  THE  MAGNOLIA. 

WHEX  roaming  o'er  the  marshy  field, 

Through  tangled  brake  and  treacherous  slough, 

We  start,  that  spot  so  foul  should  yield, 
Chaste  blossom !  such  a  balm  as  thou. 

Such  lavish  fragrance  there  we  meet, 

That  all  the  dismal  waste  is  sweet. 


So,  in  the  dreary  path  of  life, 

Through  clogging  toil  and  thorny  care, 
Love  rears  his  blossom  o'er  the  strife, 

Like  thine,  to  cheer  the  wanderer  there  : 
Which  pours  such  incense  round  the  spot, 
His  pains,  his  cares,  are  all  forgot. 


TO  AN  INFANT  IN  HEAVEN. 


THOU  bright  and  star-like  spirit ! 

That,  in  my  visions  wild, 
I  see  mid  heaven's  seraphic  host — 

O  !  canst  thou  be  my  child  ? 

My  grief  is  quench'd  in  wonder, 
And  pride  arrests  my  sighs ; 

A  branch  from  this  unworthy  stock 
Now  blossoms  in  the  skies. 

Our  hopes  of  thee  were  lofty, 
But  have  we  cause  to  grieve  ? 

O  !  could  our  fondest,  proudest  wish 
A  nobler  fate  conceive  ? 

The  little  weeper,  tearless, 

The  sinner,  snatch'd  from  sin ; 

The  babe,  to  more  than  manhood  grown, 
Ere  childhood  did  begin. 

And  I,  thy  earthly  teacher, 
.     Would  blush  thy  powers  to  see ; 
Thou  art  to  me  a  parent  now, 
And  I,  a  child  to  thee ! 

Thy  brain,  so  uninstructed 

While  in  this  lowly  state, 
Now  threads  the  mazy  track  of  spheres, 

Or  reads  the  book  of  fate. 

Thine  eyes,  so  curb'd  in  vision, 
Now  range  the  realms  of  space — 

Look  down  upon  the  rolling  stars, 
Look  up  to  GOD'S  own  face. 

Thy  little  hand,  so  helpless, 
That  scarce  its  toys  could  hold, 

Now  clasps  its  mate  in  holy  prayer, 
Or  twangs  a  harp  of  gold. 

Thy  feeble  feet,  unsteady, 

That  totter  d  as  they  trod, 
With  angels  walk  the  heavenly  paths, 

Or  stand  before  their  GOD. 

Nor  is  thy  tongue  less  skilful, 

Before  the  throne  divine 
'T  is  pleading  for  a  mother's  weal, 

As  once  she  pray'd  for  thine. 

What  bliss  is  born  of  sorrow  ! 

'T  is  never  sent  in  vain — 
The  heavenly  surgeon  maims  to  save, 

He  gives  no  useless  pain. 

Our  GOD,  to  call  us  homeward, 

His  only  Son  sent  down: 
And  now,  still  more  to  tempt  our  hearts, 

Has  taken  up  our  own. 


JOHN  H.  BRYANT. 


[Born,  1807.] 


JOHN  HOWAKD  BKYANT  was  born  in  Cumming- 
ton,  Massachusetts,  on  the  twenty-second  day  of 
July,  1807.  His  youth  was  passed  principally  in 
rural  occupations,  and  in  attending  the  district  and 
other  schools,  until  he  was  nineteen  years  of  age, 
when  he  began  to  study  the  Latin  language,  with 
a  view  of  entering  one  of  the  colleges.  In  1826, 
he  wrote  the  first  poem  of  which  he  retained  any 
copy.  This  was  en  titled  "My  Native  Village,"  and 
first  appeared  in  the  "United  States  Review  and 
Literary  Gazette,"  a  periodical  published  simulta- 
neously at  New  York  and  Boston,  of  which  his 
brother,  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,  was  one  of 
the  editors.  It  is  included  in  the  present  collec- 
tion. After  this  he  gave  up  the  idea  of  a  univer- 
sity education,  and  placed  himself  for  a  while  at 
the  Rensselaer  School  at  Troy,  under  the  superin- 
tendance  of  Professor  EATON.  He  subsequently 
applied  himself  to  the  study  of  the  mathematical 
and  natural  sciences,  under  different  instructors, 
and  in  his  intervals  of  leisure  produced  several 
poems,  which  were  published  in  the  gazettes. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  PILGRIM'S 
FUNERAL. 

IT  was  a  wintry  scene, 
The  hills  were  whiten'd  o'er, 
And  the  chill  north  winds  were  blowing  keen 
Along  the  rocky  shore. 

Gone  was  the  wood-bird's  lay, 
That  the  summer  forest  fills, 
And  the  voice  of  the  stream  has  pass'd  away 
From  its  path  among  the  hills. 

And  the  low  sun  coldly  smiled 
Through  the  boughs  of  the  ancient  wood, 
Where  a  hundred  souls,  sire,  wife,  and  child, 
Around  a  coffin  stood. 

They  raised  it  gently  up, 
And,  through  the  untrodden  snow, 
They  bore  it  away,  with  a  solemn  step, 
To  a  woody  vale  below. 

f 

And  grief  was  in  each  eye, 
As  they  moved  towards  the  spot 
And  brief,  low  speech,  and  tear  and  sigh 
Told  that  a  friend  was  not 

When  they  laid  his  cold  corpse  low 
In  its  dark  and  narrow  cell, 
Heavy  the  mingled  earth  and  snow 
Upon  his  coffin  fell. 

Weeping,  they  pass'd  away, 
And  left  him  there  alone, 


In  April,  1831,  he  went  to  Jacksonville,  in  Illi- 
nois ;  and  in  September  of  the  next  year  went  to 
Princeton,  in  the  same  state,  where  he  sat  himself 
down  as  a  squatter,  or  inhabitant  of  the  public 
lands  not  yet  ordered  to  be  sold  by  the  govern- 
ment When  the  lands  came  into  the  market,  he 
purchased  a  farm,  bordering  on  one  of  the  fine 
groves  of  that  country.  He  was  married  in  1833. 
He  accepted  soon  afterward  two  or  three  public 
offices,  one  of  which  was  that  of  Recorder  of  Bu- 
reau county;  but  afterward  resigned  them,  and 
devoted  himself  to  agricultural  pursuits.  Of  his 
poems,  part  were  written  in  Massachusetts,  and 
part  in  Illinois.  They  have  the  same  general 
characteristics  as  those  of  his  brother.  He  is  a 
lover  of  nature,  and  describes  minutely  and  effect- 
ively. To  him  the  wind  and  the  streams  are  ever 
musical,  and  the  forests  and  the  prairies  clothed 
in  beauty.  His  versification  is  easy  and  correct, 
and  his  writings  show  him  to  be  a  man  of  refined 
taste  and  kindly  feelings,  and  to  have  a  mind 
stored  with  the  best  learning. 


With  no  mark  to  tell  where  their  dead  friend  lay, 
But  the  mossy  forest-stone. 

When  the  winter  storms  were  gone 
And  the  strange  birds  sung  around, 
Green  grass  and  violets  sprung  upon 
That  spot  of  holy  ground. 

And  o'er  him  giant  trees 
Their  proud  arms  toss'd  on  high, 
And  rustled  music  in  the  breeze 
That  wander'd  through  the  sky. 

When  these  were  overspread 
With  the  hues  that  Autumn  gave, 
They  bow'd  them  in  the  wind,  and  shed 
Their  leaves  upon  his  grave. 

These  woods  are  perish'd  now, 
And  that  humble  grave  forgot, 
And  the  yeoman  sings,  as  he  drives  his  plough 
O'er  that  once  sacred  spot. 

Two  centuries  are  flown 
Since  they  laid  his  cold  corpse  low, 
And  his  bones  are  mouldcr'd  to  dust,  and  strown 
To  the  breezes  long  ago. 

And  they  who  laid  him  there, 
That  sad  and  suffering  train, 
Now  sleep  in  dust, — to  tell  us  where 
No  letter'd  stones  remain. 

Their  memory  remains, 
And  ever  shall  remain, 
More  lasting  than  the  aged  fanes 
Of  Egypt's  storied  plain. 

334 


JOHN    H.   BRYANT. 


335 


A  RECOLLECTION. 

HERE  tread  aside,  where  the  descending  brook 
Pays  a  scant  tribute  to  the  mightier  stream, 
And  all  the  summer  long,  on  silver  feet, 
Glides  lightly  o'er  the  pebbles,  sending  out 
A  mellow  murmur  on  the  quiet  air. 
Just  up  this  narrow  glen,  in  yonder  glade 
Set,  like  a  nest  amid  embowering  trees, 
Where  the  green  grass,  fresh  as  in  early  spring, 
Spreads  a  bright  carpet  o'er  the  hidden  soil, 
Lived,  in  my  early  days,  an  humble  pair, 
A  mother  and  her  daughter.     She,  the  dame, 
Had  well  nigh  seen  her  threescore  years  and  ten. 
Her  step  was  tremulous ;  slight  was  her  frame, 
And  bow'd  with  time  and  toil ;  the  lines  of  care 
Were  deep  upon  her  brow.     At  shut  of  day 
I  've  met  her  by  the  skirt  of  this  old  wood, 
Alone,  and  faintly  murmuring  to  herself, 
Haply,  the  history  of  her  better  days. 
I  knew  that  history  once,  from  youth  to  age : — 
It  was  a  sad  one ;  he  who  wedded  her 
Had  wrong'd  her  love,  and  thick  the  darts  of  death 
Had  fallen  among  her  children  and  her  friends. 
One  solace  for  her  age  remained, — a  fair 
And  gentle  daughter,  with  blue,  pensive  eyes, 
And  cheeks  like  summer  roses.     Her  sweet  songs 
Rang  like  the  thrasher's  warble  in  these  woods, 
And  up  the  rocky  dells.     At  noon  and  eve, 
Her  walk  was  o'er  the  hills,  and  by  the  founts 
Of  the  deep  forest.     Oft  she  gather'd  flowers 
In  lone  and  desolate  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  other  wanderers  but  seldom  trod. 
Once,  in  my  boyhood,  when  my  truant  steps 
Had  led  me  forth  among  the  pleasant  hills, 
I  met  her  in  a  shaded  path,  that  winds  [low, 

Far  through  the  spreading  groves.     The  sun  was 
The  shadow  of  the  hills  stretch'd  o'er  the  vale, 
And  the  still  wafers  of  the  river  lay 
Black  in  the  early  twilight.     As  we  met, 
She  stoop'd  and  press'd  her  friendly  lips  to  mine, 
And,  though  I  then  was  but  a  simple  child, 
Who  ne'er  had  dream'd  of  love,  nor  knew  its  power, 
I  wonder'd  at  her  beauty.     Soon  a  sound 
Of  thunder,  muttering  low,  along  the  west, 
Foretold  a  coming  storm;  my  homeward  path 
Lay  through  the  woods,  tangled  with  undergrowth. 
A  timid  urchin  then,  I  fear'd  to  go, 
Which  she  observing,  kindly  led  the  way, 
And  left  me  when  my  dwelling  was  in  sight. 
I  hasten'd  on;  but,  ere  I  reach'd  the  gate, 
The  rain  fell  fast,  and  the  drench'd  fields  around 
Were  glittering  in  the  lightning's  frequent  flash. 
But  where  was  now  ELIZA!     When  the  morn 
Blush'd  on  the  summer  hills,  they  found  her  dead, 
Beneath  an  oak,  rent  by  the  thunderbolt. 
Thick  lay  the  splinters  round,  and  one  sharp  shaft 
Had  pierced  hersnow-white  brow.  And  here  she  lies, 
Where  the  green  hill  slopes  toward  the  southern  sky. 
'T  is  thirty  summers  since  they  laid  her  here ; 
The  cottage  where  she  dwelt  is  razed  and  gone ; 
Her  kindred  all  are  perish'd  from  the  earth, 
And  this  rude  stone,  that  simply  bears  her  name, 
Is  mouldering  fast ;  and  soon  this  quiet  spot, 
Held  sacred  now,  will  be  like  common  ground. 


Fit  place  is  this  for  so  much  loveliness 
To  find  its  rest.     It  is  a  hallow'd  shrine, 
Where  nature  pays  her  tribute.     Dewy  spring 
Sets  the  gay  wild  flowers  thick  around  her  grave ; 
The  green  boughs  o'er  her,  in  the  summer-time, 
Sigh  to  the  winds ;  the  robin  takes  his  perch 
Hard  by,  and  warbles  to  his  sitting  mate ; 
The  brier-rose  blossoms  to  the  sky  of  June, 
And  hangs  above  her  in  the  winter  days 
Its  scarlet  fruit.     No  rude  foot  ventures  near; 
The  noisy  schoolboy  keeps  aloof,  and  he 
Who  hunts  the  fox,  when  all  the  hills  are  white, 
Here  treads  aside.     Not  seldom  have  I  found, 
Around  the  head-stone  carefully  entwined, 
Garlands  of  flowers,  I  never  knew  by  whom. 
For  two  years  past  I  've  miss'd  them ;  doubtless  one 
Who  held  this  dust  most  precious,  placed  them  there, 
And,  sorrowing  in  secret  many  a  year, 
At  last  hath  left  the  earth  to  be  with  her. 


MY  NATIVE  VILLAGE. 

THERE  lies  a  village  in  a  peaceful  vale, 

With  sloping  hills  and  waving  woods  around, 

Fenced  from  the  blasts.    There  never  ruder  gale 
Bows  the  tall  grass  that  covers  all  the  ground ; 

And  planted  shrubs  are  there,  and  cherish'd  flowers, 

And  a  bright  verdure,  born  of  gentler  showers. 

'T  was  there  my  young  existence  was  begun, 
My  earliest  sports  were  on  its  flowery  green, 

And  often,  when  my  schoolboy  task  was  done, 
I  climb'd  its  hills  to  view  the  pleasant  scene, 

And  stood  and  gazed  till  the  sun's  setting  ray 

Shone  on  the  height,  the  sweetest  of  the  day. 

There,  when  that  hour  of  mellow  light  was  come, 
And  mountain  shadows  cool'd  the  ripen'd  grain, 

I  watch'd  the  weary  yeoman  plodding  home, 
In  the  lone  path  that  winds  across  the  plain, 

To  rest  his  limbs,  and  watch  his  child  at  play, 

And  tell  him  o'er  the  labours  of  the  day 

And  when  the  woods  put  on  their  autumn  glow, 
And  the  bright  sun  came  in  among  the  trees, 

And  leaves  were  gathering  in  the  glen  below, 
Swept  softly  from  the  mountains  by  the  breeze, 

I  wander'd  till  the  starlight  on  the  stream 

At  length  awoke  me  from  my  fairy  dream. 

Ah !  happy  days,  too  happy  to  return, 

Fled  on  the  wings  of  youth's  departed  years, 

A  bitter  lesson  has  been  mine  to  learn, 

The  truth  of  life,  its  labours,  pains,  and  fears ; 

Yet  does  the  memory  of  my  boyhood  stay, 

A  twilight  of  the  brightness  pass'd  away. 

My  thoughts  steal  back  to  that  sweet  village  still, 
Its  flowers  and  peaceful  shades  before  me  rise ; 

The  play -place,  and  the  prospect  from  the  hill, 
Its  summer  verdure,  and  autumnal  dyes ; 

The  present  brings  its  storms ;  but,  while  they  last, 

I  shelter  me  in  the  delightful  past. 


336 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

THAT  soft  autumnal  time 
Is  come,  that  sheds,  upon  the  naked  scene, 
Charms  only  known  in  this  our  northern  clime — 

Bright  seasons,  far  between. 

The  woodland  foliage  now 
Is  gather'd  by  the  wild  November  blast ; 
E'en  the  thick  leaves  upon  the  poplar's  bough 

Are  fallen,  to  the  last. 

The  mighty  vines,  that  round 
The  forest  trunks  their  slender  branches  bind, 
Their  crimson  foliage  shaken  to  the  ground, 

Swing  naked  in  the  wind. 

Some  living  green  remains 
By  the  clear  brook  that  shines  along  the  lawn ; 
But  the  sear  grass  stands  white  o'er  all  the  plains, 

And  the  bright  flowers  are  gone. 

But  these,  these  are  thy  charms — 
Mild  airs  and  temper'd  light  upon  the  lea; 
And  the  year  holds  no  time  within  its  arms 

That  doth  resemble  thee. 

The  sunny  noon  is  thine, 
Soft,  golden,  noiseless  as  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  hues  that  in  the  flush'd  horizon  shine 

At  eve  and  early  light. 

The  year's  last,  loveliest  smile, 
Thou  comest  to  fill  with  hope  the  human  heart, 
And  strengthen  it  to  bear  the  storms  a  while, 

Till  winter  days  depart. 

O'er  the  wide  plains,  that  lie 
A  desolate  scene,  the  fires  of  autumn  spread, 
And  nightly  on  the  dark  walls  of  the  sky 

A  ruddy  brightness  shed. 

Far  in  a  shelter'd  nook 

I've  met,  in  these  calm  days,  a  smiling  flower, 
A  lonely  aster,  trembling  by  a  brook, 

At  the  quiet  noontides'  hour  : 

And  something  told  my  mind, 
That,  should  old  age  to  childhood  call  me  back, 
Some  sunny  days  and  flowers  I  still  might  find 

Along  life's  weary  track. 


THE  BLIND  RESTORED  TO  SIGHT. 


"And  I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight."— 
JOHN  is.  11. 


the  great  Master  spoke, 
He  touch'd  his  wither'd  eyes, 
And  at  one  gleam  upon  him  broke 
The  glad  earth  and  the  skies. 


And  he  saw  the  city's  walls, 
And  kings'  and  prophets'  tomb, 

And  mighty  arches,  and  vaulted  halls, 
And  the  temple's  lofty  dome. 

He  look'd  on  the  river's  flood, 
And  the  flash  of  mountain  rills, 

Arid  the  gentle  wave  of  the  palms  that  stood 
Upon  Judea's  hills. 

He  saw  on  heights  and  plains 

Creatures  of  every  race : 
But  a  mighty  thrill  ran  through  his  veins 
.  When  he  met  the  human  face ; 

And  his  virgin  sight  beheld 

The  ruddy  glow  of  even, 
And  the  thousand  shining  orbs  that  fill'd 

The  azure  depths  of  heaven. 

And  woman's  voice  before 

Had  cheer'd  his  gloomy  night, 
But  to  see  the  angel  form  she  wore 

Made  deeper  the  delight 

And  his  heart,  at  daylight's  close, 
For  the  bright  world  where  he  trod, 

And  when  the  yellow  morning  rose, 
Gave  speechless  thanks  to  GOB. 


SONNET. 

THKHE  is  a  magic  in  the  moon's  mild  ray, — 
What  time  she  softly  climbs  the  evening  sky, 
And  sitteth  with  the  silent  stars  on  high, — 
That  charms  the  pang  of  earth-born  grief  away 
I  raise  my  eye  to  the  blue  depths  above, 

And  worship  Him  whose  power,  pervading  space, 
Holds  those  bright  orbs  at  pea* «  in'his  embrace, 
Yet  comprehends  earth's  lowliest  >hings  in  love. 
Oft,  when  that  silent  moon  was  sailing  high, 
I  've  left  my  youthful  sports  to  gaze,  and  now, 
When  time  with  graver  lines  has  mark'd  my 
Sweetly  she  shines  upon  my  sober'd  eye.     [brow, 
O,  may  the  light  of  truth,  my  steps  to  guide, 
Shine  on  my  eve  of  life — shine  soft,  and  long  abide. 


SONNET. 

'Tis  Autumn,  and  my  steps  have  led  me  far 
To  a  wild  hill,  that  overlooks  a  land 

Wide-spread  and  beautiful.     A  single  star 

Sparkles  new-set  in  heaven.  O'er  its  bright  sand 

The  streamlet  slides  with  mellow  tones  away ; 

The  west  is  crimson  with  retiring  day ; 

And  the  north  gleams  with  its  own  native  light. 
Below,  in  autumn  green,  the  meadows  lie, 
And  through  green  banks  the  river  wanders  by, 

And  the  wide  woods  with  autumn  hues  are  bright: 

Bright — but  of  fading  brightness ! — soon  is  past 
That  dream-like  glory  of  the  painted  wood ; 

And  pitiless  decay  o'ertakes,  as  fast, 

The  pride  of  men,  the  beauteous,  great,  and  good. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


[Born,  1807.) 


Mn.  Loxr.FF.LT.ow  was  born  in  the  city  of  Port- 
land, in  Maine,  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  Febru- 
ary, 1807.  When  fourteen  years  of  age  he  en- 
tered Bowdoin  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in 
1825.  He  soon  after  commenced  the  study  of  the 
law,  but  being  appointed  Professor  of  Modern  Lan- 
guages in  the  college  in  which  he  was  educated, 
he  in  1826  sailed  for  Europe  to  prepare  himself  for 
the  duties  of  his  office,  and  passed  three  years  and  a 
half  visiting  or  residing  in  France,  Spain,  Italy,  Ger- 
many, Holland  and  England.  When  he  returned 
he  entered  upon  the  labours  of  instruction,  and  in 
1831  was  married.  The  professorship  of  Modern 
Languages  and  Literatures  in  Harvard  College 
was  made  vacant,  in  1835,  by  the  resignation  of 
Mr.  TICKNOH.  Mr.  LONGFELLOW,  being  elected 
his  successor,  resigned  his  place  in  Brunswick,  and 
went  a  second  time  to  Europe  to  make  himself 
more  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  subjects  of 
his  studies  in  the  northern  nations.  He  passed  the 
summer  in  Denmark  and  Sweden  ;  the  autumn  and 
winter  in  Germany — losing  in  that  period  his  wife, 
who  died  suddenly  at  Heidelberg — and  the  follow- 
ing spring  and  summer  in  the  Tyrol  and  Switzer- 
land. He  returned  to  the  United  States  in  Octo- 
ber, 1836,  and  immediately  entered  upon  his  duties 
at  Cambridge,  where  he  has  resided  ever  since, 
except  during  a  visit  to  Europe  for  the  restoration 
of  his  health,  in  1843. 

The  earliest  of  LONGFELLOW'S  metrical  compo- 
sitions were  written  for  "  The  United  States  Lit- 
erary Gazette,"  printed  in  Boston,  while  he  was 
an  under-graduate ;  and  from  that  period  he  has 
been  known  as  a  poet,  and  his  effusions,  improving 
as  each  year  added  to  his  scholarship  and  taste, 
have  been  extensively  read  and  admired.  During 
his  subsequent  residence  in  Brunswick  he  wrote 
several  of  the  most  elegant  and  judicious  papers 
that  have  appeared  in  the  "  i<Torth  American  Re- 
view ;"  made  a  translation  of  Coplas  de  Manrique  : 
and  published  "Outre  Mer,  or  a  Pilgrimage  beyond 
the  Sea,"  acollection  of  agreeable  tales  and  sketches, 
chiefly  written  during  his  first  residence  abroad.  In 
1839  appeared  his  "  Hyperion,"  a  romance,  which 
contains  passages  of  remarkable  beauty,  but  has 
little  dramatic  or  narrative  interest. 

The  first  collection  of  his  poems  was  published 
'  .in  1839,  under  the  title  of  "Voices  of  the  Night." 
His  '•  Ballads  and  other  Poems"  followed  in  1841 ; 
"The  Spanish  Student, a  Play," in  1843;  "Poems 
on  Slavery,"  in  1844,  and  a  complete  edition  of  his 
poetical  writings,  excepting  some  early  effusions 
and  the  lyrical  pieces  on  slavery,  in  a  large  octavo 
volume,  illustrated  with  engravings  by  J.  CHENEY, 
from  original  pictures  by  HUNGTINHTON,  in  1845. 

LOSG  FELLOW'S  most  considerable  poem  is  the 
"  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper,"  translated  from  the 
Swedish  of  ESAI.VS  TEGNER,  a  venerable  bishop  of 
43 


the  Lutheran  church,  and  the  most  illustrious  poet 
of  northern  Europe.  The  genius  of  TEGNEH  had 
already  been  made  known  in  this  country  by  a 
learned  and  elaborate  criticism,  illustrated  by  trans- 
lated passages  of  great  beauty,  from  his  "  Frithiof 's 
Saga,"  contributed  by  LONGFELLOW  to  the  "  North 
American  Review,"  soon  after  he  returned  from  his 
second  visit  to  Europe.  The  "  Children  of  the 
Lord's  Supper"  is  little  less  celebrated  than  the 
author's  great  epic,  and  the  English  version  is  a 
singularly  exact  reproduction  of  it,  in  form  and 
spirit.  No  translations  from  the  continental  lan- 
guages into  the  English  surpass  those  of  LONG- 
FELLOW, and  it  is  questionable  whether  some  of 
his  versions  from  the  Spanish,  German  and  Swe- 
dish, have  been  equalled.  The  rendition  of  the 
"  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper"  was  among  the 
most  difficult  tasks  to  be  undertaken,  as  spondaic 
words,  necessary  in  the  construction  of  hexameters, 
and  common  in  the  Greek,  Latin  and  Swedish,  are 
so  rare  in  the  English  language.  "  The  Skeleton 
in  Armour"  is  the  longest  and  most  unique  of  his 
original  poems.  The  Copenhagen  antiquaries  attri- 
bute the  erection  of  a  round  tower  at  Newport,  in 
Rhode  Island,  to  the  Scandinavians  of  the  twelfth 
century.  A  few  years  ago  a  skeleton  in  complete 
armour  was  exhumed  in'the  vicinity  of  the  tower. 
These  facts  are  the  groundwork  of  the  story. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  first  edition  of 
this  work,  I  suggested  to  the  late  Mr.  CAHET,  the 
publisher,  widely  known  for  his  taste  in  art  and 
literature,  that  a  series  of  such  volumes,  embracing 
surveys  and  specimens  of  the  poetry  and  prose  of 
different  countries,  would  be  valuable  and  popu- 
lar; and  among  the  results  of  various  conversa- 
tions on  the  subject,  was  a  request  to  Mr.  LONG- 
FELLOW to  prepare  "The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
Europe."  He  acceded,  and  in  the  summer  of  1845 
finished  and  gave  to  the  press  the  most  compre- 
hensive, complete,  and  accurate  review  of  the  poetry 
of  the  continental  nations  that  has  ever  appeared 
in  any  language. 

Of  all  our  poets  LONGFELLOW  best  deserves  the 
title  of  artist.  He  has  studied  the  principles  of  verbal 
melody,  and  rendered  himself  master  of  the  mys- 
terious affinities  which  exist  between  sound  and 
sense,  word  and  thought,  feeling  and  expression. 
This  tact  in  the  use  of  language  is  probably  the 
chief  cause  of  his  success.  There  is  an  aptitude, 
a  gracefulness,  and  vivid  beauty,  in  many  of  his 
stanzas,  which  at  once  impress  the  memory  and 
win  the  ear  and  heart.  There  is  in  the  tone  of 
his  poetry  little  passion,  but  much  quiet  earnestness. 
It  is  not  so  much  the  power  of  the  instrument,  as 
the  skill  with  which  it  is  managed,  that  excites  our 
sympathy.  His  acquaintance  with  foreign  litera- 
ture has  been  of  great  advantage,  by  rendering 
him  familiar  with  all  the  delicate  capacities  of  lan- 
•>  F  J137 


338 


HENRY    WADS  WORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


guage,  from  the  grand  symphonic  roll  of  Northern 
tongue  to  the  "soft,  bastard  Latin"  of  the  South. 
His  ideas  and  metaphors  are  often  very  striking  and 
poetical ;  but  there  is  no  affluence  of  imagery,  or 
wonderful  glow  of  emotion,  such  as  take  us  captive 
in  BTRON  or  SHELLEY  :  the  claim  of  LONGFELLOW 
consists  rather  in  the  wise  and  tasteful  use  of  his 
materials  than  in  their  richness  or  originality.  He 
has  done  much  for  the  Art  of  Poetry  in  this  country 


NUREMBERG. 

Is  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 

the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town 

of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng ; 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 
rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  cen- 
turies old ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in  their 

uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretch'd  its  hand 

through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many 

an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen  CUNI- 

OUNDE'S  hand; 

On  the    square  the   oriel  window,  where  in  old 

heroic  days 
Sat  the  poet  MELCHTOR  singing  Kaiser  MAX.OII- 

LIAK'S  praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 

world  of  Art, — 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing 

in  the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commission'd  as  apostles  to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  SEBALD  sleeps  enshrined 

his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age 

to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  LAWRENCE  stands  a  pix 

of  sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through 

the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple, 
reverent  heart, 

Lived  and  labour'd  ALBRECHT  DURER,  the  Evan- 
gelist of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with 
busy  hand, 

Like  an  emigrant  he  wander'd,  seeking  for  the  Bet- 
ter Land. 


by  his  example,  and  in  this  respect  may  claim  the 
praise  which  all  good  critics  of  English  Poetry  have 
bestowed  on  GRAY  and  COLLINS.  The  spirit  of 
LONGFELLOW'S  muse  is  altogether  unexceptionable 
in  a  moral  point  of  view.  He  illustrates  the  gentler 
themes  of  song,  and  pleads  for  justice,  humanity, 
and  particularly  the  beautiful,  with  a  poet's  deep 
conviction  of  their  eternal  claims  upon  the  instinc- 
tive recognition  of  the  man. 


Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone  where 

he  lies  ; 
Dead  he  is  not, — but  departed, — for  the  artist  never 

dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once    j 

has  breathed  its  air ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these    ji 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingera,  chanting  rude    i 

poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they  to  the 

friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts    I 

the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme, 
And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammer'd  to  the 

anvil's  chime ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the 

flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the 

loom. 

Here  HAISS  SACHS,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the     i 

gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios 

sang  and  laugh'd. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely 

sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 

the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  ADAM  PCSCH- 

MAN'S  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great 

beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown 

his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's 

antique  chair. 

Vanish'd  is  the  ancient  splendour,  and  before  my 

dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a 

faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee  the 

world's  regard ; 
But  thy  painter,  ALBHECHT  DURER,  and  HANS 

SACHS,  thy  cobbler-bard. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


339 


Thus,  0  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far 

away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in 

thought  his  careless  lay : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret 

of  the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labour, — the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnish'd  arms ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing, 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
Whon  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I  hoar  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norsemen's 
And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor,  [song, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 
I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 

Wheels  out  his  battle  bell  with  dreadful  din, 
And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 
The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns; 
The  soldiers  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrcnch'd  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  aceurse<l  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestow'd  on  camps  and 
courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 

The  cchoingsounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease; 
And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say  «  Peace !" 
Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 

The  blast  of  war's  great  organ  shakes  the  ski^s! 
But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR. 

« SPEAK!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armour  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretch'd,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  1" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  wo 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

« I  was  a  Viking  old ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse! 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

«  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimm'd  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Track'd  I  the  grizzly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf 's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 
With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 
By  our  stern  orders. 

«  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out" 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 
Fill'd  to  o'crflowing. 

«  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 
Burning  yet  tender; 


340 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendour. 

"I  woo'd  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosen'd  vest 
Flutter'd  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleam'd  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hiklebrand    , 
I  ask'd  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrel  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffd 
Loud  then  the  champion  laugh'd, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 

So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 

From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blush'd  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  1 

«  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen! — 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launch'd  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  fail'd  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hail'd  us. 

«  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veer'd  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water. 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 


Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  sea-ward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  tljat  tower  she  lies  : 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  hosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sun-light  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful ! 

"  Thus,  seam'd  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  scrul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland !  skoal!"* 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 


In  Scandinavia  this  is  the  customary  salutation 
when  drinking  a  health.  The;  orthography  of  the  word 
is  slightly  changed,  to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciatioh. 
NOTE. — This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  Round 
Tower  at  Newport,  now  claimed  by  the  Danes,  as  a 
work  of  their  ancestors.  Mr.  Longfellow  remarks, 
On  this  ancient  structure,  there  are  no  ornaments  re- 
maining which  might,  possibly  have  served  to  guido  us 
in  assigning  the  probable  date  of  its  erection.  That 
no  vestige  whatever  is  found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor 
any  approximation  to  it,  is  indicative  of  an^earlier  rather 
than  of  a  later  period.  From  such  characteristics  as 
remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely  funn  any  other  in- 
ference than  one,  in  which  I  ;im  persuaded  that  all,  who 
are  familiar  with  Old-Northern  architecture,  will  concur, 

THAT  THIS  BUILDING  WAS  ERECTED  AT  A  PERIOD  DECIDEDLY 
NOT  LATER  THAN  THE  TWELFTH  CENTURY.  TllJS  re- 
mark applies,  of  course,  to  the  original  building  only, 
an. I  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  subsequently  received ; 
for  there  are  several  such  alterations  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  building,  which  cannot  he  mistaken,  and  which 
were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its  being  adapted  in 
modern  times  to  various  uses,  for  example  as  the  sub 
ftructiire  of  a  wind-mill,  and  latterly,  as  a  hay  magazine. 
To  the  same  times  may  be  referred  the  windows,  the 
fire-place,  and  the  aprrtures  made  above  the  columns. 
That  this  building  could  not  have  been  erected  for  a 
wind-mil!,  is  what  an  architect  will  easily  discern. — PRO- 
FESSOR RAFN,  in  the  M&maires  de  In  Societt  Royale  del 
rfntijuaires  da  Word,  for  1838-1639. 


HENRY    W.   LONGFELLOW. 


341 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNQ  MAN  SAID  TO  THE 
PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  GOD  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwreck'd  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven, 
B  ut  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  7 
The  star  of  love  and  dreams  7 

O  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above 
A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 


0  star  of  strength !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  : 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquer'd  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possess'd. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

0  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shall  know  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


ENDYMION. 

THE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars, 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  DIANA,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  ENDYMIOJT  with  a  kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dream'd  net  of  her  love. 

Like  DIAL'S  kiss,  unask'd,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 

Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 

Its  deep,  impassion'd  gaze. 

It  comes — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  bows,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

O,  weary  hearts !  O,  slumbering  eyes ! 
O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  its  own. 

Responds — as  if.  with  unseen  wings, 
A  breath  from  heaven  had  touch'd  its  string*  • 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"  Where  hast  thou  stay'd  so  long  1" 


342 


HENRY    W.  LONGFELLOW. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  day  are  number'd, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumber'd 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight  ; 
Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 
Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 

Dance  upon  the  parlour-wall  ; 
Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherish'd 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife,  — 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perish'd, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore,  — 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly,  — 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep, 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me, 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saintlike, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Utter'd  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depress'd  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


THE  BELEAGURED  CITY. 

I  HAVE  read  in  some  old  marvellous  tale 

Some  legend  strango  and  vague, 
That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 

Beleagured  the  walls  of  Prague. 
Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 
White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flow'd  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 
No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 

The  mist-like  banners  clasp'd  the  air, 
As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 


But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaim'd  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamp'd  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  :s  seen,' 
And  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  alar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

THE  sun  is  bright,  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where,  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new — the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest. 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight, 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden  !  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth — it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For,  0 !  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest, 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


343 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING 
YEAR. 

YES,  the  year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  blear'd ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  wo, 
A  sound  of  wo  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain-passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing ;  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray, — pray ! 

The  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; — 
But  their  prayers  are  all  hi  vain, 
All  in  vain ! 

There  he  stands,  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crown'd  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  LEAH, 
A  king, — a  king ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy!  his  last!  0,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  her  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 

And  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  ! 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies, 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  nor  stain ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 
Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 

In  the  wilderness  alone, 
Vex  not  his  ghost ! 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 
Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

O  soul !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 


For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 
Kyrie  Eleyson ! 
Christe  Eleyson ! 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 

The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long ; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat ; 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell 
When 'the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — 
Onward  through  life  he  goes : 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted — something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  Life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought, 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  eh:! pod 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


344 


HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 


EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  pass'd 
A  youth,  who  bore,  mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flash'd  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright: 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Try  not  the  pass !"  the  old  man  said ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

«  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answer'd,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine  tree's  wither'd  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night ; 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  BERNARD 
Utter'd  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  -the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star ! 
Excelsior ! 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 


Be  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all : 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

MAIDEIT  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies, 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou,  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet ! 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glancfr, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then,  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian] 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  1 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafen'd  by  the  cataract's  roar  7 

O,  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands, — Life  hath  snares ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough  where  slumber'd 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-number'd ; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumber'd. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear,  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


344                                           HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  pass'd 
1-             «  J-    —  i,,.  i  —  :i  ,.„„,„        1  '    .                   . 

Be  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all  : 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

WILLIAM    G.   SIMMS. 


347 


THE  SLAIN  EAGLE. 

THE  eye  that  mark'd  thy  flight  with  deadly  aim, 
Had  less  of  warmth  and  splendour  than  thine  own ; 
The  form  that  did  thee  wrong  could  never  claim 
The  matchless  vigour  which  thy  wing  hath  shown ; 
Yet  art  thou  in  thy  pride  of  flight  o'erthrown ; 
And  the  far  hills  that  echoed  back  thy  scream, 
As  from  storm-gathering  clouds  thou  sent'st  it 

down, 

Shall  see  no  more  thy  red-eyed  glances  stream 
For  their  far  summits  round,  with  strong  and  ter- 
rible gleam. 

Lone  and  majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 
No  more  I  see  thee  on  the  tall  clifT's  brow, 
When  tempests  meet,  and  from  their  watery  shroud 
Pour  their  wild  torrents  on  the  plains  below, 
Lifting  thy  fearless  wing,  still  free  to  go, 
True  in  thy  aim,  undaunted  in  thy  flight, 
As  seeking  still,  yet  scorning,  every  foe — 
Shrieking  the  while  in  consciousness  of  might, 
To  thy  own  realm  of  high  and  undisputed  light 

Thy  thought  was  not  of  danger  then — thy  pride 
Left  thee  no  fear.  Thou  hadst  gone  forth  in  storms, 
And  thy  strong  pinions  had  been  bravely  tried 
Against  their  rush.    Vainly  their  gathering  forms 
Had  striven  against  thy  wing.  Such  conflict  warms 
The  nobler  spirit ;  and  thy  joyful  shriek 
Gave  token  that  the  strife  itself  had  charms 
For  the  born  warrior  of  the  mountain  peak, 
He  of  the  giant  brood,  sharp  fang,  and  bloody  beak. 

How  didst  thou  then,  in  very  mirth,  spread  far 
Thy  pinions'  strength ! — with  freedom  that  became 
Audacious  license,  with  the  winds  at  war, 
Striding  the  yielding  clouds  that  girt  thy  frame, 
And,  with  a  fearless  rush  that  naught  could  tame, 
Defying  earth — defying  all  that  mars 
The  flight  of  other  wings  of  humbler  name ; 
For  thee,  the  storm  had  impulse,  but  no  bars 
To  stop  thy  upward  flight,  thou  pilgrim  of  the  stars ! 

Morning  above  the  hills,  and  from  the  ocean, 
Ne'er  leap'd  abroad  into  the  fetterless  blue 
With  such  a  free  and  unrestrained  motion, 
Nor  shook  from  her  ethereal  wing  the  dew 
That  else  had  clogg'd  her  flight  and  dimm'd  her 

view, 

With  such  calm  effort  as  'twas  thine  to  wear — 
Bending  with  sunward  course  erect  and  true, 
When  winds  were  piping  high  and  lightnings  near, 
Thy  day-guide  all  withdrawn,  through  fathomless 
fields  of  air. 

The  moral  of  a  chosen  race  wert  thou, 
In  such  proud  fight.  From  out  the  ranks  of  men — 
The  million  moilers,  with  earth-cumber'd  brow, 
That  slink,  like  coward  tigers  to  their  den, 
Each  to  his  hiding-place  and  corner  then — 
One  mighty  spirit  watch'd  thee  in  that  hour, 
Nor  turn'd  his  lifted  heart  to  earth  again ; 
Within  his  soul  there  sprang  a  holy  power, 
And  he  grew  strong  to  sway,  whom  tempests  made 
not  cower. 


Watching,  he  saw  thy  rising  wing.     In  vain, 
From  his  superior  dwelling,  the  fierce  sun 
Shot  forth  his  brazen  arrows,  to  restrain 
The  audacious  pilgrim,  who  would  gaze  upon 
The  secret  splendours  of  his  central  throne ; 
Proudly,  he  saw  thee  to  that  presence  fly, 
And,  Eblis-like,  unaided  and  alone, 
His  dazzling  glories  seek,  his  power  defy, 
Raised  to  thy  god's  own  face,  meanwhile,  thy 
rebel  eye. 

And  thence  he  drew  a  hope,  a  hope  to  soar, 
Even  with  a  wing  like  thine.     His  daring  glance 
Sought,  with  as  bold  a  vision,  to  explore 
The  secret  of  his  own  deliverance — 
The  secret  of  his  wing — and  to  advance 
To  sovereign  sway  like  thine — to  rule,  to  rise 
Above  his  race,  and  nobly  to  enhance 
Their  empire  as  his  own — to  make  the  skies, 
The  extended  earth,  far  seas,  and  solemn  stars,  his 
prize. 

He  triumphs — and  he  perishes  like  thee  ! 
Scales  the  sun's  heights,  and  mounts  above  the 

winds, 

Breaks  down  the  gloomy  barrier,  and  is  free ! 
The  worm  receives  his  winglet :  he  unbinds 
The  captive  thought,  and  in  its  centre  finds 
New  barriers,  and  a  glory  in  his  gaze ; 
He  mocks,  as  thou,  the  sun  ! — but  scaly  blinds 
Grow  o'er  his  vision,  till,  beneath  the  daze, 
From  his  proud  height  he  falls,  amid  the  world's 

amaze. 

And  thou,  brave  bird !  thy  wing  hath  pierced  the 

cloud, 

The  storm  had  not  a  battlement  for  thee ; 
But,  with  a  spirit  fetterless  and  proud, 
Thou  hast  soar'd  on,  majestically  free, 
To  worlds,  perchance,  which  men  shall  never  see ! 
Where  is  thy  spirit  now  7  the  wing  that  bore? 
Thou  hast  lost  wing  and  all,  save  liberty ! 
Death  only  could  subdue — and  that  is  o'er  : 
Alas !  the  very  form  that  slew  thee  should  deplore ! 

A  proud  exemplar  hath  been  lost  the  proud, 
And  he  who  struck  thee  from  thy  fearless  flight — 
Thy  noble  loneliness,  that  left  the  crowd, 
To  seek,  uncurb'd,  that  singleness  of  height 
Which  glory  aims  at  with  unswerving  sight — 
Had  learn'd  a  nobler  toil.     No  longer  base 
With  lowliest  comrades,  he  had  given  his  might, 
His  life — that  had  been  cast  in  vilest  place — 
To  raise  his  hopes  and  homes — to  teach  and  lift 
his  race. 

'T  is  he  should  mourn  thy  fate,  for  he  hath  lost 
The  model  of  dominion.     Not  for  him 
The  mighty  eminence,  the  gathering  host 
That  worships,  the  high  glittering  pomps  that  dim, 
The  bursting  homage  and  the  hailing  hymn : 
He  dies — he  hath  no  life,  that,  to  a  star, 
Rises  from  dust  and  sheds  a  holy  gleam 
To  light  the  struggling  nations  from  afar, 
And  show,  to  kindred  souls,  where  fruits  of  glory 


348 


WILLIAM    G.   SIMMS. 


Exulting  now,  he  clamours  o'er  his  prey  ; 
His  secret  shaft  hath  not  been  idly  sped ; 
He  lurk'd  within  the  rocky  cleft  all  day, 
Till  the  proud  bird  rose  sweeping  o'er  his  head, 
And  thus  he  slew  him !  He  should  weep  him  dead, 
Whom,  living,  he  could  love  not — weep  that  he, 
The  noble  lesson  taught  him,  never  read — 
Exulting  o'er  the  victim  much  more  free 
Than,  in  his  lowly  soul,  he  e'er  can  hope  to  be. 

'T  is  triumph  for  the  base  to  overthrow 
That  which  they  reach  not — the  ignoble  mind 
Loves  ever  to  assail  with  secret  blow 
The  loftier,  purer  beings  of  their  kind : 
In  this  their  petty  villany  is  blind ; 
They  hate  their  benefactors — men  who  keep 
Their  names  from  degradation — men  design'd 
Their  guides  and  guardians :  well,  if  late  they  weep 
The  cruel  shaft  that  struck  such  noble  hearts  so  deep. 

Around  thy  mountain  dwelling  the  winds  lie — 
Thy  wing  is  gone,  thy  eyry  desolate ; 
O,  who  shall  teach  thy  young  ones  when  to  fly, — 
Who  fill  the  absence  of  thy  watchful  mate  1 
Thou  type  of  genius  !  bitter  is  thy  fate, 
A  boor  has  sent  the  shaft  that  leaves  them  lone, 
Thy  clustering  fellows,  guardians  of  thy  state — 
Shaft  from  the  reedy  fen  whence  thou  hast  flown, 
And  feather  from  the  bird  thy  own  wing  hath  struck 
down! 


THE  BROOKLET. 

A  LITTLE  farther  on,  there  is  a  brook 

Where  the  breeze  lingers  idly.     The  high  trees 

Have  roof 'd  it  with  their  crowding  limbs  and  leaves, 

So  that  the  sun  drinks  not  from  its  sweet  fount, 

And  the  shade  cools  it.     You  may  hear  it  now, 

A  low,  faint  beating,  as,  upon  the  leaves 

That  lie  beneath  its  rapids,  it  descends 

In  a  fine,  showery  rain,  that  keeps  one  tune, 

And  'tis  a  sweet  one,  still  of  constancy. 

Beside  its  banks,  through  the  whole  livelong  day, 
Ere  yet  I  noted  much  the  speed  of  time, 
And  knew  him  but  in  songs  and  ballad-books, 
Nor  cared  to  know  him  better,  I  have  lain ; 
With  thought  unchid  by  harsher  din  than  came 
From  the  thick  thrush,  that,  gliding  through  the 

copse, 

Hurried  above  me ;  or  the  timid  fawn 
That  came  down  to  the  brooklet's  edge  to  drink, 
And   saunter'd  through  its  shade,  cropping  the 

grass, 

Even  where  I  lay, — having  a  quiet  mood, 
And  not  disturbing,  while  surveying  mine. 

Thou  smilest — and  on  thy  lip  a  straying  thought 
Says  I  have  trifled — calls  my  hours  misspent, 
And  looks  a  solemn  warning!    A  true  thought, — 
And  so  my  errant  mood  were  well  rebuked  ! — 
Yet  there  was  pleasant  sadness  that  became 
Meetly  the  gentle  heart  and  pliant  sense, 
In  that  same  idlesse — gazing  on  that  brook 
So  pebbly  and  so  clear, — prattling  away, 
Like  a  young  child,  all  thoughtless,  till  it  goes 
From  shadow  into  sunlight,  and  is  lost. 


THE  SHADED  WATER. 

WHEIT  that  my  mood  is  sad,  and  in  the  noise 
And  bustle  of  the  crowd,  I  feel  rebuke, 

I  turn  my  footsteps  from  its  hollow  joys, 
And  sit  me  down  beside  this  little  brook: 

The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 

It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 

It.  is  a  quiet  glen  as  you  may  see, 

Shut  in  from  all  intrusion  by  the  trees, 

That  spread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free, 
The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries ; 

And  make  a  hallow'd  time  for  hapless  moods, 

A  Sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  shelter, — none,  like  me, 
Do  seek  it  out  with  such  a  fond  desire, 

Poring,  in  idlesse  mood,  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  listening,  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire, — 

When  the  far-travelling  breeze,  done  wandering, 

Rests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new, 

And  sweet  companions  from   their   boundless 

Of  merry  elves,  bespangled  all  with  dew,  [store 
Fantastic  creatures  of  the  old  time  lore, — 

Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  play, 

I  fling  the  hours  away. 

A  gracious  couch, — the  root  of  an  old  oak, 
Whose  branches  yield  it  moss  and  canopy, — 

Is  mine — and  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resigned  by  me ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  plies, 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent, 
Sweetly  I  muse  through  many  a  quiet  hour, 

While  every  sense,  on  earnest  mission  sent,  [er; 
Returns,thought-laden,back  with  bloom  and  flow 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  profitable  toil. 

And  still  the  waters,  trickling  at  my  feet, 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody, 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leaves  repeat, 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by, — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  copse  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  the  rest 
Hangs  o'er  the  archway  opening  through  thetrees, 

Breaking  the  spell  that,  like  a  slumber,  press'd 
On  my  worn  spirit  its  sweet  luxuries, — 

And,  with  awaken'd  vision  upward  bent, 

I  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like — its  sure  and  undisturb'd  retreat, 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  storm — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  my  feet, 

The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form ; 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 

Thus,  to  my  mind,  is  the  philosophy 

The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  sudden  flight, 
Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high, 

Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight, — 
With  a  most  lofty  discontent,  to  fly 
Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 


WILLIAM   G.   SIMMS. 


349 


TO  THE  BREEZE: 

AFTER  A  PROTRACTED    CALM   AT   SEA. 

THOTT  hast  been  slow  to  bless  us,  gentle  breeze ; 
Where  hast  thou  been  a  lingerer,  welcome  friend  1 

Where,  when  the  midnight  gather'd  to  her  brow 

Her  pale  and  crescent  minister,  wert  thou  7 
On  what  far,  sullen,  solitary  seas, 
Piping  the  mariner's  requiem,  didst  thou  tend 
The  home-returning  bark, 

Curling  the  white  foam  o'er  her  lifted  prow,  [dark  ? 

White,  when  the  rolling  waves  around  her  all  were 

Gently,  and  with  a  breath 
Of  spicy  odour  from  Sabsan  vales, 
Where  subtle  life  defies  and  conquers  death, 
Fill'dst  thou  her  yellow  sails ! 

On,  like  some  pleasant  bird, 
With  glittering  plumage  and  light-loving  eye, 
While  the  long  pennant  lay  aloft  unstirr'd, 

And  sails  hung  droopingly, 
Camest  thou  with  tidings  of  the  land  to  cheer 

The  weary  mariner. 

How,  when  the  ocean  slept, 

Making  no  sign ; 
And  his  dumb  waters,  of  all  life  bereft, 

Lay  'neath  the  sun-girt  line ; 
His  drapery  of  storm-clouds  lifted  high 

In  some  far,  foreign  sky, 
While  a  faint  moaning  o'er  his  bosom  crept, 

As  the  deep  breathings  of  eternity, 
Above  the  grave  of  the  unburied  time, 
Claiming  its  clime — 

How  did  the  weary  tar, 
His  form  reclined  along  the  burning  deck, 

Stretch  his  dim  eye  afar, 
To  hail  the  finger,  and  delusive  speck, 
Thy  bending  shadow,  from  some  rocky  steep, 

Down-darting  o'er  the  deep ! 

Born  in  the  solemn  night, 

When  the  deep  skies  were  bright, 
With  all  their  thousand  watchers  on  the  sight — 
Thine  was  the  music  through  the  firmament 
By  the  fond  nature  sent, 

To  hail  the  blessed  birth, 

To  guide  to  lowly  earth 
The  glorious  glance,  the  holy  wing  of  light ! 

Music  to  us  no  less, 

Thou  comest  in  our  distress, 
To  cheer  our  pathway.     It  is  clear,  through  thee, 

O'er  the  broad  wastes  of  sea. 
How  soothing  to  the  heart  that  glides  alone, 
Unwatch'd  and  unremember'd,  on  the  wave, 

Perchance  his  grave  ! — 
Should  he  there  perish,  to  thy  deeper  moan 

What  lip  shall  add  one  tone  1 

I  bless  thee,  gentle  breeze  ! 
Sweet  minister  to  many  a  fond  desire, 

Thou  bear'st  me  to  my  sire, 
Thou,  and  these  rolling  seas  ! 
What — O,  thou  GOD  of  this  strong  element ! — 

Are  we,  that  it  is  sent, 
Obedient  to  our  fond  and  fervent  hope  1 

But  that  its  pinion  on  our  path  is  bent, 
We  had  been  doom'd  beyond  desire  to  grope, 


Where  plummet's  cast  is  vain,  and  human  art, 
Lacking  all  chart. 

THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

NOT  in  the  sky, 

Where  it  was  seen, 

Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistering  wave, 

Nor  in  the  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep, — 

Though  green, 

And  beautiful,  its  caves  of  mystery, — 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

A  place — and,  as  of  old,  high  station  keep. 

Gone,  gone ! 

0,  never  more  to  cheer 

The  mariner  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night, 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers  and  do  sleep, 

Shall  it  appear, 

With  the  sweet  fixedness  of  certain  light, 

Down-shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep. 

Vain,  vain ! 

Hopeful  most  idly  then,  shall  he  look  forth, 

That  mariner  from  his  bark — 

Howe'er  the  north 

Doth  raise  his  certain  lamp  when  tempests  lower — 

He  sees  no  more  that  perish'd  light  again ! 

And  gloomier  grows  the  hour  [dark, 

Which  may  not,  through  the  thick  and  crowding 

Restore  that  lost  and  loved  one  to  her  tower. 

He  looks, — the  shepherd  on  Chaldea's  hills, 
Tending  his  flocks, — 

And  wonders  the  rich  beacon  doth  not  blaze, 
Gladdening  his  gaze ; 

And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 
Guiding  him  safely  home  through  perilous  ways  ! 
How  stands  he  in  amaze, 
Still  wondering,  as  the  drowsy  silence  fills 
The  sorrowful  scene,  and  every  hour  distils 
Its  leaden  dews — how  chafes  he  at  the  night, 
Still  slow  to  bring  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 
So  natural  to  his  sight ! 
And  lone, 

Where  its  first  splendours  shone, 
Shall  be  that  pleasant  company  of  stars : 
How  should  they  know  that  death 
Such  perfect  beauty  mars ; 

And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath, 
Fallen  from  on  high, 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  its  touch,  and  die — 
All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony, 
Snapp'd  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone. 
A  strain — a  mellow  strain — 
Of  wailing  sweetness,  fill'd  the  earth  and  sky; 
The  stars  lamenting  in  unborrow'd  pain 
That  one  of  the  selectest  ones  must  die ; 
Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 
Alas!  'tis  ever  more  the  destiny, 
The  hope,  heart-cherish'd,  is  the  soonest  lost ; 
The  flower  first  budded  soonest  feels  the  frost: 
Are  not  the  shortest-lived  still  loveliest  1 
And,  like  the  pale  star  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest  when  they  fly 
The  desolate  home  they  bless'd  1 
2G 


350 


WILLIAM    G.   SIMMS. 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  SWAMP. 

'Tis  a  wild  spot,  and  hath  a  gloomy  look; 
The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 
And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.  A  rank  growth 
Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  power  to  taint 
With  blisteringdews  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 
To  penetrate  the  covert.     Cypresses  [length, 

Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth ;  and,  stretch'd  at 
The  cayman — a  fit  dweller  in  such  home — 
Slumbers,  half-buried  in  the  sedgy  grass. 
Beside  the  green  ooze  where  he  shelters  him, 
A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 
And  shrieks  in  flight.  Two  summer  ducks,  aroused 
To  apprehension,  as  they  hear  his  cry, 
Dash  up  from  the  lagoon,  with  marvellous  haste, 
Following  his  guidance.    Meetly  taught  by  these, 
And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 
The  steel-jaw'd  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 
Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy,  green  abode, 
W  hich  straight  receives  him.   You  behold  him  now, 
His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds, 
In  silence,  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 
That,  travelling  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 
Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  a  while, 
Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.     The  surly  mute 
Straightway  goes  down,  so  suddenly,  that  he, 
The  dandy  of  the  summer  flowers  and  woods, 
Dips  his  light  wings,  and  spoils  his  golden  coat, 
With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 
Wondering  and  vex'd,  the  plumed  citizen 
Flies,  with  a  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore, 
Seeking  his  kindred  flowers : — but  seeks  in  vain — 
Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 
Nothing  of  beautiful !     Wild,  ragged  trees, 
That  look  like  felon  spectres — fetid  shrubs, 
That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere — dusk  shades, 
That  gather,  half  a  cloud,  and  half  a  fiend 
In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge, — 
Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 
The  general  prospect.     The  sad  butterfly, 
Waving  his  lacker'd  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 
And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed 
For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet, 
Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night. 


CHANGES  OF  HOME. 

WF.LT.  may  we  sing  her  beauties, 

This  pleasant  land  of  ours, 
Her  sunny  smiles,  her  golden  fruits, 

And  all  her  world  of  flowers ; 
The  young  birds  of  her  forest-groves, 

The  blue  folds  of  her  sky, 
And  all  those  airs  of  gentleness, 

That  never  seem  to  fly ; 
They  wind  about  our  forms  at  noon, 

They  woo  us  in  the  shade, 
When  panting,  from  the  summer's  heats, 

The  woodman  seeks  the  glade ; 
They  win  us  with  a  song  of  love, 

They  cheer  us  with  a  dream, 
That  gilds  our  passing  thoughts  of  life, 
As  sunlight  does  the  stream ; 


And  well  would  they  persuade  us  now, 

In  moments  all  too  dear, 
That,  sinful  though  our  hearts  may  be, 

We  have  our  Eden  here. 

Ah,  well  has  lavish  nature, 

From  out  her  boundless  store, 
Spread  wealth  and  loveliness  around, 

On  river,  rock,  and  shore; 
No  sweeter  stream  than  Ashley  glides — 

And,  what  of  southern  France  1 — 
She  boasts  no  brighter  fields  than  ours, 

Within  her  matron  glance ; 
Our  skies  look  down  in  tenderness 

From  out  their  realms  of  blue, 
The  fairest  of  Italian  climes 

May  claim  no  softer  hue ; 
And  let  them  sing  of  fruits  of  Spain, 

And  let  them  boast  the  flowers, 
The  Moors'  own  culture  they  may  claim, 

No  dearer  sweet  than  ours — 
Perchance  the  dark-hair'd  maiden 

Is  a  glory  in  your  eye, 
But  the  blue-eyed  Carolinian  rules, 

When  all  the  rest  are  nigh. 

And  none  may  say,  it  is  not  true, 

The  burden  of  my  lay, 
'T  is  written,  in  the  sight  of  all, 

In  flower  and  fruit  and  ray ; 
Look  on  the  scene  around  us  now, 

And  say  if  sung  amiss, 
The  song  that  pictures  to  your  eye 

A  spot  so  fair  as  this : 
Gay  springs  the  merry  mocking-bird 

Around  the  cottage  pale, — 
And,  scarcely  taught  by  hunter's  aim, 

The  rabbit  down  the  vale ; 
Each  boon  of  kindly  nature, 

Her  buds,  her  blooms,  her  flowers, 
And,  more  than  all,  the  maidens  fair 

That  fill  this  land  of  ours, 
Are  still  in  rich  perfection, 

As  our  fathers  found  them  first, 
But  our  sons  are  gentle  now  no  more, 

And  all  the  land  is  cursed. 

Wild  thoughts  are  in  our  bosoms 

And  a  savage  discontent ; 
We  love  no  more  the  life  we  led, 

The  music,  nor  the  scent ; 
The  merry  dance  delights  us  not, 

As  in  that  better  time, 
When,  glad,  in  happy  bands  we  met, 

With  spirits  like  our  clime. 
And  all  the  social  loveliness, 

And  all  the  smile  is  gone, 
That  link'd  the  spirits  of  our  youth, 

And  made  our  people  one. 
They  smile  no  more  together, 

As  in  that  earlier  day, 
Our  maidens  sigh  in  loneliness, 

Who  once  were  always  gay ; 
And  though  our  skies  are  bright, 

And  our  sun  looks  down  as  then — 
Ah,  mo !  the  thought  is  sad  I  feel, 

We  shall  never  smile  again. 


GEORGE   LUNT. 


[Born  about  1807.] 


Mn.  LUXT  is  a  native  of  the  pleasant  village 
of  Newburyport,  near  Boston,  from  which,  for  a 
long  period,  his  ancestors  and  relatives  "  followed 
the  sea."  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and 
soon  after  leaving  the  university  entered  as  a 
student  the  law-office  of  the  present  Chief  Justice 
of  Massachusetts.  From  the  time  of  his  admis- 
sion to  the  bar  he  has  pursued  the  practice  of  his 
profession  in  Newburyport.  He  has  for  several 
years  represented  the  people  of  that  town  in  the 
State  Senate  and  House  of  Assembly,  and  has  held 
various  other  honourable  offices. 

When  he  was  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  he 


wrote  "The  Grave  of  Byron,"  a  poem  in  the 
Spenserian  measure,  which  has  considerable  merit ; 
and,  in  1839,  appeared  a  collection  of  his  later 
productions,  of  which  the  largest  is  a  metrical 
essay  entitled  "  Life,"  in  which  he  has  attempted 
to  show,  by  reference  to  the  condition  of  society  in 
different  ages,  that  Christianity  is  necessary  lo  the 
developcment  of  man's  moral  nature.  His  minor 
pieces  please  by  their  general  vigour  and  spright- 
liness,  and  by  that  purity  of  thought  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  writings  of  all  Christian  bards.  His 
most  recent  publication  is  a  volume  entitled  "  The 
Age  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems." 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 


COME  thou  with  me !     If  thou  hast  worn  away 
All  this  most  glorious  summer  in  the  crowd, 
Amid  the  dust  of  cities,  and  the  din, 
While  birds  were  carolling  on  every  spray  ; 
If,  from  gray  dawn  to  solemn  night's  approach, 
Thy  soul  hath  wasted  all  its  better  thoughts, 
Toiling  and  panting  for  a  little  gold ; 
Drudging  amid  the  very  lees  of  life 
For  this  accursed  slave  that  makes  men  slaves; 
Come  thou  with  me  into  the  pleasant  fields: 
Let  Nature  breathe  on  us  and  make  us  free ! 

For  thou  shalt  hold  communion,  pure  and  high, 
With  the  great  Spirit  of  the  Universe ; 
It  shall  pervade  thy  soul ;  it  shall  renew 
The  fancies  of  thy  boyhood ;  thou  shalt  know 
Tears,  most  unwonted  tears  dimming  thine  eyes ; 
Thou  shalt  forget,  under  the  old  brown  oak, 
That  the  good  south  wind  and  the  liberal  west 
Have  other  tidings  than  the  songs  of  birds, 
Or  the  soft  news  wafted  from  fragrant  flowers. 
Look  out  on  Nature's  face,  and  what  hath  she 
In  common  with  thy  feelings  1     That  brown  hill, 
Upon  whose  sides,  from  the  gray  mountain-ash, 
We  gather'd  crimson  berries,  look'd  as  brown 
When  the  leaves  fell  twelve  autumn  suns  ago ; 
This  pleasant  stream,  with  the  well-shaded  verge, 
On  whose  fair  surface  have  our  buoyant  limbs 
So  often  play'd,  caressing  and  caress'd  ; 
Its  verdant  banks  are  green  as  then  they  were ; 
So  went  its  bubbling  murmur  down  the  tide. 
Yes,  and  the  very  trees,  those  ancient  oaks, 
The  crimson-crested  maple,  feathery  elm, 
And  fair,  smooth  ash,  with  leaves  of  graceful  gold, 
Look  like  familiar  faces  of  old  friends. 
From  their  broad  branches  drop  the  wither'd  leaves, 
Drop,  one  by  one,  without  a  single  breath, 
Save  when  some  eddying  curl  round  the  old  roots 
Twirls  them  about  in  merry  sport  a  while. 
They  are  not  changed ;  their  office  is  not  done  ; 


The  first  soft  breeze  of  spring  shall  see  them  fresh 
With  sprouting  twigs  bursting  from  every  branch, 
As  should  fresh  feelings  from  our  wither'd  hearts. 
Scorn  not  the  moral ;  for,  while  these  have  warm'd 
To  annual  beauty,  gladdening  the  fields 
With  new  and  ever-glorious  garniture, 
Thou  hast  grown  worn  and  wasted,  almost  gray 
Even  in  thy  very  summer.     'Tis  for  this 
We  have  neglected  nature !     Wearing  out 
Our  hearts  and  all  our  life's  dearest  charities 
In  the  perpetual  turmoil,  when  we  need 
To  strengthen  and  to  purify  our  minds 
Amid  the  venerable  woods ;  to  hold 
Chaste  converse  with  the  fountains  and  the  winds ! 
So  should  we  elevate  our  souls ;  so  be 
Ready  to  stand  and  act  a  nobler  part 
In  the  hard,  heartless  struggles  of  the  world. 
Day  wanes  ;  't  is  autumn  eventide  again ; 
And,  sinking  on  the  blue  hills'  breast,  the  sun 
Spreads  the  large  bounty  of  his  level  blaze, 
Lengthening  the  shades  of  mountains  and  tall  trees, 
And  throwing  blacker  shadows  o'er  the  sheet 
Of  this  dark  stream,  in  whose  unruffled  tide 
Waver  the  bank-shrub  and  the  graceful  elm, 
As  the  gay  branches  and  their  trembling  leaves 
Catch  the  soft  whisper  of  the  coming  air : 
So  doth  it  mirror  every  passing  cloud, 
And  those  which  fill  the  chambers  of  the  west 
With  such  strange  beauty,  fairer  than  all  thrones, 
Blazon'd  with  orient  gems  and  barbarous  gold. 
I  see  thy  full  heart  gathering  in  thine  eyes ; 
I  see  those  eyes  swelling  with  precious  tears ; 
But,  if  thou  couldst  have  look'd  upon  this  scene 
With  a  cold  brow,  and  then  turn'd  back  to  thoughts 
Of  traffic  in  thy  fellow's  wretchedness, 
Thou  wert  not  fit  to  gaze  upon  the  face 
Of  Nature's  naked  beauty  ;  most  unfit 
To  look  on  fairer  things,  the  loveliness 
Of  earth's  most  lovely  daughters,  whose  glad  forms 
And  glancing  eyes  do  kindle  the  great  souls 
Of  better  men  to  emulate  pure  thoughts, 
And,  in  high  action,  all  ennobling  deeds. 

351 


1 


350 


WILLIAM    G.   SIMMS. 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  SWAMP. 

'Tis  a  wild  spot,  and  hath  a  gloomy  look; 
The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 
And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.  A  rank  growth 
Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  power  to  taint 
With  blisteringdews  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 
To  penetrate  the  covert.     Cypresses  [length, 

Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth ;  and,  stretch'd  at 
The  cayman — a  fit  dweller  in  such  home — 
Slumbers,  half-buried  in  the  sedgy  grass. 
Beside  the  green  ooze  where  he  shelters  him, 
A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 
And  shrieks  in  flight.   Two  summer  ducks,  aroused 
To  apprehension,  as  they  hear  his  cry, 
Dash  up  from  the  lagoon,  with  marvellous  haste, 
Following  his  guidance.    Meetly  taught  by  these, 
And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 
The  steel-jaw'd  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 
Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy,  green  abode, 
Which  straight  receives  him.   You  behold  him  now, 
His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds, 
In  silence,  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 
That,  travelling  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 
Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  a  while, 
Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.     The  surly  mute 
Straightway  goes  down,  so  suddenly,  that  he, 
The  dandy  of  the  summer  flowers  and  woods, 
Dips  his  light  wings,  and  spoils  his  golden  coat, 
With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 
Wondering  and  vex'd,  the  plumed  citizen 
Flies,  with  a  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore, 
Seeking  his  kindred  flowers : — but  seeks  in  vain — 
Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 
Nothing  of  beautiful !     Wild,  ragged  trees, 
That  look  like  felon  spectres — fetid  shrubs, 
That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere — dusk  shades, 
That  gather,  half  a  cloud,  and  half  a  fiend 
In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge, — 
Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 
The  general  prospect.     The  sad  butterfly, 
Waving  his  lacker'd  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 
And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed 
For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet, 
Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night. 


CHANGES  OF  HOME. 

WELT,  may  we  sing  her  beauties, 

This  pleasant  land  of  ours, 
Her  sunny  smiles,  her  golden  fruits, 

And  all  her  world  of  flowers  ; 
The  young  birds  of  her  forest-groves, 

The  blue  folds  of  her  sky, 
And  all  those  airs  of  gentleness, 

That  never  seem  to  fly ; 
They  wind  about  our  forms  at  noon, 

They  woo  us  in  the  shade, 
When  panting,  from  the  summer's  heats, 

The  woodman  seeks  the  glade ; 
They  win  us  with  a  song  of  love, 

They  cheer  us  with  a  dream, 
That  gilds  our  passing  thoughts  of  life, 

As  sunlight  does  the  stream  ; 


And  well  would  they  persuade  us  now, 

In  moments  all  too  dear, 
That,  sinful  though  our  hearts  may  be, 

We  have  our  Eden  here. 

Ah,  well  has  lavish  nature, 

From  out  her  boundless  store, 
Spread  wealth  and  loveliness  around, 

On  river,  rock,  and  shore : 
No  sweeter  stream  than  Ashley  glides — 

And,  what  of  southern  France  ? — 
She  boasts  no  brighter  fields  than  ours, 

Within  her  matron  glance; 
Our  skies  look  down  in  tenderness 

From  out  their  realms  of  blue, 
The  fairest  of  Italian  climes 

May  claim  no  softer  hue  ; 
And  let  them  sing  of  fruits  of  Spain, 

And  let  them  boast  the  flowers, 
The  Moors'  own  culture  they  may  claim, 

No  dearer  sweet  than  ours — 
Perchance  the  dark-hair'd  maiden 

Is  a  glory  in  your  eye, 
But  the  blue-eyed  Carolinian  rules, 

When  all  the  rest  are  nigh. 
And  none  may  say,  it  is  not  true, 

The  burden  of  my  lay, 
'Tis  written,  in  the  sight  of  all, 

In  flower  and  fruit  and  ray ; 
Look  on  the  scene  around  us  now, 

And  say  if  sung  amiss, 
The  song  that  pictures  to  your  eye 

A  spot  so  fair  as  this  : 
Gay  springs  the  merry  mocking-bird 

Around  the  cottage  pale, — 
And,  scarcely  taught  by  hunter's  aim, 

The  rabbit  down  the  vale ; 
Each  boon  of  kindly  nature, 

Her  buds,  her  blooms,  her  flowers, 
And,  more  than  all,  the  maidens  fair 

That  fill  this  land  of  ours, 
Are  still  in  rich  perfection, 

As  our  fathers  found  them  first, 
But  our  sons  are  gentle  now  no  more, 

And  all  the  land  is  cursed. 

Wild  thoughts  are  in  our  bosoms 

And  a  savage  discontent ; 
We  love  no  more  the  life  we  led, 

The  music,  nor  the  scent ; 
The  merry  dance  delights  us  not, 

As  in  that  better  time, 
When,  glad,  in  happy  bands  we  met, 

With  spirits  like  our  clime. 
And  all  the  social  loveliness, 

And  all  the  smile  is  gone, 
That  link'd  the  spirits  of  our  youth, 

And  made  our  people  one. 
They  smile  no  more  together, 

As  in  that  earlier  day, 
Our  maidens  sigh  in  loneliness, 

Who  once  were  always  gay ; 
And  though  our  skies  are  bright, 

And  our  sun  looks  down  as  then — 
Ah,  me !  the  thought  is  sad  I  feel, 

We  shall  never  smile  again. 


GEORGE   LUNT. 


[Born  about  1807.] 


MB.  LrxT  is  a  native  of  the  pleasant  village 
of  Newburyport,  near  Boston,  from  which,  for  a 
long  period,  his  ancestors  and  relatives  "  followed 
the  sea."  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and 
soon  after  leaving  the  university  entered  as  a 
student  the  law-office  of  the  present  Chief  Justice 
of  Massachusetts.  From  the  time  of  his  admis- 
sion to  the  bar  he  has  pursued  the  practice  of  his 
profession  in  Newburyport  He  has  for  several 
years  represented  the  people  of  that  town  in  the 
State  Senate  and  House  of  Assembly,  and  has  held 
various  other  honourable  offices. 

When  he  was  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  he 


wrote  "  The  Grave  of  Byron,"  a  poem  in  the 
Spenserian  measure,  which  has  considerable  merit ; 
and,  in  1839,  appeared  a  collection  of  his  later 
productions,  of  which  the  largest  is  a  metrical 
essay  entitled  "  Life,"  in  which  he  has  attempted 
to  show,  by  reference  to  the  condition  of  society  in 
different  ages,  that  Christianity  is  necessary  to  the 
developement  of  man's  moral  nature.  His  minor 
pieces  please  by  their  general  vigour  and  spright- 
liness,  and  by  that  purity  of  thought  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  writings  of  all  Christian  bards.  His 
most  recent  publication  is  a  volume  entitled  "  The 
Age  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems." 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

COME  thou  with  me !     If  thou  hast  worn  away 
All  this  most  glorious  summer  in  the  crowd, 
Amid  the  dust  of  cities,  and  the  din, 
While  birds  were  carolling  on  every  spray ; 
If,  from  gray  dawn  to  solemn  night's  approach, 
Thy  soul  hath  wasted  all  its  better  thoughts, 
Toiling  and  panting  for  a  little  gold ; 
Drudging  amid  the  very  lees  of  life 
For  this  accursed  slave  that  makes  men  slaves ; 
Come  thou  with  me  into  the  pleasant  fields : 
Let  Nature  breathe  on  us  and  make  us  free ! 

For  thou  shall  hold  communion,  pure  and  high, 
With  the  great  Spirit  of  the  Universe ; 
It  shall  pervade  thy  soul ;  it  shall  renew 
The  fancies  of  thy  boyhood ;  thou  shalt  know 
Tears,  most  unwonted  tears  dimming  thine  eyes ; 
Thou  shalt  forget,  under  the  old  brown  oak, 
That  the  good  south  wind  and  the  liberal  west 
Have  other  tidings  than  the  songs  of  birds, 
Or  the  soft  news  wafted  from  fragrant  flowers. 
Look  out  on  Nature's  face,  and  what  hath  she 
In  common  with  thy  feelings  1     That  brown  hill, 
Upon  whose  sides,  from  the  gray  mountain-ash, 
We  gather'd  crimson  berries,  look'd  as  brown 
When  the  leaves  fell  twelve  autumn  suns  ago ; 
This  pleasant  stream,  with  the  well-shaded  verge, 
On  whose  fair  surface  have  our  buoyant  limbs 
So  often  play'd,  caressing  and  caress'd  ; 
Its  verdant  banks  are  green  as  then  they  were ; 
So  went  its  bubbling  murmur  down  the  tide. 
Yes,  and  the  very  trees,  those  ancient  oaks, 
The  crimson-crested  maple,  feathery  elm, 
And  fair,  smooth  ash,  with  leaves  of  graceful  gold, 
Look  like  familiar  faces  of  old  friends. 
From  their  broad  branches  drop  the  wither'd  leaves, 
Drop,  one  by  one,  without  a  single  breath, 
Save  when  some  eddying  curl  round  the  old  roots 
Twirls  them  about  in  merry  sport  a  while. 
They  are  not  changed ;  their  office  is  not  done  ; 


The  first  soft  breeze  of  spring  shall  see  them  fresh 
With  sprouting  twigs  bursting  from  every  branch, 
As  should  fresh  feelings  from  our  wither'd  hearts. 
Scorn  not  the  moral ;  for,  while  these  have  warm'd 
To  annual  beauty,  gladdening  the  fields 
With  new  and  ever-glorious  garniture, 
Thou  hast  grown  worn  and  wasted,  almost  gray 
Even  in  thy  very  summer.     'T  is  for  this 
We  have  neglected  nature !     Wearing  out 
Our  hearts  and  all  our  life's  dearest  charities 
In  the  perpetual  turmoil,  when  we  need 
To  strengthen  and  to  purify  our  minds 
Amid  the  venerable  woods ;  to  hold 
Chaste  converse  with  the  fountains  and  the  winds ! 
So  should  we  elevate  our  souls ;  so  be 
Ready  to  stand  and  act  a  nobler  part 
In  the  hard,  heartless  struggles  of  the  world. 
Day  wanes  ;  'tis  autumn  eventide  again ; 
And,  sinking  on  the  blue  hills'  breast,  the  sun 
Spreads  the  large  bounty  of  his  level  blaze, 
Lengthening  the  shades  of  mountains  and  tall  trees, 
And  throwing  blacker  shadows  o'er  the  sheet 
Of  this  dark  stream,  in  whose  unruffled  tide 
Waver  the  bank-shrub  and  the  graceful  elm, 
As  the  gay  branches  and  their  trembling  leaves 
Catch  the  soft  whisper  of  the  coming  air : 
So  doth  it  mirror  every  passing  cloud, 
And  those  which  fill  the  chambers  of  the  west 
With  such  strange  beauty,  fairer  than  all  thrones, 
Blazon'd  with  orient  gems  and  barbarous  gold. 
I  see  thy  full  heart  gathering  in  thine  eyes ; 
I  see  those  eyes  swelling  with  precious  tears ; 
But,  if  thou  couldst  have  look'd  upon  this  scene 
With  a  cold  brow,  and  then  turn'd  back  to  thoughts 
Of  traffic  in  thy  fellow's  wretchedness, 
Thou  wert  not  fit  to  gaze  upon  the  face 
Of  Nature's  naked  beauty ;  most  unfit 
To  look  on  fairer  things,  the  loveliness 
Of  earth's  most  lovely  daughters,  whose  glad  forma 
And  glancing  eyes  do  kindle  the  great  souls 
Of  better  men  to  emulate  pure  thoughts, 
And,  in  high  action,  all  ennobling  deeds. 

351 


352 


GEORGE    LUNT. 


But  lo !  the  harvest  moon  !    She  climbs  as  fair 
Among  the  cluster'd  jewels  of  the  sky, 
As,  mid  the  rosy  bowers  of  paradise, 
Her  soft  light,  trembling  upon  leaf  and  flower, 
Smiled  o'er  the  slumbers  of  the  first-born  man. 
And,  while  her  beauty  is  upon  our  hearts, 
Now  let  us  seek  our  quiet  home,  that  sleep 
May  come  without  bad  dreams ;  may  come  as  light 
As  to  that  yellow-headed  cottage-boy, 
Whose  serious  musings,  as  he  homeward  drives 
His  sober  herd,  are  of  the  frosty  dawn, 
And  the  ripe  nuts  which  his  own  hand  shall  pluck. 
Then,  when  the  bird,  high-courier  of  the  morn, 
Looks  from  his  airy  vantage  over  the  world, 
And,  by  the  music  of  his  mounting  flight, 
Tells  many  blessed  things  of  gushing  gold, 
Coming  in  floods  o'er  the  eastern  wave, 
Will  we  arise,  and  our  pure  orisons 
Shall  keep  us  in  the  trials  of  the  day. 


JEWISH  BATTLE-SONG. 

Ho  !  Princes  of  Jacob !  the  strength  and  the  stay 
Of  the  daughter  of  Zion, — now  up,  and  array  ; 
Lo,  the  hunters  have  struck  her,  and  bleeding  alone 
Like  a  pard  in  the  desert  she  maketh  her  moan : 
Up,  with  war-horse  and  banner,  with  spear  and 

with  sword, 
On  the  spoiler  go  down  in  the  might  of  the  Lord ! 

She  lay  sleeping  in  beauty,  more  fair  than  the  moon, 
With  her  children  about  her,  like  stars  in  night's 

noon, 
When  they  came  to  her  covert,  these  spoilers  of 

Rome, 

And  are  trampling  her  children  and  rifling  her  home: 
O,  up,  noble  chiefs !  would  you  leave  her  forlorn, 
To  be  crush'd  by  the  Gentile,  a  mock  and  a  scorn  1 

Their  legions  and  cohorts  are  fair  to  behold, 
With  their  iron-clad  bosoms,  and  helmets  of  gold ; 
But,  gorgeous  and  glorious  in  pride  though  they  be, 
Their  avarice  is  broad  as  the  grasp  of  the  sea ; 
They  talk  not  of  pity ;  the  mercies  they  feel 
Are  cruel  and  fierce  as  their  death-doing  steel. 

Will  they  laugh  at  the  hind  they  have  struck  to 

the  earth, 
When  the  bold  stag  of  Naphtali  bursts  on  their 

mirth1? 

Will  they  dare  to  deride  and  insult,  when  in  wrath 
The  lion  of  Judah  glares  wild  in  their  path  ? 
O,  say,  will  they  mock  us,  when  down  on  the  plain 
The  hoofs  of  our  steeds  thunder  over  their  slain  1 

They  come  with  their  plumes  tossing  haughty  and 

free, 

And  white  as  the  crest  of  the  old  hoary  sea ; 
Yet  they  float  not  so  fierce  as  the  wild  lion's  mane, 
To  whose  lair  ye  have  track'd  him,  whose  whelps 

ye  have  slain ; 

But,  dark  mountain-archer  !  your  sinews  to-day 
Must  be  strong  as  the  spear-shaft  to  drive  in  the  prey. 

And  the  tribes  are  all  gathering;  the  valleys  ring  out 
To  the  peal  of  the  trumpet — the  timbrel — the  shout : 


Lo,  Zebulon  comes;  he  remembers  the  day 
When  they  perill'd  their  lives  to  the  death  in  the  fray; 
And  the  riders  of  Naphtali  burst  from  the  hills 
Like  a  mountain-swollen  stream  in  the  pride  of 
its  rills. 

Like  Sisera's  rolls  the  foe's  chariot-wheel, 
And  he  comes,  like  the  Philistine,  girded  in  steel ; 
Like  both  shall  he  perish,  if  ye  are  but  men, 
If  your  javelins  and  hearts  are  as  mighty  as  then ; 
He  trusts  in  his  buckler,  his  spear,  and  his  sword  ; 
His  strength  is  but  weakness ; — we  trust  in  the 
LOUD  ! 

"PASS  ON,  RELENTLESS  WORLD." 

SWIFTEH  and  swifter,  day  by  day, 

Down  Time's  unquiet  current  hurl'd, 
Thou  passest  on  thy  restless  way, 

Tumultuous  and  unstable  world  ! 
Thou  passest  on  !     Time  hath  not  seen 

Delay  upon  thy  hurried  path ; 
And  prayers  and  tears  alike  have  been 

In  vain  to  stay  thy  course  of  wrath ! 

Thou  passest  on,  and  with  thee  go 

The  loves  of  youth,  the  cares  of  age ; 
And  smiles  and  tears,  and  joy  and  wo, 

Are  on  thy  history's  troubled  page ! 
There,  every  day,  like  yesterday, 

Writes  hopes  that  end  in  mockery  ; 
But  who  shall  tear  the  veil  away 

Before  the  abyss  of  things  to  be  1 

Thou  passest  on,  and  at  thy  side, 

Even  as  a  shade,  Oblivion  treads, 
And  o'er  the  dreams  of  human  pride 

His  misty  shroud  forever  spreads  ; 
Where  all  thine  iron  hand  hath  traced 

Upon  that  gloomy  scroll  to-day, 
With  records  ages  since  effaced, — 

Like  them  shall  live,  like  them  decay. 
Thou  passest  on,  with  thee  the  vain, 

Who  sport  upon  thy  flaunting  blaze, 
Pride,  framed  of  dust  and  folly's  train, 

Who  court  thy  love,  and  run  thy  ways : 
But  thou  and  I, — and  be  it  so, — 

Press  onward  to  eternity ; 
Yet  not  together  let  us  go 

To  that  deep-voiced  but  shoreless  sea. 

Thou  hast  thy  friends, — I  would  have  mine ; 

Thou  hast  thy  thoughts, — leave  me  my  own ; 
I  kneel  not  at  thy  gilded  shrine, 

I  bow  not  at  thy  slavish  throne ; 
I  see  them  pass  without  a  sigh, — 

They  wake  no  swelling  raptures  now, 
The.  fierce  delights  that  fire  thine  eye, 

The  triumphs  of  thy  haughty  brow. 

Pass  on,  relentless  world  !     I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven , 
Pass  on,  in  Gon's  name, — only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  yet  hast  given — 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home, 

Affections  fixed  above  thy  sway, 
Faith  set  upon  a  world  to  come, 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day. 


GEORGE    LUNT. 


353 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


AGAIN  upon  the  sounding  shore, 

And,  O  how  bless'd,  again  alone ! 

I  could  not  bear  to  hear  thy  roar, 

Thy  deep,  thy  long,  majestic  tone ; 

I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  one 

Could  view  with  me  thy  swelling  might, 
•    And,  like  a  very  stock  or  stone, 

Turn  coldly  from  the  glorious  sight, 
And  seek  the  idle  world,  to  hate  and  fear  and  fight. 

Thou  art  the  same,  eternal  sea ! 
The  earth  hath  many  shapes  and  forms, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  flower  and  tree ; 
Fields  that  the  fervid  noontide  warms, 
Or  winter's  rugged  grasp  deforms, 
Or  bright  with  autumn's  golden  store ; 
Thou  coverest  up  thy  face  with  storms, 
Or  smilest  serene, — but  still  thy  roar 
And  dashing  foam  go  up  to  vex  the  sea-beat  shore. 

I  see  thy  heaving  waters  roll, 
I  hear  thy  stern,  uplifted  voice,         < 
And  trumpet-like  upon  my  soul 
Falls  the  deep  music  of  that  noise 
Wherewith  thou  dost  thyself  rejoice ; 
The  ships,  that  on  thy  bosom  play, 
Thou  dashest  them  about  like  toys, 
And  stranded  navies  are  thy  prey, 
Strown   on   thy  rock-bound   coast,  torn   by  the 
whirling  spray. 

As  summer  twilight,  soft  and  calm, 
Or  when  in  stormy  grandeur  drest, 
Peals  up  to  heaven  the  eternal  psalm, 
That  swells  within  thy  boundless  breast ; 
Thy  curling  waters  have  no  rest ; 
But  day  and  night  the  ceaseless  throng 
Of  waves  that  wait  thy  high  behest, 
Speak  out  in  utterance  deep  and  strong, 

And  loud  the   craggy  beach   howls   back   their 

savage  song. 

Terrible  art  thou  in  thy  wrath, — 
Terrible  in  thine  hour  of  glee, 
When  the  strong  winds,  upon  their  path, 
Bound  o'er  thy  breast  tumultuously, 
And  shout  their  chorus  loud  and  free 
To  the  sad  sea-bird's  mournful  wail, 
As,  heaving  with  the  heaving  sea, 
The  broken  mast  and  shatter'd  sail 

Tell  of  thy  cruel  strength  the  lamentable  tale. 

Ay,  'tis  indeed  a  glorious  sight 
To  gaze  upon  thine  ample  face ; 
An  awful  joy, — a  deep  delight ! 
I  see  thy  laughing  waves  embrace 
Each  other  in  their  frolic  race ; 
I  sit  above  the  flashing  spray, 
That  foams  around  this  rocky  base, 
And,  as  the  bright  blue  waters  play,      [as  they. 
Feel  that  my  thoughts,  my  life,  perchance,  are  vain 

This  is  thy  lesson,  mighty  sea ! 
Man  calls  the  dimpled  earth  his  own, 
The  flowery  vale,  the  golden  lea ; 
And  on  the  wild,  gray  mountain-stone 
Claims  nature's  temple  for  his  throne ! 
45 


But  where  thy  many  voices  sing 
Their  endless  song,  the  deep,  deep  tone 
Calls  back  his  spirit's  airy  wing, 
He  shrinks  into  himself,  where  GOD  alone  is  king ! 

PILGRIM  SONG. 

OVER  the  mountain  wave,  see  where  they  come ; 
Storm-cloud  and  wintry  wind  welcome  them  home ; 
Yet,  where  the  sounding  gale  howls  to  the  sea, 
There  their  song  peals  along,  deep-toned  and  free : 

"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we  come  ; 

Where  the  free  dare  to  be — this  is  our  home !" 
England  hath  sunny  dales,  dearly  they  bloom ; 
Scotia  hath  heather-hills,  sweet  their  perfume : 
Yet  through  the  wilderness  cheerful  we  stray, 
Native  land,  native  land — home  far  away  ! 

"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we  come ; 

Where  the  free  dare  to  be — this  is  our  home !" 
Dim  grew  the  forest-path :  onward  they  trod ; 
Firm  beat  their  noble  hearts,  trusting  in  GOD  ! 
Gray  men  and  blooming  maids,  high  rose  their  song ; 
Hear  it  sweep,  clear  and  deep,  ever  along : 

"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we  come ; 

Where  the  free  dare  to  be — this  is  our  home !" 

Not  theirs  the  glory-wreath,  torn  by  the  blast ; 
Heavenward  their  holy  steps,  heavenward  they  past! 
Green  be  their  mossy  graves !  ours  be  their  fame, 
While  their  song  peals  along,  ever  the  same : 

"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we  come ; 

Where  the  free  dare  to  be — this  is  our  home !" 


THE  LYRE  AND  SWORD. 

THE  freeman's  glittering  sword  be  blest, — 

Forever  blest  the  freeman's  lyre, — 
That  rings  upon  the  tyrant's  crest ; 

This  stirs  the  heart  like  living  fire : 
Well  can  he  wield  the  shining  brand, 
Who  battles  for  his  native  land ; 

But  when  his  fingers  sweep  the  chords, 
That  summon  heroes  to  the  fray, 

They  gather  at  the  feast  of  swords, 

Like  mountain-eagles  to  their  prey ! 
And  mid  the  vales  and  swelling  hills, 

That  sweetly  bloom  in  Freedom's  land, 
A  living  spirit  breathes  and  fills 

The  freeman's  heart  and  nerves  his  hand  ; 
For  the  bright  soil  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  home  of  all  he  loves  on  earth,' — 

For  this,  when  Freedom's  trumpet  calls, 
He  waves  on  high  his  sword  of  fire, — 

For  this,  amidst  his  country's  halls 

Forever  strikes  the  freeman's  lyre ! 
His  burning  heart  he  may  not  lend 

To  serve  a  doting  despot's  sway, — 
A  suppliant  knee  he  will  not  bend, 

Before  these  things  of  "  brass  and  clay :" 
When  wrong  and  ruin  call  to  war, 
He  knows  the  summons  from  afar ; 

On  high  his  glittering  sword  he  waves, 
And  myriads  feel  the  freeman's  fire, 

While  he,  around  their  fathers'  graves, 
Strikes  to  old  strains  the  freeman's  lyre! 


JONATHAN   LAWRENCE. 


[Born,  1807.    Died,  1833.] 


FEW  persons  in  private  life,  who  have  died  so 
young,  have  been  mourned  by  so  many  warm 
friends  as  was  JONATHAN  LAWBENCE.  Devoted 
to  a  profession  which  engaged  nearly  all  his  time, 
and  regardless  of  literary  distinction,  his  produc- 
tions would  have  been  known  only  to  his  asso- 
ciates, had  not  a  wiser  appreciation  of  their  merits 
withdrawn  them  from  the  obscurity  to  which  his 
own  low  estimate  had  consigned  them. 

He  was  born  in  New  York,  in  November,  1807, 
and,  after  the  usual  preparatory  studies,  entered 
Columbia  College,  at  which  he  was  graduated 
before  he  was  fifteen  years  of  age.  He  soon  after 
became  a  student  in  the  office  of  Mr.  W.  SLOSSOJT, 
an  eminent  lawyer,  where  he  gained  much  regard 
by  the  assiduity  with  which  he  prosecuted  his 
studies,  the  premature  ripeness  of  his  judgment, 
and  the  undeviating  purity  and  honourableness  of 
his  life.  On  being  admitted  to  the  bar,  he  entered 
into  a  partnership  with  Mr.  SLOSSON,  and  daily 
added  confirmation  to  the  promise  of  his  proba- 
tional  career,  until  he  was  suddenly  called  to  a 
better  life,  in  April,  1833. 


The  industry  with  which  he  attended  to  his 
professional  duties  did  not  prevent  him  from  giving 
considerable  attention  to  general  literature ;  and  in 
moments — to  use  his  own  language — 

"Stolen  from  hours  I  should  have  tied 
To  musty  volumes  at  my  side, 
Given  to  hours  that  sweetly  woo'd 
My  heart  from  study's  solitude," — 

he  produced  many  poems  and  prose  sketches  of 
considerable  merit.  These,  with  one  or  two  ex- 
ceptions, were  intended  not  for  publication,  but 
as  tributes  of  private  friendship,  or  as  contributions 
to  the  exercises  of  a  literary  society — still  in  exist- 
ence— of  which  he  was  for  several  years  an  active 
member.  After  his  death,  in  compliance  with  a 
request  by  this  society,  his  brother  made  a  collec- 
tion of  his  writings,  of  which  a  very  small  edition 
was  printed,  for  private  circulation.  Their  cha- 
racter is  essentially  meditative.  Many  of  them 
are  devotional,  and  all  are  distinguished  for  the 
purity  of  thought  which  guided  the  life  of  the 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  STUDENT. 


a  sad,  sweet  thought  have  I, 

Many  a  passing,  sunny  gleam, 
Many  a  bright  tear  in  mine  eye, 

Many  a  wild  and  wandering  dream, 
Stolen  from  hours  I  should  have  tied 
To  musty  volumes  by  my  side, 
Given  to  hours  that  sweetly  woo'd 
My  heart  from  study's  solitude. 

Oft,  when  the  south  wind  's  dancing  free 

Over  the  earth  and  in  the  sky, 
And  the  flowers  peep  softly  out  to  see 

The  frolic  Spring  as  she  wantons  by  ; 
When  the  breeze  and  beam  like  thieves  come  in, 
To  steal  me  away,  I  deem  it  sin 
To  slight  their  voice,  and  away  I  'm  straying 
Over  the  hills  and  vales  a-Maying. 

Then  can  I  hear  the  earth  rejoice, 

Happier  than  man  may  ever  be  ; 
Every  fountain  hath  then  a  voice, 
That  sings  of  its  glad  festivity  ; 
For  it  hath  burst  the  chains  that  bound 
Its  currents  dead  in  the  frozen  ground, 
And,  flashing  away  in  the  sun,  has  gone 
Singing,  and  singing,  and  singing  on. 

Autumn  hath  sunset  hours,  and  then 
Many  a  musing  mood  I  cherish  ; 


Many  a  hue  of  fancy,  when 

The  hues  of  earth  are  about  to  perish ; 
Clouds  are  there,  and  brighter,  I  ween, 
Hath  real  sunset  never  seen, 
Sad  as  the  faces  of  friends  that  die, 
And  beautiful  as  their  memory. 

Love  hath  its  thoughts,  we  cannot  keep, 

Visions  the  mind  may  not  control, 
Waking,  as  fancy  does  in  sleep, 

The  secret  transports  of  the  soul ; 
Faces  and  forms  are  strangely  mingled, 
Till  one  by  one  they  're  slowly  singled, 
To  the  voice,  and  lip,  and  eye  of  her 
I  worship  like  an  idolater. 

Many  a  big,  proud  tear  have  I,      , 

When  from  my  sweet  and  roaming  track, 
From  the  green  earth  and  misty  sky, 

And  spring,  and  love,  I  hurry  back ; 
Then  what  a  dismal,  dreary  gloom 
Settles  upon  my  loathed  room, 
Darker  to  every  thought  and  sense 
Than  if  they  had  never  travell'd  thence. 

Yet,  I  have  other  thoughts,  that  cheer 
The  toilsome  day  and  lonely  night, 
And  many  a  scene  and  hope  appear, 

And  almost  make  me  gay  and  bright. 
Honour  and  fame  that  I  would  win, 
Though  every  toil  that  yet  hath  been 
Were  doubly  borne,  and  not  an  hour 
Were  brightly  hued  by  Fancy's  power. 

354 


JONATHAN    LAWRENCE. 


355 


And,  though  I  sometimes  sigh  to  think 

Of  earth  and  heaven,  and  wind  and  sea, 
And  know  that  the  cup  which  others  drink 

Shall  never  be  brimm'd  by  me  ; 
That  many  a  joy  must  be  untasted, 
And  many  a  glorious  breeze  be  wasted, 
Yet  would  not,  if  I  dared,  repine, 
That  toil,  and  study,  and  care  are  mine. 


SEA-SONG. 

OVER  the  far  blue  ocean-wave, 

On  the  wild  winds  I  flee, 
Yet  every  thought  of  my  constant  heart 

Is  winging,  love,  to  thee ; 
For  each  foaming  leap  of 'our  gallant  ship 

Had  barb'd  a  pang  for  me, 
Had  not  thy  form,  through  sun  and  storm, 

Been  my  only  memory. 

0,  the  sea-mew's  wings  are  fleet  and  fast, 

As  he  dips  in  the  dancing  spray ; 
But  fleeter  and  faster  the  thoughts,  I  ween, 

Of  dear  ones  far  away  ! 
And  lovelier,  too,  than  yon  rainbow's  hue, 

As  it  lights  the  tinted  sea, 
Are  the  daylight  dreams  and  sunny  gleams 

Of  the  heart  that  throbs  for  thee. 

And  when  moon  and  stars  are  asleep  on  the  waves, 

Their  dancing  tops  among, 
And  the  sailor  is  guiling  the  long  watch-hour 

By  the  music  of  his  song; 
When  our  sail  is  white  in  the  dark  midnight, 

And  its  shadow  is  on  the  sea, 
0,  never  knew  hall  such  festival 

As  my  fond  heart  holds  with  thee ! 


LOOK  ALOFT. 

IJT  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  depart, 
•'Look  aloft,"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend,  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  wo, 
Should  betray  thee  when  sorrows  like  clouds  are 

array'd, 
"Look  aloft"  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall 

fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to 

thine  eye, 

Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and,  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"Look  aloft"  to  the  sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart, 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom,  in  sorrow  depart, 
"Look  aloft"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  "  affection  is  ever  in  bloom." 


And,  0  !  when  death  comes  in  his  terrors,  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft,"  and  depart ' 


TO  MAY. 

COME,  gentle  May! 
Come  with  thy  robe  of  flowers, 
Come  with  thy  sun  and  sky,  thy  clouds  and  showers; 

Come,  and  bring  forth  unto  the  eye  of  day, 
From  their  imprisoning  and  mysterious  night, 
The  buds  of  many  hues,  the  children  of  thy  light. 

Come,  wondrous  May ! 
For,  at  the  bidding  of  thy  magic  wand, 
Quick  from  the  caverns  of  the  breathing  land, 

In  all  their  green  and  glorious  array 
They  spring,  as  spring  the  Persian  maids  to  hail 
Thy  flushing  footsteps  in  Cashmerian  vale. 

Come,  vocal  May ! 
Come  with  thy  train,  that  high 
On  some  fresh  branch  pour  out  their  melody; 

Or,  carolling  thy  praise  the  livelong  day, 
Sit  perch'd  in  some  lone  glen,  on  echo  calling, 
Mid  murmuring  woods  and  musical  waters  falling. 

Come,  sunny  May ! 
Come  with  thy  laughing  beam, 
What  time  the  lazy  mist  melts  on  the  stream, 

Or  seeks  the  mountain-top  to  meet  thy  ray, 
Ere  yet  the  dew-drop  on  thine  own  soft  flower 
Hath  lost  its  light,  or  died  beneath  his  power. 

Come,  holy  May ! 

When,  sunk  behind  the  cold  and  western  hill, 
His  light  hath  ceased  to  play  on  leaf  and  rill, 

And  twilight's  footsteps  hasten  his  decay; 
Come  with  thy  musings,  and  my  heart  shall  be 
Like  a  pure  temple  consecrate  to  thee. 

Come,  beautiful  May ! 
Like  youth  and  loveliness, 
Like  her  I  love;  O,  come  in  thy  full  dress, 

The  drapery  of  dark  winter  cast  away ; 
To  the  bright  eye  and  the  glad  heart  appear 
Queen  of  the  spring,  and  mistress  of  the  year. 

Yet,  lovely  May ! 

Teach  her  whose  eyes  shall  rest  upon  this  rhyme 
To  spurn  the  gilded  mockeries  of  time, 

The  heartless  pomp  that  beckons  to  betray, 
And  keep,  as  thou  wilt  find,  that  heart  each  year, 
Pure  as  thy  dawn,  and  as  thy  sunset  clear. 

And  let  me  too,  sweet  May ! 
Let  thy  fond  votary  see, 
As  fade  thy  beauties,  all  the  vanity 

Of  this  world's  pomp ;  then  teach,  that  though 

decay 
In  his  short  winter  bury  beauty's  frame, 

In  fairer  worlds  the  soul  shall  break  his  sway, 
Another  spring  shall  bloom,  eternal  and  the  same. 


LOUISA  J.  HALL. 

[Born  about  1807.] 


LOUISA  J.  PARK,  now  Mrs.  HALT.,  I  believe,  was 
born  and  educated  in  Boston.  In  1841  she  was 
married  to  Mr.  HALL,  a  clergyman  of  Providence, 
and  now  resides  in  that  city.  Her  reputation  as 
an  author  rests  principally  on  "  Miriam,"  a  dra- 
matic poem,  published  in  1837;  though  she  has 
written  many  other  pieces,  of  a  less  ambitious 
character. 

The  story  of  "  Miriam"  is  simple,  the  characters 
well  drawn  and  sustained,  and  the  incidents  hap- 
pily invented,  though  not  always  in  keeping  with 
the  situations  and  qualities  of  the  actors.  THRA- 
SENO,  a  Christian  exile  from  Judea,  dwells  with  his 
family  in  Rome.  He  has  two  children,  EUPHAS, 
and  a  daughter  of  remarkable  beauty  and  a  heart 
and  mind  in  which  are  blended  the  highest  attri- 
butes of  her  sex  and  her  religion.  She  is  seen  and 
loved  by  PAULUS,  a  young  nobleman,  whose  father, 
Piso,  had  in  his  youth  served  in  the  armies  in 
Palestine.  The  passion  is  mutual,  but  secret ;  and 
having  failed  to  win  the  Roman  to  her  foith,  the 
Christian  maiden  resolves  to  part  from  him  forever. 
While  THRASENO  and  her  brother  are  attending 
the  funeral  of  an  aged  friend,  the  lovers  meet ;  and 


A  SCENE  FROM  "MIRIAM." 

EUPHAS  AND  PISO,  IN  THE  HALL  OF  A  ROMAN  PALACE. 

Euphas.  LET  me  but  die 
First  of  thy  victims — 

Piso.  Would  that  among  them — 
Where  is  the  sorceress  1     I  fain  would  see 
The  beauty  that  hath  witch'd  Rome's  noblest  youth. 

Euphas.  Hers  is  a  face  thou  never  wilt  behold. 

Piso.  I  will :  on  her  shall  fall  my  worst  revenge ; 
And  I  will  know  what  foul  and  magic  arts — 

[Miriam  glides  in.    A  pause. 
Beautiful  shadow !  in  this  hour  of  wrath, 
What  dost  thou  here  ?  In  life  thou  wert  too  meek, 
Too  gentle  for  a  lover  stern  as  I. 
And,  since  I  saw  thee  last,  my  days  have  been 
Deep  steep'd  in  sin  and  blood  !  What  seekest  thou  1 
I  have  grown  old  in  strife,  and  hast  thou  come, 
With  thy  dark  eyes  and  their  soul-searching  glance, 
To  look  me  into  peace  ?     It  cannot  be. 
Go  back,  fair  spirit,  to  thine  own  dim  realms ! 
He  whose  young  love  thou  didst  reject  on  earth, 
May  tremble  at  this  visitation  strange, 
But  never  can  know  peace  or  virtue  more ! 
Thou  wert  a  Christian,  and  a  Christian  dog 
Did  win  thy  precious  love.     I  have  good  cause 
To  hate  and  scorn  the  whole  detested  race ; 
And  till  I  meet  that  man,  whom  most  of  all 
My  soul  abhors,  will  I  go  on  and  slay ! 
Fade,  vanish,  shadow  bright!    In  vain  that  look ! 
That  sweet,  sad  look !     My  lot  is  cast  in  blood ! 

Miriam.  0,  say  not  so  ! 


as  MIRIAM  is  declaring  to  PAULUS  her  determina- 
tion, they  are  interrupted  by  EUPHAS,  who  sud- 
denly returns  to  inform  his  sister  that  the  funeral 
party  had  been  surprised  by  a  band  of  Roman 
soldiers,  some  slain,  and  others,  among  whom  was 
their  father,  borne  to  prison.  The  indignation  of 
EUPHAS  is  excited  by  finding  PAULUS  with  MIRI- 
AM, and,  by  the  aid  of  a  body  of  Christians,  armed 
for  the  emergency,  he  seizes  him  as  a  hostage,  and 
goes  to  the  palace  of  Piso  to  claim  the  liberation 
of  THRASENO.  MIRIAM,  who  had  fainted  during 
this  scene,  on  her  recovery  follows  him  on  his 
hopeless  errand ;  and  we  are  next  introduced  to 
the  palace,  where  the  young  Christian  is  urging, 
on  the  ground  of  humanity,  the  release  of  his 
father,  in  a  manner  finely  contrasted  with  the 
contemptuous  fierceness  of  the  hardhearted  magis- 
trate. The  scene  which  follows,  is  that  in  which 
MIRIAM  first  meets  Piso.  The  tyrant  promises 
to  restore  THRASENO  to  his  children,  but  they  re- 
ceive at  their  home  only  his  dead  body.  P.VULUS 
rejects  his  parent  and  his  religion ;  and  while  a 
dirge  is  sung  over  the  martyr,  the  soul  of  his  la- 
mented and  suffering  daughter  ascends  to  heaven. 


Piso.  The  voice  that  won  me  first ! 
0,  what  a  tide  of  recollections  rush 
Upon  my  drowning  soul !  my  own  wild  love — 
Thy  scorn — the  long,  long  days  of  blood  and  guilt 
That  since  have  left  their  footprints  on  my  fate ! 
The  dark,  dark  nights  of  fever'd  agony, 
When,  mid  the  strife  and  struggling  of  my  dreams, 
The  gods  sent  thee  at  times  to  hover  round, 
Bringing  the  memory  of  those  peaceful  days 
When  I  beheld  thee  first!     But  never  yet 
Before  my  waking  eyes  hast  thou  appear'd 
Distinct  and  visible  as  now !     Spirit ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  ? 

Miriam.  O,  man  of  guilt  and  wo  ! 
Thine  own  dark  phantasies  are  busy  now, 
Lending  unearthly  seeming  to  a  thing 
Of  earth,  as  thou  art ! 

Piso.     How !  Art  thou  not  she  ? 
I  know  that  face !     I  never  yet  beheld 
One  like  to  it  among  earth's  loveliest. 
Why  dost  thou  wear  that  semblance,  if  thou  art 
A  thing  of  mortal  mould  1     O,  better  meet 
The  wailing  ghosts  of  those  whose  blood  doth  clog 
My  midnight  dreams,  than  that  half-pitying  eye  ! 

Miriam.  Thou  art  a  wretched  man !  and  I  do  feel 
Pity  even  for  the  suffering  guilt  hath  brought. 
But  from  the  quiet  grave  I  have  not  come, 
Nor  from  the  shadowy  confines  of  the  world 
Where  spirits  dwell,  to  haunt  thy  midnight  hour. 
The  disembodied  should  be  passionless, 
And  wear  not  eyes  that  swim  in  earth-born  tears, 
As  mine  do  now.  Look  up,  thou  conscience-struck ! 

356 


LOUISA    J.    HALL. 


357 


Piso.  Off!  off!    She  touch'd  me  with  her  damp, 

cold  hand ! 

But  'twas  a  hand  of  flesh  and  blood !     Away  ! 
Come  thou  not  near  me  till  I  study  thee. 

Miriam.  Why  are  thine  eyes  so  fix'd  and  wildl 

thy  lips 

Convulsed  and  ghastly  white  1     Thine  own  dark 
Vexing  thy  soul,  have  clad  me  in  a  form       [sins, 
Thou  darest  not  look  upon — I  know  not  why. 
But  I  must  speak  to  thee.     Mid  thy  remorse, 
And  the  unwonted  terrors  of  thy  soul, 
I  must  be  heard,  for  GOD  hath  sent  me  here. 
Piso.  Who,  who  hath  sent  thee  here  'I 

Miriam.  The  Christian's  GOD, 
The  GOD  thou  knowest  not. 

Piso.  Thou  art  of  earth ! 
I  see  the  rose-tint  on  thy  pallid  cheek, 
Which  was  not  there  at  first ;  it  kindles  fast ! 
Say  on.     Although  I  dare  not  meet  that  eye, 
I  hear  thee. 

Miriam.     HE  hath  given  me  strength, 
And  led  me  safely  through  the  broad,  lone  streets, 
Even  at  the  midnight  hour!    My  heart  sunk  not; 
My  noiseless  foot  paced  on  unfaltering 
Through  the  long  colonnades,  where  stood  aloft 
Pale  gods  and  goddesses  on  either  hand, 
Bending  their  sightless  eyes  on  me !  by  cool  founts, 
Waking  with  ceaseless  plash  the  midnight  air ! 
Through  moonlit  squares,  where,  ever  and  anon, 
Flash'd  from  some  dusky  nook  the  red  torchlight, 
Flung  on  my  path  by  passing  reveller. 
And  HE  hath  brought  me  here  before  thy  face ; 
And  it  was  HE  who  smote  thee  even  now 
With  a  strange,  nameless  fear. 

Piso.  Girl !  name  it  not. 

I  deem'd  I  look'd  on  one  whose  bright  young  face 
First  glanced  upon  me  mid  the  shining  leaves 
Of  a  green  bower  in  sunny  Palestine, 
In  my  youth's  prime  !     I  knew  the  dust. 
The  grave's  corroding  dust,  had  soil'd 
That  spotless  brow  long  since.     A  shadow  fell 
Upon  the  soul  that  never  yet  knew  fear. 
But  it  is  past.     Earth  holds  not  what  I  dread ; 
And  what  the  gods  did  make  me,  am  I  now. 
What  seekest  thou] 

Euphas.  MIRIAM  !  go  thou  hence. 
Why  shouldst  thou  die  1 

Miriam.  Brother! 

Piso.  Ha  !  is  this  so  ] 

Now,  by  the  gods  ! — Bar,  bar  the  gates,  ye  slaves ! 
If  they  escape  me  now — Wrhy,  this  is  good ! 
I  had  not  dream'd  of  hap  so  glorious. 
His  sister  !  she  that  beguiled  my  son  ! 

Miriam.  Peace ! 
Name  not,  with  tongue  unhallow'd,  love  like  ours. 

Piso.  Thou  art  her  image ;  and  the  mystery 
Confounds  my  purposes.     Take  other  form, 
Foul  sorceress,  and  I  will  baffle  thee ! 

Miriam.  I  have  no  other  form  than  this  Gon  gave ; 
And  he  already  hath  stretch'd  forth  his  hand, 
And  touch'd  it  for  the  grave. 

Piso.  It  is  most  strange. 
Ts  not  the  air  around  her  full  of  spells  1 
Give  me  the  son  thou  hast  seduced ! 

Miriam.  Piso ! 


Thy  son  hath  seen  me,  loved  me,  and  hath  won 
A  heart  too  prone  to  worship  noble  things, 
Although  of  earth ;  and  he,  alas  !  was  earth's ! 
i   I  strove,  I  pray'd  in  vain !     In  all  things  else 
'  I  might  have  stirr'd  his  soul's  best  purposes  ; 
But  for  the  pure  and  cheering  faith  of  Christ, 
There  was  no  entrance  in  that  iron  soul. 
And  I — amid  such  hopes,  despair  arose, 
And  laid  a  withering  hand  upon  my  heart 
I  feel  it  yet !     We  parted !     Ay,  this  night 
We  met  to  meet  no  more. 

Euphas.  Sister !  my  tears — 
They  choke  my  words — else — 

Miriam.  ECFHAS,  thou  wert  wroth 
When  there  was  little  cause ;  I  loved  thee  more. 
Thy  very  frowns  in  such  a  holy  cause 
Were  beautiful.     The  scorn  of  virtuous  youth, 
Looking  on  fancied  sin,  is  noble. 

Piso.  Maid ! 

Hath  then  my  son  withstood  thy  witchery, 
And  on  this  ground  ye  parted  1 

Miriam.  It  is  so. 
Alas !  that  I  rejoice  to  say  it. 

Piso.  Nay, 

Well  thou  mayst,  for  it  hath  wrought  his  pardon. 
That  he  had  loved  thee  would  have  been  a  sin 
Too  full  of  degradation — infamy, 
Had  not  these  cold  and  aged  eyes  themselves 
Beheld  thee  in  thy  loveliness  !    And  yet,  bold  girl! 
Think  not  thy  Jewish  beauty  is  the  spell 
That  works  on  one  grown  old  in  deeds  of  blood. 
I  have  look'd  calmly  on  when  eyes  as  bright 
Were  drown'd  in  tears  of  bitter  agony, 
When  forms  as  full  of  grace  and  pride,  perchance, 
Were  writhing  in  the  sharpness  of  their  pain, 
And  cheeks  as  fair  were  mangled — 

Euphas.  Tyrant !  cease. 
Wert  thou  a  fiend,  such  brutal  boasts  as  these 
Were  not  for  ears  like  hers ! 

Miriam.  I  tremble  not. 
He  spake  of  pardon  for  his  guiltless  son, 
And  that  includeth  life  for  those  I  love. 
What  need  I  more  1 

Euphas.  Let  us  go  hence.     Piso  ! 
Bid  thou  thy  myrmidons  unbar  the  gates, 
That  shut  our  friends  from  light  and  air. 

Piso.  Not  yet, 

My  haughty  boy,  for  we  have  much  to  say 
Ere  you  two  pretty  birds  go  free.     Chafe  not ! 
Ye  are  caged  close,  and  can  but  flutter  here 
Till  I  am  satisfied. 

Miriam.  How  !  hast  thou  changed — 

Piso.  Nay ;  but  I  must  detain  ye  till  I  ask — 

Miriam.  Detain  us  if  thou  wilt.     But  look— 

Piso.  At  what] 

Miriam.  There,  through  yon  western  arch !  the 

moon  sinks  low. 

The  mists  already  tinge  her  orb  with  blood. 
Methinks  I  feel  the  breeze  of  morn  e'en  now. 
Know'st  thou  the  hour  ! 

Piso.  I  do :  but  one  thing  more 
I  fain  would  know ;  for,  after  this  wild  night, 
Let  me  no  more  behold  you.     Why  didst  thou. 
Bold,  dark-hair'd  boy,  wear  in  those  pleading  eyes, 
When  thou  didst  name  thy  boon,  an  earnest  look 


358 


LOUISA   J.   HALL. 


That  fell  familiar  on  my  soul !     And  thou, 
The  lofty  calm,  and,  0  !  most  beautiful ! 
Why  are  not  only  that  soul-searching  glance, 
But  e'en  thy  features  and  thy  silver  voice 
So  like  to  hers  I  loved  long  years  ago, 
Beneath  Judea's  palms  ?     Whence  do  ye  come  ? 

Miriam.  For  me,  I  bear  my  own  dear  mother's 
Her  eye,  her  form,  her  very  voice  are  mine,  [brow ; 
So,  in  his  tears,  my  father  oft  hath  said. 
We  lived  beneath  Judea's  shady  palms, 
Until  that  saint-like  mother  faded,  droop'd, 
And  died.     Then  hither  came  we  o'er  the  waves, 
And  till  this  night  have  worshipp'd  faithfully 
The  one,  true,  living  God,  in  secret  peace. 

Piso.  Thou  art  her  child !     I  could  not  harm 
thee  now. 

0  wonderful !  that  things  so  long  forgot — 

A  love  I  thought  so  crush'd  and  trodden  down, 
E'en  by  the  iron  tread  of  passion  wild — 
Ambition,  pride,  and,  worst  of  all,  revenge — 
Revenge,  that  hath  shed  seas  of  Christian  blood ! 
To  think  this  heart  was  once  so  waxen  soft, 
And  then  congeal'd  so  hard,  that  naught  of  all 
Which  hath  been  since  could  ever  have  the  power 
To  wear  away  the  image  of  that  girl — 
That  fair,  young  Christian  girl !  'T  was  a  wild  love ! 
But  I  was  young,  a  soldiex  in  strange  lands, 
And  she,  in  very  gentleness,  said  nay 
So  timidly,  I  hoped — until,  ye  gods ! 
She  loved  another !     Yet  I  slew  him  not ! 

1  fled  !     0,  had  I  met  him  since ! 

Euphas.  Sister ! 
The  hours  wear  on. 

Piso.  Ye  shall  go  forth  in  joy — 
And  take  with  you  yon  prisoners.     Send  my  son, 
Him  whom  she  did  not  bear — home  to  these  arms, 
And  go  ye  out  of  Rome  with  all  your  train. 
I  will  shed  blood  no  more ;  for  I  have  known 
What  sort  of  peace  deep-glutted  vengeance  brings. 
My  son  is  brave,  but  of  a  gentler  mind 
Than  I  have  been.     His  eyes  shall  never  more 
Be  grieved  with  sight  of  sinless  blood  pour'd  forth 
From  tortured  veins.     Go  forth,  ye  gentle  two ! 
Children  of  her  who  might  perhaps  have  pour'd 
Her  own  meek  spirit  o'er  my  nature  stern, 
Since  the  bare  image  of  her  buried  charms, 
Soft  gleaming  from  your  youthful  brows,  hath  power 
To  stir  my  spirit  thus !     But  go  ye  forth  ! 
Ye  leave  an  alter'd  and  a  milder  man 
Than  him  ye  sought.     Tell  PAULUS  this, 
To  quicken  his  young  steps. 

Miriam.  Now  may  the  peace 
That  follows  just  and  worthy  deeds  be  thine ! 
And  may  deep  truths  be  born,  mid  thy  remorse, 
In  the  recesses  of  thy  soul,  to  make 
That  soul  e'en  yet  a  shrine  of  holiness.        [men, 

Euphas.  Piso !  how  shall  we  pass  yon  steelclad 
Keeping  stern  vigil  round  the  dungeon-gate ! 

Piso.  Take  ye  my  well-known  ring — and  here — 

the  list — 
Ay,  this  is  it,  methinks :  show  these — great  gods ! 

Euphas.  What  is  there  on  yon  scroll  which 
shakes  him  thus  ? 

Miriam.  A  name  at  which  he  points  with  stiff- 
ening hand, 

I  


And  eyeballs  full  of  wrath  !     Alas !  alas ! 

I  guess  too  well.     My  brother,  droop  thou  not. 

Piso.  Your  father,  did  ye  say  1    Was  it  his  life 
Ye  came  to  beg  1 

Miriam.  His  life  :  but  not  alone 
The  life  so  dear  to  us ;  for  he  hath  friends 
Sharing  his  fetters  and  his  final  doom. 

Piso.  Little  reck  I  of  them.    Tell  me  his  name ! 

[A  pause. 
Speak,  boy !  or  I  will  tear  thee  piecemeal ! 

Miriam.  Stay ! 

Stern  son  of  violence !  the  name  thou  askest 
Is — THRASF.NO  ! 

Piso.  Did  I  not  know  it,  girl  1 
Now,  by  the  gods  !  had  I  not  been  entranced, 
I  sooner  had  conjectured  this.     Foul  name ! 
Thus  do  I  tear  thee  out — and  even  thus 
Rend  with  my  teeth.     O,  rage !  she  wedded  him, 
And  ever  since  that  hated  name  hath  been 
The  voice  of  serpents  in  mine  ear!     But  now — 
Why  go  ye  not  ?     Here  is  your  list !  and  all, 
Ay,  every  one  whose  name  is  here  set  down, 
Will  my  good  guard  release  to  you ! 

Miriam.  Piso  !  »   . 

In  mercy  mock  us  not !  children  of  her 
Whom  thou  didst  love — 

Piso.  Ay,  maid  !  but  ye  are  his 
Whom  I  do  hate !     That  chord  is  broken  now — 
Its  music  hush'd  !     Is  she  not  in  her  grave, 
And  he  within  my  grasp  ? 

Miriam.  Where  is  thy  peace, 
Thy  penitence? 

Piso.  Fled  all ;  a  moonbeam  brief 
Upon  a  stormy  sea.     That  magic  name 
Hath  roused  the  wild,  loud  winds  again.    Begone ! 
Save  whom  ye  may. 

Miriam.  Piso  !  I  go  not  hence 
Until  my  father's  name  be  on  this  scroll. 

Piso.  Take  root,  then,  where  thou  art !  for,  by 
I  swear —  [dark  Styx, 

Miriam.  Nay,  swear  thou  not  till  I  am  heard. 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  son  7 

Piso.  No !  let  him  die, 
So  that  I  have  my  long-deferr'd  revenge ! 
Thy  lip  grows  pale !    Art  thou  not  answer'd  now! 

Miriam.  Deep  horrors  fall  upon  me !   Can  it  be, 
Such  demon  spirits  dwell  on  earth  7 

Piso.  Maiden! 

While  thou  art  safe,  go  hence;  for,  in  his  might, 
The  tiger  wakes  witlu'n  me  ! 

Miriam.  Be  it  so. 

He  can  but  rend  me  where  I  stand.     And  here, 
Living  or  dying,  will  I  raise  my  voice 
In  a  firm  hope !     The  Gon  that  brought  me  here 
Is  round  me  in  the  silent  air.     On  me 
Falleth  the  influence  of  an  unseen  Eye ! 
And,  in  the  strength  of  secret,  earnest  prayer, 
This  awful  consciousness  doth  nerve  my  frame. 
Thou  man  of  evil  and  ungovern'd  soul ! 
My  father  thou  mayst  slay  !     Flames  will  not  fall 
From  heaven  to  scorch  and  wither  thee !  The  earth 
Will  ope  not  underneath  thy  feet !  and  peace, 
Mock,  hollow,  seeming  peace,  may  shadow  still 
Thy  home  and  hearth !  But  deep  within  thy  breast 
A  fierce,  consuming  fire  shall  ever  dwell. 


LOUISA    J.   HALL. 


359 


Each  night  shall  ope  a  gulf  of  horrid  dreams 
To  swallow  up  thy  soul.     The  livelong  day 
That  soul  shall  yearn  for  peace  and  quietness, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 
And  know  that  even  in  death  is  no  repose ! 
And  this  shall  be  thy  life !     Then  a  dark  hour 
Will  surely  come — 

Piso.  Maiden,  be  warn'd !     All  this 
I  know.     It  moves  me  not. 

Miriam.  Nay,  one  thing  more 
Thou  knowest  not.     There  is  on  all  this  earth — 
Full  as  it  is  of  young  and  gentle  hearts — 
One  man  alone  that  loves  a  wretch  like  thee : 
And  he,  thou  sayst,  must  die !     All  other  eyes 
Do  greet  thee  with  a  cold  or  wrathful  look, 
Or,  in  the  baseness  of  their  fear,  shun  thine ; 
And  he  whose  loving  glance  alone  spake  peace, 
Thou  sayst  must  die  in  youth !    Thou  know'st  not 
The  deep  and  bitter  sense  of  loneliness,  [yet 

The  throes  and  achings  of  a  childless  heart, 
Which  yet  will  all  be  thine !    Thou  know'st  not  yet 
What  'tis  to  wander  mid  thy  spacious  halls, 
And  find  them  desolate  !  wildly  to  start 
From  thy  deep  musings  at  the  distant  sound 
Of  voice  or  step  like  his,  and  sink  back  sick — 
Ay !  sick  at  heart — with  dark  remembrances ! 
When,  in  his  bright  and  joyous  infancy, 
His  laughing  eyes  amid  thick  curls  sought  thine, 
And  his  soft  arms  were  twined  around  thy  neck, 
And  his  twin  rosebud  lips  just  lisp'd  thy  name — 
Yet  feel  in  agony  'tis  but  a  dream  ! 
Thou  know'st  not  yet  what  'tis  to  lead  the  van 
Of  armies  hurrying  on  to  victory, 
Yet,  in  the  pomp  and  glory  of  that  hour, 
Sadly  to  miss  the  well-known  snowy  plume, 
Whereon  thine  eyes  were  ever  proudly  fix'd 
In  battle-field !  to  sit,  at  deep  midnight, 
Alone  within  thy  tent,  all  shuddering, 
When,  as  the  curtain'd  door  lets  in  the  breeze, 
Thy  fancy  conjures  up  the  gleaming  arms 
And  bright,  young  hero-face  of  him  who  once 
Had  been  most  welcome  there !  and,  worst  of  all — 

Piso.  It  is  enough  !     The  gift  of  prophecy 
Is  on  thee,  maid !     A  power  that  is  not  thine 
Looks  out  from  that  dilated,  awful  form — 
Those  eyes,  deep-flashing  with  unearthly  light — 
And  stills  my  soul.     My  PAULUS  must  not  die ! 
And  yet,  to  give  up  thus  the  boon — 

Miriam.  What  boon  ? 

A  boon  of  blood  ?     To  him,  the  good,  old  man, 
Death  is  not  terrible,  but  only  seems 
A  dark,  short  passage  to  a  land  of  light, 
Where,  mid  high  ecstasy,  he  shall  behold 
The  unshrouded  glories  of  his  Maker's  face, 
And  learn  all  mysteries,  and  gaze  at  last 
Upon  the  ascended  prince,  and  never  more 
Know  grief  or  pain,  or  part  from  those  he  loves ! 
Yet  will  his  blood  cry^oudly  from  the  dust, 
And  bring  deep  vengeance  on  his  murderer  ! 

Piso.  My  PAULUS  must  not  die !  Let  me  revolve ; 
Maiden  !  thy  words  have  sunk  into  my  soul ; 
Yet  would  I  ponder  ere  I  thus  lay  down 
A  purpose  cherish'd  in  my  inmost  heart, 
That  which  hath  been  my  dream  by  night,  by  day 
My  life's  sole  aim.     Have  I  not  deeply  sworn, 


Long  years  ere  thou  wert  born,  that,  should  the  gods 
E'er  give  him  to  my  rage — and  yet  I  pause ! 
Shall  Christian  vipers  sting  mine  only  son, 
And  I  not  crush  them  into  nothingness  ? 
Am  I  so  pinion'd,  vain,  and  powerless  7 
Work,  busy  brain !  thy  cunning  must  not  fail. 

[Retires. 

PRAYER. 

WITHIX  these  mighty  walls  of  sceptred  Rome 
A  thousand  temples  rise  unto  her  gods, 
Bearing  their  lofty  domes  unto  the  skies,  [shrines 
Graced  with  the  proudest  pomp  of  earth;   their 
Glittering  with  gems,  their  stately  colonnades, 
Their  dreams  of  genius  wrought  into  bright  forms, 
Instinct  with  grace  and  godlike  majesty, 
Their  ever-smoking  altars,  white-robed  priests, 
And  all  the  pride  of  gorgeous  sacrifice,      [ascend 
And  yet  these  things  are  naught.     Rome's  prayers 
To  greet  the  unconscious  skies,  in  the  blue  void 
Lost  like  the  floating  breath  of  frankincense, 
And  find  no  hearing  or  acceptance  there. 
And  yet  there  is  an  Eye  that  ever  marks 
Where  its  own  people  pay  their  simple  vows, 
Though  to  the  rocks,  the  caves,  the  wilderness, 
Scourged  by  a  stern  and  ever-watchful  foe ! 
There  is  an  Ear  that  hears  the  voice  of  prayer 
Rising  from  lonely  spots  where  Christians  meet, 
Although  it  stir  not  more  the  sleeping  air 
Than  the  soft  waterfall,  or  forest-breeze. 
Think'st  thou,  my  father,  this  benignant  GOD 
Will  close  his  ear,  and  turn  in  wrath  away 
From  the  poor,  sinful  creature  of  his  hand, 
Who  breathes  in  solitude  her  humble  prayer  7 
Think'st  thou  he  will  not  hear  me,  should  I  kneel 
Here  in  the  dust  beneath  his  starry  sky, 
And  strive  to  raise  my  voiceless  thoughts  to  HIM, 
Making  an  altar  of  my  broken  heart  1 

MIRIAM  TO  PAULUS. 
EVER  from  that  hour,  when  first 
My  spirit  knew  that  time  was  wholly  lost, 
And  to  its  superstitions  wedded  fast, 
Shrouded  in  darkness,  blind  to  every  beam 
Streaming  from  Zion's  hill  athwart  the  night 
That  broods  in  horror  o'er  a  heathen  world, 
E'en  from  that  hour  my  shuddering  soul  beheld 
A  dark  and  fathomless  abyss  yawn  wide 
Between  us  two !  and  o'er  it  gleam'd  alone 
One  pale,  dim-twinkling  star !  the  lingering  hope 
That  grace,  descending  from  the  Throne  of  Light, 
Might  fall  in  gentle  dews  upon  that  heart, 
And  melt  it  into  humble  piety. 
Alas !  that  hope  hath  faded  !  and  I  see 
The  fatal  gulf  of  separation  still 
Between  us,  love,  and  stretching  on  for  aye 
Beyond  the  grave,  in  which  I  feel  that  soon 
This  clay  with  all  its  sorrows  shall  lie  down. 
Union  for  us  is  none,  in  yonder  sky : 
Then  how  on  earth? — so  in  my  inmost  soul, 
Nurtured  with  midnight  tears,  with  blighted  hopes, 
With  silent  watchings  and  incessant  prayers, 
A  holy  resolution  hath  ta'en  root, 
And  in  its  might  at  last  springs  proudly  up. 
We  part,  my  PAITLTJS  !  not  in  hate,  but  love, 
Yielding  unto  a  stern  necessity. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


[Bom  about  1807.] 


Mns.  EMBURY  is  a  daughter  of  Dr.  MANI.EY,  of 
New  York,  and  the  wife  of  Mr.  DANIEL  EMBCHT, 
a  gentleman  of  large  acquirements,  and  liberal  for- 
tune, who  resides  in  Brooklyn.  Her  native  inte- 
rest in  literature  was  manifested  by  an  early  ap- 
preciation of  the  works  of  genius,  and  her  poetical 
talents  were  soon  recognised  and  admired.  Under 
the  signature  of  "  lanthe,"  she  gave  to  the  public 
numerous  effusions,  which  were  distinguished  for 
vigour  of  language  and  genuine  depth  of  feeling. 
A  volume  of  these  youthful,  but  most  promising 
efforts,  was  selected  and  published,  under  the  title 
of"  Guido  and  other  Poems."  Since  her  marriage, 
she  has  given  to  the  public  more  prose  than  verse, 
but  the  former  is  characterized  by  the  same  roman- 
tic spirit  which  is  the  essential  beauty  of  poetry. 


AUTUMN  EVENING. 
"And  ISAAC  went  out  in  the  field  to  meditate  at  eventide." 

Go  forth  at  morning's  birth, 
When  the  glad  sun,  exulting  in  his  might, 
Comes  from  the  dusky-curtain'd  tents  of  night, 

Shedding  his  gifts  of  beauty  o'er  the  earth ; 
When  sounds  of  busy  life  are  on  the  air, 
And  man  awakes  to  labour  and  to  care, 
Then  hie  thee  forth :  go  out  amid  thy  kind, 
Thy  daily  tasks  to  do,  thy  harvest-sheaves  to  bind. 

Go  forth  at  noontide  hour, 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 
Pursue  the  labours  of  thine  onward  way, 

Nor  murmur  if  thou  miss  life's  morning  flower ; 
Where'er  the  footsteps  of  mankind  are  found 
Thou  mayst  discern  some  spot  of  hallow'd  ground, 
Where  duty  blossoms  even  as  the  rose, 
Though  sharp  and  stinging  thorns  the  beauteous 
bud  enclose. 

Go  forth  at  eventide, 

When  sounds  of  toil  no  more  the  soft  air  fill, 
When  e'en  the  hum  of  insect  life  is  still, 

And  the  bird's  song  on  evening's  breeze  has  died; 
Go  forth,  as  did  the  patriarch  of  old,  [told, 

And  commune  with  thy  heart's  deep  thoughts  un- 
Fathom  thy  spirit's  hidden  depths,  and  learn 
The  mysteries  of  life,  the  fires  that  inly  burn. 

Go  forth  at  eventide, 
The  eventide  of  summer,  when  the  trees 
Yield  their  frail  honours  to  the  passing  breeze, 

And  woodland  paths  with  autumn  tints  are  dyed; 
When  the  mild  sun  his  paling  lustre  shrouds 
In  gorgeous  draperies  of  golden  clouds, 
Then  wander  forth,  mid  beauty  and  decay, 
To  meditate  alone, — alone  to  watch  and  pray. 


Many  of  her  tales  are  founded  upon  a  just  obser- 
vation of  life,  although  not  a  few  are  equally  re- 
markable for  attractive  invention.  In  point  of 
style,  they  often  possess  the  merit  of  graceful  and 
pointed  diction,  and  the  lessons  they  inculcate  are 
invariably  of  a  pure  moral  tendency.  "  The  Blind 
Girl,"  is,  perhaps,  better  known  than  any  other  of 
her  single  productions.  In  1 845  she  published  in 
a  beautiful  quarto  volume,  with  pictorial  illustra- 
tions, "  Nature's  Gems,  or  American  Wild  Flow- 
ers," and  in  1846  a  collection  of  graceful  poems 
under  the  title  of  «  Love's  Token  Flowers." 

A  complete  edition  of  Mrs.  EMBURY'S  various 
writings  would  fill  many  volumes,  and  would  ex- 
hibit throughout  true  cultivation  and  much  refine- 
ment of  taste  and  feeling. 


Go  forth  at  eventide, 

Commune  with  thine  own  bosom,  and  be  still, — 
Check  the  wild  impulses  of  wayward  will, 

And  learn  the  nothingness  of  human  pride ; 
Morn  is  the  time  to  act,  noon  to  endure; 
But,  O  !  if  thou  wouldst  keep  thy  spirit  pure, 
Turn  from  the  beaten  path  by  worldlings  trod, 
Go  forth  at  eventide,  in  heart  to  walk  with  GOD. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAMENT. 

O !  roii  one  draught  of  those  sweet  waters  now 

That  shed  such  freshness  o'er  my  early  life! 
0 !  that  I  could  but  bathe  my  fever'd  brow 

To  wash  away  the  dust  of  worldly  strife ! 
And  be  a  simple-hearted  child  once  more, 
As  if  I  ne'er  had  known  this  world's  pernicious  lore ! 

My  heart  is  weary,  and  my  spirit  pants 

Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day; 
Would  that  I  could  regain  those  shady  haunts, 
Where  once,  with  Hope,  I  dream'd  the  hours 

away, 

Giving  my  thoughts  to  tales  of  old  romance, 
And  yielding  up  my  soul  to  youth's  delicious  trance ! 

Vain  are  such  wishes  !     I  no  more  may  tread 
With  lingering  step  and  slow  the  green  hill-side; 

Before  me  now  life's  shortening  path  is  spread, 
And  I  must  onward,  whatsoe'er  betide ; 

The  pleasant  nooks  of  y^ith  are  pass'd  for  aye, 
And  sober  scenes  now  meet  the  traveller  on  his  way. 

Alas !  the  dust  which  clogs  my  weary  feet 

Glitters  with  fragments  of  each  ruin'd  shrine, 
Where  once  my  spirit  worshipp'd,when,with  sweet 

And  passionless  devotion,  it  could  twine 
Its  strong  affections  round  earth's  earthliest  things, 
Yet  bear  away  no  stain  upon  its  snowy  wings. 

3GO 


EMMA   C.    EMBURY. 


361 


What  though  some  flowers  have  'scaped  the  tem- 
pest's wrath '! 

Daily  they  droop  by  nature's  swift  decay : 
What  though  the  setting  sun  still  lights  my  path  7 
Morn's  dewy  freshness  long  has  pass'd  away. 
0 !  give  me  back  life's  newly-budded  flowers, 
Let  me  once  more  inhale  the  breath  of  morning's 
hours ! 

My  youth!  my  youth! — 0,give  me  back  my  youth! 
Not  the  unfurrow'd  brow  and  blooming  cheek ; 
But  childhood's  sunny  thoughts,  its  perfect  truth, 
And  youth's  unworldly  feelings, — these  I  seek ; 
Ah,  who  could  e'er  be  sinless  and  yet  sage  7 
Would  that  I  might  forget  Time's  dark  and  blotted 
page! 

STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  REICHSTADT. 

HEIR  of  that  name 

Which  shook  with  sudden  terror  the  far  earth — 
Child  of  strange  destinies  e'en  from  thy  birth, 

When  kings  and  princes  round  thy  cradle  came, 
And  gave  their  crowns,  as  playthings,  to  thy  hand — 
Thine  heritage  the  spoils  of  many  a  land ! 

How  were  the  schemes 
Of  human  foresight  baffled  in  thy  fate, 
Thou  victim  of  a  parent's  lofty  state  ! 

What  glorious  visions  fill'd  thy  father's  dreams, 
When  first  he  gazed  upon  thy  infant  face, 
And  deem'd  himself  the  RODOLPH  of  his  race ! 

Scarce  had  thine  eyes 

Beheld  the  light  of  day,  when  thou  wert  bound 
With  power's  vain  symbols,  and  thy  young  brow 

crown'd 

With  Rome's  imperial  diadem : — the  prize 
From  priestly  princes  by  thy  proud  sire  won, 
To  deck  the  pillow  of  his  cradled  son. 

Yet  where  is  now 

The  sword  that  flash'd  as  with  a  meteor-light, 
And  led  on  half  the  world  to  stirring  fight ; 

Bidding  whole  seas  of  blood  and  carnage  flow  7 
Alas  !  when  foil'd  on  his  last  battle-plain, 
Its  shatter'd  fragments  forged  thy  father's  chain. 

Far  worse  thy  fate 

Than  that  which  doom'd  him  to  the  barren  rock ; 
Through  half  the  universe  was  felt  the  shock, 

When  down  he  toppled  from  his  high  estate ; 
And  the  proud  thought  of  still  acknowledged  power 
Could  cheer  him  e'en  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

But  thou,  poor  boy  ! 

Hadst  no  such  dreams  to  cheat  the  lagging  hours  ; 
Thy   chains    still    gall'd,   though  wreathed  with 

fairest  flowers ; 

Thou  hadst  no  images  of  by-gone  joy, 
No  visions  of  anticipated  fame, 
To  bear  thee  through  a  life  of  sloth  and  shame. 

And  where  was  she. 

Whose  proudest  title  was  NAPOLEON'S  wife  7 
She  who  first  gave,  and  should  have  watch'd  thy 
Trebling  a  mother's  tenderness  for  thee,       [life, 
Despoiled  heir  of  empire  7     On  her  breast 
Did  thy  young  head  repose  in  its  unrest  7 
40 


No !  round  her  heart 

Children  of  humbler,  happier  lineage  twined: 
Thou  couldst  but  bring  dark  memories  to  mind 
Of  pageants  where  she  bore  a  heartless  part ; 
She  who  shared  not  her  monarch-husband's  doom 
Cared  little  for  her  first-born's  living  tomb. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 

Child  of  Ambition's  martyr : — life  had  been 
To  thee  no  blessing,  but  a  dreary  scene 

Of  doubt  and  dread  and  suffering  at  the  best ; 
For  thou  wert  one  whose  path,  in  these  dark  times, 
Would  lead  to  sorrows — it  may  be  to  crimes. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 

The  idle  sword  hath  worn  its  sheath  away ; 
The  spirit  has  consumed  its  bonds  of  clay; 

And  they,  who  with  vain  tyranny  comprest 
Thy  soul's  high  yearnings,  now  forget  their  fear, 
And  fling  ambition's  purple  o'er  thy  bier ! 


PEACE. 

O  !  SEEK  her  not  in  marble  halls  of  pride, 
Where  gushing  fountains  fling  their  silver  tide, 

Their  wealth  of  freshness  toward  the  summer  sky; 
The  echoes  of  a  palace  are  too  loud, — 
They  but  give  back  the  footsteps  of  the  crowd 

That  throng  about  some  idol  throned  on  high, 
Whose  ermined  robe  and  pomp  of  rich  array 
But  serve  to  hide  the  false  one's  feet  of  clay. 

Nor  seek  her  form  in  poverty's  low  vale,        [pale, 
Where,  touch'd  by  want,  the  bright  cheek  waxes 

And  the  heart  faints,  with  sordid  cares  opprest, 
Where  pining  discontent  has  left  its  trace 
Deep  and  abiding  in  each  haggard  face.        [nest  : 

Not  there, — not  there  Peace  builds  her  halcyon 
Wild  revel  scares  her  from  wealth's  towering  dome, 
And  misery  frights  her  from  the  poor  man's  home. 

Nor  dwells  she  in  the  cloister,  where  the  sage 
Ponders  the  mystery  of  some  time-stain'd  page, 

Delving,  with  feeble  hand,  the  classic  mine ; 
O  !  who  can  tell  the  restless  hope  of  fame, 
The  bitter  yearnings  for  a  deathless  name,    [twine! 

That  round  the  student's  heart,  like  serpents, 
Ambition's  fever  burns  within  his  breast, 
Can  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  abide  with  such  a  guest 7 

Search  not  within  the  city's  crowded  mart, 
Where  the  low-whisper'd  music  of  the  heart 

Is  all  unheard  amid  the  clang  of  gold ; 
O  !  never  yet  did  Peace  her  chaplet  twine 
To  lay  upon  base  mammon's  sordid  shrine, 

Where  earth's  most  precious  things  are  bought 

and  sold ; 

Thrown  on  that  pile,  the  pearl  of  price  would  be 
Despised,  because  unfit  for  merchantry. 

Go  !  hie  thee  to  GOD'S  altar, — kneeling  there, 
List  to  the  mingled  voice  of  fervent  prayer 

That  swells  'around  thee  in  the  sacred  fane ; 
Or  catch  the  solemn  organ's  pealing  note, 
When  grateful  praises  on  the  still  air  float, 

And  the  freed  soul  forgets  earth's  heavy  chain , 
There  learn  that  Peace,  sweet  Peace  is  ever  found 
In  her  eternal  home,  on  holy  ground. 
2H 


362 


EMMA   C.  EMBURY. 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

THF.IIE  was  no  beauty  on  thy  brow, 

No  softness  in  thine  eye ; 
Thy  cheek  wore  not  the  rose's  glow, 

Thy  lip  the  ruby's  dye; 
The  charms  that  make  a  woman's  pride 

Had  never  been  thine  own — 
For  Heaven  to  thee  those  gifts  denied 

In  which  earth's  bright  ones  shone. 

But  higher,  holier  spells  were  thine, 

For  mental  wealth  was  given, 
Till  thou  wert  as  a  sacred  shrine 

Where  men  might  worship  Heaven. 
Yes,  woman  as  thou  wert,  thy  word 

Could  make  the  tyrant  start, 
And  thy  tongue's  witchery  has  stirr'd 

Ambition's  iron  heart. 

The  charm  of  eloquence, — the  skill 

To  wake  each  secret  string, 
And  from  the  bosom's  chords,  at  will, 

Life's  mournful  music  bring ; 
The  o'ermastering  strength  of  mind,  which  sways 

The  haughty  and  the  free, 
Whose  might  earth's  mightiest  one  obeys, — 

These, — these  were  given  to  thee. 

Thou  hadst  a  prophet's  eye  to  pierce 

The  depths  of  man's  dark  soul, 
For  thou  couldst  tell  of  passions  fierce 

O'er  which  its  wild  waves  roll ; 
And  all  too  deeply  hadst  thou  learn'd 

The  lore  of  woman's  heart, — 
The  thoughts  in  thine  own  breast  that  burn'd 

Taught  thee  that  mournful  part. 

Thine  never  was  a  woman's  dower 

Of  tenderness  and  love, 
Thou,  who  couldst  chain  the  eagle's  power, 

Couldst  never  tame  the  dove ; 
O  !  Love  is  not  for  such  as  thee : 

The  gentle  and  the  mild, 
The  beautiful  thus  blest  may  be, 

But  never  Fame's  proud  child. 

When  mid  the  halls  of  state,  alone, 

In  queenly  pride  of  place, 
The  majesty  of  mind  thy  throne, 

Thy  sceptre  mental  grace ; 
Then  was  thy  glory  felt,  and  thou 

Didst  triumph  in  that  hour 
When  men  could  turn  from  beauty's  brow 

In  tribute  to  thy  power. 

And  yet  a  woman's  heart  was  thine, 

No  dream  of  fame  could  fill 
The  bosom  which  must  vainly  pine 

For  sweet  Affection  still ; 
And,  0  !  what  pangs  thy  spirit  wrung 

E'en  in  thine  hour  of  pride, 
When  all  could  list  Love's  wooing  tongue 

Save  thee,  bright  Glory's  bride. 


COHINNA  !  thine  own  hand  has  traced 

Thy  melancholy  fate, 
Though  by  earth's  noblest  triumphs  graced, 

Bliss  waits  not  on  the  great : 
Only  in  lowly  places  sleep 

Life's  flowers  of  sweet  perfume, 
And  they  who  climb  Fame's  mountain-steep 

Must  mourn  their  own  high  doom. 

BALLAD. 


THE  maiden  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

Her  heart  was  light  and  free, 
And  ever  in  cheerful  song  broke  forth 

Her  bosom's  harmless  glee. 
Her  song  was  in  mockery  of  Love, 

And  oft  I  heard  her  say, 
"The  gather'd  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

I  look'd  on  the  maiden's  rosy  cheek, 

And  her  lip  so  full  and  bright, 
And  I  sigh'd  to  think  that  the  traitor,  Love, 

Should  conquer  a  heart  so  light : 
But  she  thought  not  of  future  days  of  wo, 

While  she  caroll'd  in  tones  so  gay; 
"The  gather'd  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

A  year  pass'd  on,  and  again  I  stood 

By  the  humble  cottage-door ; 
The  maid  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

But  her  look  was  blithe  no  more ; 
The  big  tear  stood  in  her  downcast  eye, 

And  with  sighs  I  heard  her  say, 
"  The  gather'd  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

0  !  well  I  knew  what  had  dimm'd  her  eye, 

And  made  her  cheek  so  pale ; 
The  maid  had  forgotten  her  early  song, 

While  she  listen'd  to  Love's  soft  tale. 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  his  poison'd  cup, 

It  had  wasted  her  life  away : 
And  the  stolen  heart,  like  the  gather'd  rose, 

Had  charm'd  but  for  a  day. 

SONNET. 

HE  who  has  travell'd  through  some  weary  day, 

And  reach'd  at  summer  eve  a  green  hill-side, 
Whence  he  can  see,  now  veil'd  in  twilight  gray, 

The  dreary  path  through  which  he  lately  hied, 
While  o'er  his  onward  road  the  setting  sun 

Sheds  its  sweet  beam  on  every  wayside  flower ; 
Forgets  his  labours  ere  the  goal  be  won, 

And  in  his  heart  enjoys  the  quiet  hour  : 
Father  and  mother, — be  it  so  with  you ! 

While  memory's  pleasant  twilight  shades  be  past, 
May  hope  illume  the  way  ye  still  pursue, 

And  each  new  scene  seem  brighter  than  the  last; 
Thus,  wending  on  toward  sunset,  may  ye  find 
Life's  lengthening  shadows  ever  cast  behind. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 


[Bora,  1808.1 


THE  ancestors  of  MR.  WHITTIER  settled  at  an 
early  period  in  the  town  of  Haverhill,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Merrimack  River,  in  Massachusetts. 
They  were  Quakers,  and  some  of  them  suffered 
from  the  "sharp  laws"  which  the  fierce  Independ- 
ents enacted  against  those  "  devil-driven  heretics," 
as  they  are  styled  in  the  « Magnalia"  of  COTTOX 
MATHER.  The  poet  was  born  in  the  year  1808, 
on  a  spot  inhabited  by  his  family  during  four  or 
five  generations ;  and  until  he  was  eighteen  years 
of  age,  his  time  was  chiefly  passed  in  the  district 
schools,  and  in  aiding  his  father  on  the  farm.  His 
nineteenth  year  was  spent  in  a  Latin  school,  and 
in  1828  he  went  to  Boston  to  conduct  "The 
American  Manufacturer,"  a  gazette  established  to 
advocate  a  protective  tariff.  He  had  previously 
won  some  reputation  as  a  writer  by  various  con- 
tributions, in  prose  and  verse,  to  the  newspapers 
printed  in  his  native  town  and  in  Newburyport, 
and  the  ability  with  which  he  managed  the  "Ma- 
nufacturer," now  made  his  name  familiar  through- 
out the  country.  In  1830  he  went  to  Hartford, 
in  Connecticut,  to  take  charge  of  the  "  New  Eng- 
land Weekly  Review."  He  remained  here  about 
two  years,  during  which  he  was  an  ardent  politi- 
cian, of  what  was  then  called  the  National  Re- 
publican party,  and  devoted  but  little  attention  to 
literature.  He  published,  however,  in  this  period 
his  "Legends  of  New  England,"  a  collection  of 
poems  and  prose  sketches,  founded  on  events  in 
the  early  history  of  the  country ;  wrote  the  memoir 
of  his  friend  BRAINARD,  prefixed  to  the  collection 
of  that  author  s  works  printed  in  1830;  and  several 
poems  which  appeared  in  the  "  Weekly  Review." 

In  1831  Mr.  WHITTIER  returned  to  Haverhill, 
where  he  was  five  or  six  years  engaged  in  agri- 
cultural pursuits.  He  represented  that  town  in  the 
legislature,  in  its  sessions  for  1835  and  1836,  and 
declined  a  reelection  in  1837.  His  longest  poem, 
"  Mogg  Megone,"  was  first  published  in  1836.  He 
regarded  the  story  of  the  hero  only  as  a  framework 
for  sketches  of  the  scenery  and  of  the  primitive 
settlers  of  Massachusetts  and  the  adjacent  states. 
In  portraying  the  Indian  character,  he  followed  as 
closely  as  was  practicable  the  rough  but  natural 
delineations  of  CHURCH,  MAYHEW,  CHARLEVOIX, 
and  ROOER  WILLIAMS,  discarding  much  of  the 
romance  which  more  modern  writers  have  thrown 
around  the  red-man's  life.  In  this,  as  in  the  fine 
ballad  of  "  Cassandra  Southwick,"  and  in  some 
of  his  prose  writings,  he  has  exhibited  in  a  very 
striking  manner  the  intolerant  spirit  of  the  Puri- 
tans. It  can  excite  no  surprise  that  a  New  Eng- 
land Quaker  refuses  to  join  in  the  applause  which 
it  is  the  custom  to  bestow  upon  the  persecutors  of 
his  ancestors.  But  our  poet,  by  a  very  natural 


exaggeration,  may  have  done  them  even  less  than 
justice. 

Impelled  by  that  hatred  of  every  species  of  op- 
pression which  perhaps  is  the  most  marked  of  his 
characteristics,  Mr.  WHITTIER  entered  at  an  early 
period  upon  the  discussion  of  the  abolition  ques- 
tion, and  since  the  year  1836,  when  he  was  elected 
one  of  the  secretaries  of  the  American  Anti-Sla- 
very Society,  he  has  been  among  the  most  promi- 
nent and  influential  advocates  of  immediate  eman- 
cipation. His  poems  on  this  subject  are  full  of 
indignant  and  nervous  remonstrance,  invective 
and  denunciation.  Very  few  in  this  country  ex- 
press themselves  with  uniform  freedom  and  sin- 
cerity. Nowhere  else  is  there  so  common  and 
degrading  a  servility.  We  have  therefore  com- 
paratively little  individuality,  and  of  course  less 
than  we  otherwise  should  have  that  is  original. 
Mr.  WHITTIER  rates  this  tyranny  of  public  opi- 
nion at  its  true  value.  Whatever  may  be  its  power 
he  despises  it.  He  gives  to  his  mind  and  heart 
their  true  voice.  His  simple,  direct  and  earnest 
appeals  have  produced  deep  and  lasting  impres- 
sions. Their  reception  has  happily  shown  that 
plain  and  unprejudiced  speech  is  not  less  likely 
to  be  heard  than  the  vapid  self-praise  and  weari- 
some iteration  of  inoffensive  commonplaces  with 
which  the  great  mass  of  those  who  address  the 
public  ply  the  drowsy  ears  of  the  hydra. 

Although  boldness  and  energy  are  WHITTIER'S 
leading  characteristics,  his  works  are  not  without 
passages  scarcely  less  distinguished  for  tenderness 
and  grace.  In  his  later  poems  his  style  is  more 
subdued  and  correct,  though  it  is  divested  of  none 
of  his  peculiar  freshness. 

Besides  his  «  Mogg  Megone,"  "  Ballads,"  «  Lays 
of  Home,"  "  Bridal  of  Pennacook,"  and  other  po- 
ems, he  has  written  the  "  Legends  of  New  Eng- 
land," before  mentioned,  "The  Stranger  in  Lowell," 
and  much  more  in  prose,  all  in  the  same  honest 
and  fearless  spirit  which  marks  his  verse. 

WHITTIEK  may  reasonably  be  styled  a  national 
poet  His  works  breathe  affection  for  and  faith  in 
our  republican  polity  and  unshackled  religion,  but 
an  affection  and  a  faith  that  do  not  blind  him  to 
our  weakness  or  wickedness.  He  dares  to  « tell 
the  world  it  lies."  He  is  of  that  class  of  authors 
whom  we  most  need  in  America  to  build  up  a  lite- 
rature that  shall  elevate  with  itself  the  national 
feeling  and  character. 

The  last  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  by 
Ticknor  &  Company,  of  Boston,  in  1844.  An 
edition  of  his  select  works  has  since  appeared  in 
London,  with  an  introduction  by  Mr.  WRIGHT, 
the  accomplished  translator  of  the  Fables  of  LA 

FONTAINE. 

363 


364 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   IX   THE   BOOK   OF   A   FRIEND. 

Ox  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 

The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace — 

A  statue's  fix'd  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  are  penn'd, 
Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 
That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend, 

Who,  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  laid 
Beneath  the  same  remember'd  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfetter'd  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness1? — 

O  !  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment,  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banish'd  name  from  fashion's  sphere — 
A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 
Forbid,  disown'd, — what  do  they  here  1 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  wo 
Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 
When  pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them  go. 

Spurn'd  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  in  the  "temples  of  the  Lord," 
Thrust  out  apart  like  things  abhorr'd. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong 

In  words  which  prudence  smother'd  long 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong. 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  sorrow's  cheek ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  reform ; 

To  brave  opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  hoary  error  down. 

Founts  gush'd  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  green  sward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray, 

And,  broad  and  bright  on  either  hand 
Stretch'd  the  green  slopes  of  fairy  land, 
With  hope's  eternal  sunbow  spann'd ; 


Whence  voices  call'd  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain ! — nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause, 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  batter'd  mail  of  freedom's  cause. 

From  youthful  hopes — from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  romance,  and  gentle  thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not. 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  love  requires  of  song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng, 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I  turn'd  to  freedom's  struggling  band — 
To  the  sad  helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn — 
Her  gifts  reclaim'd — her  smiles  withdrawn. 

What  matters  it ! — a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore  ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  "  better  land  ;" 

Alone  in  that  pure  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "  seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  heaven  and  virtue  true ; 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  folly's  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours, 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 
By  pride  and  self  profaned  not — 
A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought, 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  render'd  less 
"The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  won  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing, — 

Better  than  glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me — 
A  landmark  in  eternity  ! — 

Something  of  time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


365 


And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  head-stone  creep, 

If  still,  as  freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine, 

If  words  my  lips  once  utter'd  still 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil, 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 

These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 

The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn, — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering — 

No  flower-sraile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  youth's  fresh  May, 
With  fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human  kind — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppress'd  and  spoil'd  on  every  side, 
By  prejudice,  and  scorn,  and  pride ; 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied : 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first. 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  dark  alley's  noisome  gloom, — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute,  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy, 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine 

Where  love,  and  mirth,  and  friendship  twine 

Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


DEMOCRACY. 

OH,  fairest  born  of  love  and  light, 
Yet  bending  brow  and  eye  severe 

On  all  which  pains  the  holy  sight 
Or  wounds  the  pure  and  perfect  ear ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone 

Still  sacred — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  pluck'd  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 


Even  when  the  sons  of  lust  and  crime 
Had  stain'd  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For,  through  the  mists  that  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  freedom  burn — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  right  of  all  divine — • 

The  pitying  heart — the  helping  arm — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him ; 

As  stoop'd  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepell'd,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see'st  a  MAK 

In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through-all  disguise,  form,  place  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soil'd,  and  dim, 

The  crown  npon  his  forehead  set — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veil'd  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  cold  and  shallow  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art, 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrill'd,  warm'd  by  turns  the  listener's  heart. 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  lean'd  to  know, 
Proclaim'd  thy  message  from  on  high — 

Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  wo. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering: 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will — 
His  pledge  to  freedom  and  to  truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  its  generous  youth. 
2  ii  2 


366 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


RAPHAEL. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight: 
The  glow  of  autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 

The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy ; 
Yet  while  I  gazed  a  sense  of  awe 

Seem'd  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print : — the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmark'd  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 

I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 
It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 

The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissever'd  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  1 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanish'd — space 
Broad,  luminous,  remain'd  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  look'd  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  droop'd  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 

O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild ! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  child ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrow'd  from  her  own. 

Slow  pass'd  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard  and  sage, 
Even  in  earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 


We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colours  all  our  own, 
And  in  the  field  of  destiny 

We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The  shadows  which  it  gather'd  here, 

And  painted  on  the  eternal  wall 
The  past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died  ? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanish'd  from  his  side  ! 

Oh  no ! — we  live  our  life  again : 
Or  warmly  touch'd  or  coldly  dim 

The  pictures  of  the  past  remain, — 
Man's  works  shall  follow  him ! 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl 

With  step  as  soft  as  summer  air, 
And  fresh  young  lip  and  brow  of  pearl 
Shadow'd  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair: 
A  seeming  child  in  every  thing 

Save  thoughtful  brow,  and  ripening  charms, 
As  nature  wears  the  smile  of  spring 

When  sinking  into  summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bower, 
Leaf  after  leaf  serenely  bright 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower: 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening  chain 

Of  memory  at  the  thought  of  thee  ! — 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain, 
Old  dreams  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  lean'd  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than  they ! 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


367 


Ere  this  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seem'd  wise  in  thee. 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  pass'd  on,  and  left  their  trace 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought, 
On  life's  rough  blasts  for  blame  or  praise 

The  schoolboy's  name  has  widely  flown; 
Thine  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Our  still  diverging  thoughts  incline, 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Yorkshire  peasant's  simple  line. 
For  thee  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day  and  solemn  psalm, 
For  me  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  time  has  not  worn  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see 

Lingering  even  yet  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eye 

The  clouds  about  the  present  part, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lie 
Soft  hues  of  memory's  morning  sky — 

The  Indian  summer  of  the  heart, 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day 
Which  the  three  colours  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine : 
Now  midst  the  splendour 


Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 
Lovely  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft,  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell 
Touch'd  by  the  prophet's  spell 
Into  an  ocean's  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapt  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven: 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain  side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn, — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column ! 

Oh,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  ever  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  1 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt — 
New  voices  softly  chant — 

New  faces  greet  thee ! — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallow'd  by  poet's  line 
At  memory's  magic  sign 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken1? 

While  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountain's  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming: 


368 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDRA 
SOUTHWICK.* 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise 
to-day, 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  he  hath  pluck'd  the 
spoil  away, — 

Yea,  He  who  cool'd  the  furnace  around  the  faith- 
ful three, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  his  hand- 
maid free ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  pri- 
son bars, 

Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale 
gleam  of  stars; 

In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the 
long  night  time, 

My  grated  casement  whitened  with  Autumn's 
early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by ; 

Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown 
the  sky ; 

No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which 
seem'd  to  be 

The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the 

morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in 

my  sorrow, 
Dragg'd  to  thVir  place  of  market,  and  bargain'd 

for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from 

the  fold! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the   flesh  was   there — the 

shrinking  and  the  shame ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers 

to  me  came : 
"Why  sit'st   thou   thus  forlornly'?"  the  wicked 

murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy 

maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and 
sweet, 

Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  plea- 
sant street? 

Where  be  the  youths,  whose  glances  the  summer 
Sabbath  through 

Turn'd  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew  1 

*This  ballad  has  its  foundation  upon  a  somewhat  re- 
markable event  in  the  history  of  Puritan  intolerance. 
Two  young  persons,  son  and  daughter  of  Lawrence 
Southwick,  of  Salem,  who  had  himself  been  imprisoned 
and  deprived  of  all  his  property  for  having  entertained 
two  Quakers  at  his  house,  were  fined  ten  pounds  each 
for  non-attendance  at  church,  which  they  were  unable  to 
pay.  The  case  being  represented  to  the  Genernl  Court, 
at  Boston,  that  body  issued  an  order  which  may  slill  bo 
seen  on  the  court  records,  bearing  the  signature  of 
Edward  Rawson,  Secretary,  by  which  the  treasurer  of 
the  County  was  "  fully  empowered  to  sell  tlie  said  per- 
sons to  any  of  the  English  nation  at  f'irg-inia  or  Burba- 
does,  to  answer  said  fines."  An  attempt  was  made  to 
carry  this  barbarous  order  into  execution,  but  no  ship- 
master was  found  willing  to  convey  them  to  the  West 
Indies.  Vide  SEWALL'S  History,  pp.  225-0.  G.  BISHOP. 


«  Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra  ? — Bethink  thce 

with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm 

bright  hearth ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble,  on  foreheads 

white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee 
kind  words  are  spoken, 

Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laugh- 
ing boys  are  broken ; 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are 
laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  Autumn  the  youthful  hunt- 
ers braid. 

"  Oh !  weak,  deluded  maiden ! — by  crazy  fancies  led, 
With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread ; 
To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure 

and  sound ; 
And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-hair'd  and 

sackcloth-bound. 

"Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock    at 

things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and 

wine ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the 

pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in 

their  shame. 

«  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  ! — a  sadly  toiling 
slave, 

Dragging  the  slowly  length'ning  chain  of  bondage 
to  the  grave ! 

Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hope- 
less thrall, 

The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !'' 

Oh ! — ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Na- 
ture's fears 

Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavail- 
ing tears, 

I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in 
silent  prayer 

To  feel,  oh,  Helper  of  the  weak ! — that  Thou  in- 
deed wert  there ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 

And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison- 
shackles  fell, 

Till  I  seem'd  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe 
of  white, 

And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies ! — for  the  peace 
and  love  I  felt, 

Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit 
melt ; 

When,  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan !"  was  the  lan- 
guage of  my  heart, 

And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning ;  again  the  sun- 
shine fell, 

Fleck'd  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  rny 
lonely  cell; 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


369 


The  hoarfrost   melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward 

from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of 

passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was 

open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street 

I  pass'd ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared 

not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people 

gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burn'd  upon 
my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling 
limbs  grew  weak ; 

«  0  Lord !  support  thy  handmaid ;  and  from  her 
soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare — the  weak- 
ness and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scatter'd  like  a  cloud  in 
morning's  breeze, 

And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seem'd  whisper- 
ing words  like  these  : 

"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven 
a  brazen  wall, 

Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is 
over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit 

waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly 

wall  of  rock ; 
The  merchants-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear 

lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  net-work 

on  the  sky. 

And  there  were   ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapp'd 

and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed 

and  old, 

And  on  his  horse, with  Rawson,hiscruelclerkathand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready 
ear, 

The  priest  lean'd  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  a»d 
scoff  and  jeer; 

It  stirr'd  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of  si- 
lence broke, 

As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit 
spoke. 

cried,  "The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  sraiter  of  the 

meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the 

weak! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones — go  turn  the 

prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf 

amid  the  flock !" 

Dark  lower'd  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a 

deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of 

anger  spread ; 


«  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipp'd  priest, "  heed 

not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  master  speaks  within  her — the  Devil  owns  hia 

child !" 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the 

while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have 

made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood 

bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff  turning 
said: 

"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Qua- 
ker maid  ] 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian 
girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and   silent  stood  the  captains;    and  when 

again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen !" — no  voice  or 

sign  replied; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand .  press  my  own,  and  kind 

words  met  my  ear : 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl 

and  dear !" 

A  weight  seem'd  lifted  from  my  heart, — a  pitying 

friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his 

eye; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so 

kind  to  me, 
Growl'd  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of 

the  sea : 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver — pack  with 

coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of 

her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me ! — I  would  sooner 

in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child 

away !" 

"  Well  answer'd,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their 
cruel  laws !" 

Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  peo- 
ple's just  applause. 

«  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 

Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  sil- 
ver sold?" 

I  look'd  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half 
way  drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate 
and  scorn ; 

Fiercely,  he  drew  his  bridle  rein,  and  turn'd  in  si- 
lence back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  mur- 
muring in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the.  sheriff  look'd  in  bitterness  of 

soul ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crush'd 

his  parchment  roll. 


370 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


«  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the 

ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well 

released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept 

round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me 

go  my  way ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of 

the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had   turn'd  the 

hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seem'd  changed 

beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of 

the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and 

woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of 

the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life! — to  Him  all 

praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his 

handmaid  free ; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty 

are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the 

poor  is  laid ! 

Sing,  oh,  my  soul,  rejoicingly ;  on  evening's  twi- 
light calm  i 

Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving — pour  forth  the  grate- 
ful psalm; 

Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the 
saints  of  old, 

When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter 
told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men 

of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud  and  lay  His  hand 

upon  the  strong. 

Wo  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour ! 
Wo  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and 

devour : 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise, — the  poor  in  heart 

be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of 

praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cool'd  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the 

stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save ! 


NEW   ENGLAND. 

LAND  of  the  forest  and  the  rock — 

Of  dark-blue  lake  and  mighty  river — 
Of  mountains  rear'd  aloft  to  mock 
The  storm's  career,  the  lightning's  shock — , 

My  own  green  land  for  ever ! 
Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave — 
The  freeman's  home — the  martyr's  grave — 


The  nursery  of  giant  men," 

Whose  deeds  have  link'd  with  every  glen, 

And  every  hill,  and  every  stream, 

The  romance  of  some  warrior-dream ! 

Oh !  never  may  a  son  of  thine, 

Where'er  his  wandering  steps  incline, 

Forget  the  sky  which  bent  above 

His  childhood  like  a  dream  of  love, 

The  stream  beneath  the  green  hill  flowing, 

The  broad-arm'd  trees  above  it  growing, 

The  clear  breeze  through  the  foliage  blowing ; 

Or  hear,  unmoved,  the  taunt  of  scorn 

Breathed  o'er  the  brave  New  England  born ; 

Or  mark  the  stranger's  jaguar-hand 

Disturb  the  ashes  of  thy  dead, 
The  buried  glory  of  a  land 

Whose  soil  with  noble  blood  is  red, 
And  sanctified  in  every  part, — 

Nor  feel  resentment,  like  a  brand, 
Unsheathing  from  his  fiery  heart  ! 

Oh !  greener  hills  may  catch  the  sun 

Beneath  the  glorious  heaven  of  France; 
And  streams,  rejoicing  as  they  run 

Like  life  beneath  the  day-beam's  glance, 
May  wander  where  the  orange-bough 
With  golden  fruit  is  bending  low ; 
And  there  may  bend  a  brighter  sky 
O'er  green  and  classic  Italy — 
And  pillar'd  fane  and  ancient  grave 

Bear  record  of  another  time, 
And  over  shaft  and  architrave 

The  green,  luxuriant  ivy  climb; 
And  far  toward  the  rising  sun 

The  palm  may  shake  its  leaves  on  high, 
Where  flowers  are  opening,  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  upon  the  twilight  sky; 
And  breezes  soft  as  sighs  of  love 

Above  the  broad  banana  stray, 
And  through  the  Brahmin's  sacred  grove 

A  thousand  bright-hued  pinions  play  ! 
Yet  unto  thee,  New  England,  still 

Thy  wandering  sons  shall  stretch  their  arms, 
And  thy  rude  chart  of  rock  and  hill 

Seem  dearer  than  the  land  of  palms; 
Thy  massy  oak  and  mountain-pine 

More  welcome  than  the  banyan's  shade 
And  every  free,  blue  stream  of  thine 

Seem  richer  than  the  golden  bed 
Of  oriental  waves,  which  glow 
And  sparkle  with  the  wealth  below ! 


THE   FEMALE    MARTYR.* 

«  Bring  out  your  dead!"  the  midnight  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  Kasty  feet ; 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet, 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What !  only  one !"  the  brutal  hackman  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurn'd  away  the  dead. 

*  MARY  G ,  aged  18,  a  "  Sister  of  Charity,"  died  in 

one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  prevalence  of  the 
Indian  Cholera.vvhile  in  voluntary  attendance  on  the  sick. 


JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 


371 


How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  roll'd  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall ! 
The  dying  turn'd  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die ! 

Onward  it  roll'd  ;  while  oft  the  driver  stay'd, 
And  hoarsely  clamour'd,  "Ho!  bring  out  your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place : 

"Toss  in  your  load!"  and  it  was  done. 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 

Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 
They  cast  them,  one  by  one — 

Stranger  and  friend — the  evil  and  the  just, 

Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust. 

And  thou,  young  martyr !  thou  wast  there : 

No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  GOD  ; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallow'd  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer,  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well, 
Enduring,  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown, 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  GOD  alone ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,  where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

0,  high-soul'd  martyr!  thou  wast  there," 

Inhaling  from  the  loathsome  air 
Poison  with  every  breath ; 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

From  the  wrung  dying  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapours,  damp,  confined, 

Hush'd  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, 

A  new  ELECTRA  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  humankind ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven ! 
How  turn'd  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given; 
And  the  o'erhovering  spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features,  a  deliverer's  smile ! 

A  blessed  task  !  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Ere  being's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 
Had  sealed  her  early  vow, 


Giving  to  GOD  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward ; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear: 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard 

The  joys  prepared,  the  promised  bliss  above, 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honours ;  thine 

Shall  time  unto  eternity  consign. 

Yea:  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 
And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall — 

The  herald's  pride  of  long  renown, 

The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown — 
Perishing  glories  all ! 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 

Shall  live  in  heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part ! 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 

HE  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  : 

You  may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields, 

And  the  brown  hill's  wither'd  brow. 
He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees, 

Where  their  pleasant  green  came  forth, 
And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes, 

Have  shaken  them  down  to  earth. 

He  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes 

From  the  frozen  Labrador : 
From  the  icy  bridge  or  the  northern  seas, 

Which  the  white  bear  wanders  o'er : 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice, 

And  the  luckless  forms  below, 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  atmosphere, 

Into  marble  statues  grow  ! 

He  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! 

And  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath, 

And  ring  to  the  skater's  heel ; 
And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks, 

Or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain, 

And  in  mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes ! 

Let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 
And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlour-fire 

His  evil  power  away ; 
And  gather  closer  the  circle  round, 

When  that  firelight  dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  fiend, 

As  his  sounding  wing  goes  by ! 


372 


JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON.' 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 

The  sacred  cypress  tree  about, 
And  from  the  wrinkled  brows  of  age 

Their  failing  eyes  look'd  out. 

Gray  age  and  sickness  waiting  there, 
Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day, 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded,  in  the  boughs  above, 

The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet  ;^ 

Unseen  of  them  the  island's  flowers 
Bloom'd  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crash'd  on  rock  and  hill, 

The  lightning  wrapp'd  them  like  a  cloud, — 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset  call — the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids — the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  1 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing, 
Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 

The  greenness  of  its  spring. 
O  !  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 

In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 
O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 

A  youthful  freshness  steal : 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head : 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 
Nor  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But  on  the  fainting  soul  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine: 

Shall  we  grow  weary  at  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay, — 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time, 
And  his  appointed  way  ? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  1 

Alas !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison-cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 
Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong; 

And  in  the  ear  of  pride  and  power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

*  IBN  BATUTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  traveller  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a  cypress  tree  in  Cey- 
lon, universally  held  sacred  by  the  inhabitants,  the  leaves 
of  which  were  said  to  fall  only  at  long  and  uncertain  pe- 
riods ;  and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and  eat  one 
of  them  was  restored  at  once  to  youth  and  vigour.  The 
traveller  saw  several  venerable  Jogees,  or  saints,  sitting 
silent  under  the  tree,  patiently  waiting  the  fall  of  a  leaf. 


Easier  to  smite  with  PETEII'S  sword, 

Than  "watch  one  hour"  in  humbling  prayer; 

Life's  "great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord, 
Our  souls  can  do  and  dare. 

But,  O,  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save ; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  hanks, 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

0  !  Thou  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumber'd  in  that  fearful  hour, 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain : 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 
And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  Watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  thee ! 


THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE.* 


THE  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

As  'twere  a  living  thing; 
The  homage  of  its  waves  is  given 

In  ceaseless  worshipping. 

They  kneel  upon  the  sloping  sand, 

As  bends  the  human  knee, 
A  beautiful  and  tireless  band, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 

They  pour  the  glittering  treasures  out 
Which  in  the  deep  have  birth, 

And  chant  their  awful  hymns  about 
The  watching  hills  of  earth. 

The  green  earth  sends  its  incense  up 

From  every  mountain-shrine, 
From  every  flower  and  dewy  cup 

That  greeteth  the  sunshine. 

The  mists  are  lifted  from  the  rills, 
Like  the  white  wing  of  prayer ; 

They  lean  above  the  ancient  hills, 
As  doing  homage  there. 

The  forest-tops  are  lowly  cast 

O'er  breezy  hill  and  glen, 
As  if  a  prayerful  spirit  pass'd 

On  nature  as  on  men. 

The  clouds  weep  o'er  the  fallen  world, 

E'en  as  repentant  love ; 
Ere,  to  the  blessed  breeze  unfurl'd, 

They  fade  in  light  above. 

The  sky  is  as  a  temple's  arch, 

The  blue  and  wavy  air 
Is  glorious  with  the  spirit-march 

Of  messengers  at  prayer. 

The  gentle  moon,  the  kindling  sun, 

The  many  stars  are  given, 
As  shrines  to  burn  earth's  incense  on, 

The  altar-fires  of  Heaven  ! 

*  "  It  hath  beene  as  it  were  especially  rendered  unto  mee, 
and  made  plaine  and  legible  to  my  understandynge,  that 
a  great  worsliipp  is  going  on  among  the  thyngs  of  GOD." — 
GRALT. 


JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 


373 


THE  FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE 
SOKOKIS.* 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  upon  her  tardy  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 
And  odours  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch,  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scatter'd  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 
But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughter'd  chief,  of  this  1 
The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side : 
And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Group'd  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  April  air. 
With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coil'd  and  twisted  root. 
They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 
And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tassell'd  garb  of  skins  array'd, 
And  girdled  with  his  wampum-braid. 

*  POLAN,  a  chief  of  the  Sokokis  Indians,  the  original 
inhabitants  of  the  country  lying  between  A?amenticus 
art!  Casco  bay,  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  at  Windham,  on 
the  Sebaeo  lake,  in  the  spring  of  1756.  He  claimed  all 
the  lands  on  both  sides  of  the  Presumpscot  river  to  its 
mouth  at  Casco,  as  his  own.  He  was  shrewd,  subtle, 
and  brave.  After  the  white  men  had  retired,  the  sur- 
viving Indians  "swayed"  or  bent  down  a  young  tree 
until  its  roots  were  turned  up,  placed  the  body  of  their 
chief  beneath  them,  and  then  released  the  tree  to  spring 
back  to  its  former  position. 


The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  press'd 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarr'd  and  naked  breast.* 

'T  is  done :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen  tree  stands  up  unbent — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace ; 

O  !  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 
In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  under-tone  shall  make ! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lull'd  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  1 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  1 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild  flowers  flow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  press'd — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  bless'd  ? 
What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  !f 
Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 
There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peel'd,  and  hunted,  and  reviled  ! 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child ! 
And  Nature's  GOD,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon ; 
Who,  from  its  many  cumberings 
Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 
To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings ; 
Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan — 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man ! 

*  The  Sokokis  were  early  converts  to  the  Catholic 
faith.  Most  of  them,  prior  to  the  year  1756,  had  removed 
to  the  French  settlements  on  the  St.  Francois. 

•f  The  brutal  and  unchristian  spirit  of  the  early  settlers 
of  New  England  toward  the  red  man  is  strikingly  illus- 
trated in  the  conduct  of  the  man  who  shot  down  the  So- 
kokis chief.  He  used  to  say  he  always  noticed  the  anni- 
versary of  that  exploit,  as  "  the  day  on  which  he  sent 
the  devil  a  present."— WILLIAMSON'S  History  of  Maine. 
21 


374 


JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judea !  thrice  hallow'd  of  song, 
Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like  throng ; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy  sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  linger'd  before ; 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  GOD. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills ! — in  my  spirit  I  hear 
Thy  waters,  Gennesaret,  chime  on  my  ear ; 
Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat  down, 
And  thy  spray  on  the  dustof  His  sandalsvvas  thrown. 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O,  dark  Galilee ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley !  where,  swollen  and 
Thy  river,  O,  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along ;  [strong, 
Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  JEHOVAH  in  vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

There,  down  from  his  mountains  stern  ZKHULON 

came, 

And  NAPHTALI'S  stag,  with  his  eyeballs  of  flame, 
And  the  chariots  of  JABIIT  roll'd  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  LORD  was  ABINOAM'S  son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns  which 

rang 

To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around  and  the  valleys  between; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm  trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hasten'd  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  His  feet  ] 

I  tread  where  the  twelve  in  their  wayfaring  trod ; 
I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  chosen  of  GOD — 
Where  His  blessings  was  heard  and  his  lessons 

were  taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing 

was  wrought. 

O,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came — 
These  hills  HE  toil'd  over  in  grief,  are  the  same — 
The  founts  where  HE  drank  by  the  way-side  still 

flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breath'd  on 

his  brow ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet,  [feet ; 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefort)  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  GOD  1 


Were  my  spirit  but  tuned  from  the  outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  HIM  ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 
In  love  and  in  meekness,  HE  moved  among  men ; 
And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves 

of  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me  ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  HE  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  he  bow'd  him  to 

bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here; 
And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same  even  now, 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb,  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

O,  the  outward  hath  gone ! — but,  in  glory  and  power, 
The  Spirit  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same ! 


PENTUCKET.* 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-wall'd  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretch'd  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken'd  stumps  between ; 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravell'd  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  labourer  left  his  plough — 
The  milk-maid  caroll'd  by  her  cow — 


*  The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimack,  called  by 
the  Indians  Pentiicket,  was  for  nearly  seventy  years  a 
frontier  town,  and  during  thirty  years  endured  all  the 
horrors  of  savage  warfare.  In  the  year  1708,  a  combined 
body  of  French  and  Indians,  under  the  command  of  DB 
CHALLIONS,  and  HEHTEL  DE  ROUVILLE,  the  infamous  and 
bloody  Backer  of  Deerfield,  made  an  attack  upon  the  vil- 
lage, which,  at  that  time,  contained  only  thirty  houses. 
Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were  massacred,  and  a  still 
larger  number  made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy 
also  fell,  and  among  them  HERTEL  DE  ROUVILLE.  The 
minister  of  the  place,  BEXJAMIX  ROLFE,  was  killed  by  a 
shot  through  his  own  door. 


, 


JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 


375 


From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay. — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallow'd  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  pass'd  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hush'd  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound — 
No  bark  of  fox — no  rabbit's  bound — 
No  stir  of  wings — nor  waters  flowing — 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hill-side  beat! 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  1 — 
Charr'd  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  1 
No— through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glow'd, 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  show'd, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
W^ith  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress ! 

A  yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear, 
Swell'd  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear — 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock — 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot — and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men — 
Sunk  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
Over  dead  corse  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  look'd  brightly  through 
The  river-willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  fill'd  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard, — nor  gun-shot  there : 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke ; 
And  on  the  green  sward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head ! 

E'en  now,  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  ROLFE  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
DE  ROUVILLE'S  corse  lay  grim  and  bare — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear'd, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  S.  OLIVER 
TORREY,  OF  BOSTON. 

GOWE  before  us,  O,  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  oflfer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine  1 

O !  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  7 
Who,  amidst  the  solemn  meeting, 

Gaze  again  on  thee  1 — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou  ? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer-flowers ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair,  young  cheek ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

Such  as  HTLAS  wore — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  J  A/KTI  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine* — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be  1 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may  I 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

AH  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours  ! 

*  "O,  vine  of  Sibmah!  I  will  weep  for  thee  with  the 
weeping  of  JAZER  !" — Jeremiah  xlviii.  32. 


376 


JOHN   G.    WHITTIER. 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him — through  his  dungeon-grate, 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head — 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seam'd  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevell'd  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, — 

And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill : 
And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 

The  frequent  ague-thrill ! 
Silent — save  ever  and  anon, 
A  sound,  half-murmur  and  half-groan, 
Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip : 
O,  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chain'd  and  desolate  ! 

Just  GOD  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison-bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him  fierce  and  red ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  fibre  thrill  and  creep, 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson'd  with  murder,  touches  him ! 

What  has  the  gray-hair'd  prisoner  done? 

Has  murder  stain'd  his  hands  with  gore  ? 
Not  so :  his  crime 's  a  fouler  one : 

God  made  the  old  man  poor  ! 
For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell ! 
For  this — the  boon  for  which  he  pour'd 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost — 
His  blood-gain'd  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  pour'd  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars ! 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument*  uprear'd  to  thee— 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison-cell — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 

Shout  "  Freedom !"  till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle-shout  : 

Let  boasted  eloquence  declaim 

Of  honour,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 

Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 

With  "  glory"  for  each  second  word, 

*  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 


every  thing  with  breath  agree 
iraise  "our  glorious  liberty!" 


And 

To  praise 

And  when  the  patriot  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall — 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer! 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chain'd  of  limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  law  that  binds  him  thus ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  GOD  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prisoner's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code, 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  GOD  ! 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand ! 


THE  MERRIMACK. 

of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Pour'd  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And,  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There 's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  waten-mark ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 
Bow'd  to  the  freshening  ocean-gale ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbour-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale ; 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 
As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull,  continuous  wood, 
The  Merrimack  roll'd  down  his  flood ; 
Mingling  that  clear,  pellucid  brook 
Which  channels  vast  Agioochook — 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 
The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 


JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 


377 


And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  '  The  Smile  of  Heaven,' 
Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain  side — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
St.  GEORGE'S  crimson  cross  unroll'd. 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story ; 
Of  her — the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's  waters— 
,Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look !  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  distant  voice  of  twilight  bells. 
From  ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin 
The  mist  comes  slowly  rolling  in ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapour  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light  set 
Within  its  wave-wash'd  minaret, 
Half-quench'd,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 
Vale  of  my  fathers  ! — I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  roll'd  his  lordly  flood ; 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  palisade  ; 
Look'd  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
•  The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream ; 
The  setting  sun,  his  axle  red 
Quench  darkly  in  Potomac's  bed  ; 
The  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna  ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  look'd  back  to  thee ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore ; 
And  seen  amidst  the  curtain'd  gloom 
And  quiet  of  my  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  me  pass ; 
As,  in  ARUIPPA'S  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remember'd  groves  in  greenness  grew ; 
And  while  the  gazer  lean'd  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  old  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 
43 


ST.  JOHN.* 

«  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  I 

Bear  homeward  again !" 
Cried  the  lord  of  Acadia, 

Sir  CHARLES  of  Estienne ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  his  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Stream'd  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  pass'd, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour|  had  look'd 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 
The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remember'd  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell. 
But  the  men  of  Mouhegan,^ 

Of  Papists  abhorr'd, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  lord. 
They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

*  The  fierce  rivalship  of  the  two  French  officers,  left 
by  the  death  of  RAZILLA  in  the  possession  of  Acadia,  or 
Nova  Scotia,  forms  one  of  the  most  romantic  passages  in 
the  history  of  the  New  World.  CHARLES  ST.  ESTIENNE, 
inheriting  from  his  father  the  title  of  Lord  DE  LA  TOUR, 
whose  seat  was  at  the  month  of  the  St.  John's  river,  was 
a  Protestant ;  DE  AULNEY  CHARNISY,  whose  fortress  was 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Penobscot,  or  ancient  Pentagoet,  was 
a  Catholic.  The  incentives  of  a  false  religious  feeling, 
sectarian  intolerance,  and  personal  interest  and  ambi- 
tion, conspired  to  render  their  feud  bloody  and  unsparing. 
The  Catholic  was  urged  on  by  the  Jesuits,  who  had  found 
protection  from  Puritan  gallows-ropes  under  his  jurisdic- 
tion ;  the  Huguenot  still  smarted  under  the  recollection 
of  his  wrongs  and  persecutions  in  France.  Both  claimed 
to  be  champions  of  that  cross  from  which  went  upward 
the  holy  petition  of  the  Prince  of  Peace:  "Father,  forgive 
them."  LA  TOUR  received  aid  in  several  instances  from 
the  Puritan  colonies  of  Massachusetts.  During  one  of  his 
voyages  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  arms  and  provisions 
for  his  establishment  at  St.  John,  his  castle  was  attacked 
by  DE  AULNEY,  and  successfully  defended  by  its  high- 
spirited  mistress.  A  second  attack,  however,  followed 
in  the  4th  mo.,  1647.  Lady  LA  TOUR  defended  her  castle 
with  a  desperate  perseverance.  After  a  furious  cannon- 
ade, DE  AULNEY  stormed  the  walls,  and  put  the  entire 
garrison  to  the  sword.  Lady  LA  TOUR  languished  a  few 
days  only  in  the  hands  of  her  inveterate  enemy,  and  died 
of  grief,  greatly  regretted  by  the  colonists  of  Boston,  to 
whom,  as  a  devoted  Protestant,  she  was  well  known. 

t  The  settlement  of  the  Jesuits  on  the  island  of  Mount 
Desert  was  called  St.  Saviour. 

J  The  isle  of  Mouhegan  was  one  of  the  first  settled  on 
the  coast  of  Maine.  At  this  island  Captain  SMITH  ob- 
tained, jn  1614,  eleven  thousand  beaver  skins  and  forty 
thousand  dry  fish. 

2i2 


378 


JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 


And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  follow'd  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
O!  well  sped  LA  TOUK! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane  trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above?" 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

ST.  ESTIEITNE  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shatter'd  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thunder'd  no  gun ! 

But,  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

LA  TOUR  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fasten'd  his  hand. 

«  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman, 

Of  scarlet  and  sin! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within?" 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  the  men  of  DE  AULNEY, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moor'd  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"But  what  of  my  lady?" 

Cried  CHARLES  of  Estienne: 
«  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen. 


«  Half-veil'd  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasp'd  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  sway'd 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon ! 
But  wo  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  wo ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe ! 

« In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
DE  ACLNET  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

«  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross  and  the  lilies 

Float  over  St  John." 
"Let  the  dastard  look  to  it!" 

Cried  fiery  ESTIENNE, 
"Were  DE  ACLNET  King  Louis, 

I'd  free  her  again !" 

"Alas,  for  thy  lady! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  open'd  her  door !" 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

LA  TOCR  stagger'd  back ; 
His  hand  grasp'd  his  sword-belt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again : 
«  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance ! 

Give  way !"  cried  ESTIEXNE. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creek-side 

Her  fishers  shall  throng ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  its  Papists  have  done, 
When  its  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun !" 

O  !  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him: 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


ELIZABETH    OAKES    SMITH. 


[Bora,  1S09.] 


THE  author  of  "The  Sinless  Child,"  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  psychological  productions  in 
American  literature,  is  a  native  of  Portland  in  the 
state  of  Maine.  Descended  on  the  father's  side 
from  THOMAS  PRINCE,  one  of  the  early  Puritan 
governors  of  the  Plymouth  colony,  and  claiming 
through  the  OAKESES,  on  her  mother's  side,  the  same 
early  identification  with  the  first  European  plant- 
ers of  our  soil,  Mrs.  SMITH  may  readily  be  sup- 
posed to  have  that  characteristic  which  is  so  rarely 
found  among  us>  Americanism ;  and  her  writings 
in  their  department  may  be  regarded  as  the  genu- 
ine expression  of  an  American  mind. 

At  the  early  age  of  sixteen,  Miss  PRINCE  was 
married  to  Mr.  SEBA  SMITH,  at  that  time  editor 
of  the  leading  political  journal  of  his  native  state, 
and  since  then  well  known  to  his  countrymen  as 
the  original  "  Jack  Downing"  whose  great  popu- 
larity has  been  attested  by  a  score  of  imitators. 
The  embarrassed  affairs  of  Mr.  SMITH,  (who,  him- 
self a  poet,  partook  with  a  poet's  sanguineness 
of  temper  in  that  noted  attempt  to  settle  the  wild 
lands  of  Maine,  which  proved  so  disastrous  a 
speculation  to  some  of  the  wealthiest  families  of 
the  state,)  first  impelled  Mrs.  SMITH  to  take  up  her 
pen  to  aid  in  the  support  of  her  children.  She 
had  before  that  period,  indeed,  given  utterance 
to  her  poetic  sensibilities  in  several  anonymous 
pieces,  which  are  still  much  admired.  But  a 
shrinking  and  sensitive  modesty  forbade  her  ap- 
pearing as  an  author  ;  and  though,  in  her  altered 
circumstances,  when  she  found  that  her  talents 
might  be  made  available,  she  did  not  hesitate,  like 
a  true  woman,  to  sacrifice  feeling  to  duty,  yet 
some  of  her  most  beautiful  prose  writings  still 
continue  to  appear  under  Nommes  de  Plumes,  with 
which  her  truly  feminine  spirit  avoids  identifi- 
cation. 

Seeking  expression,  yet  shrinking  from  noto- 
riety ;  and  with  a  full  share  of  that  respect  for  a 
just  fame  and  appreciation  which  belongs  to  every 
high-toned  mind,  yet  oppressed  by  its  shadow 
when  circumstance  is  the  impelling  motive  of 
publication,  the  writings  of  Mrs.  SMITH  might 
well  be  supposed  to  betray  great  inequality  ;  still 
in  her  many  contributions  to  the  magazines,  it  is 
remarkable  how  few  of  her  pieces  display  the 
usual  carelessness  and  haste  of  magazine  articles. 
As  an  essayist  especially,  while  graceful  and  lively, 
she  is  compact  and  vigorous;  while  through 
poems,  essays,  tales,  and  criticisms,  (for  her  in- 
dustrious pen  seems  equally  skilful  and  happy  in 
each  of  these  departments  of  literature,)  through  all 
her  manifold  writings,  indeed,  there  runs  the  same 
beautiful  vein  of  philosophy,  viz :  That  Truth 
and  Goodness  of  themselves  impart  a  holy  light  to 


the  mind,  which  gives  it  a  power  far  above  mere 
intellectuality;  that  the  highest  order  of  human 
intelligence  springs  from  the  moral,  and  not  the 
reasoning  faculties. 

Mrs.  SMITH'S  most  popular  poem  is  « The 
Acorn,"  which,  though  inferior  in  high  inspira- 
tion to  «  The  Sinless  Child,"  is  by  many  preferred 
for  its  happy  play  of  fancy  and  proper  finish. 
Her  sonnets,  of  which  she  has  written  many,  have 
not  yet  been  as  much  admired  as  "The  April 
Rain,"  "  The  Brook,"  and  other  fugitive  pieces, 
which  we  find  in  many  popular  collections.  I 
doubt,  indeed,  whether  they  will  ever  attain  the 
popularity  of  these  "  unconsidered  trifles,"  though 
they  indicate  concentrated  poetical  power  of  a 
very  high,  possibly  of  the  very  highest  order. 
Not  so,  however,  with  "  The  Sinless  Child." 
Works  of  bad  taste  will  often  captivate  the  un- 
cultivated many ;  works  of  mere  taste  as  often  de- 
light the  uncultivated  few ;  but  works  of  genius 
appeal  to  the  universal  mind. 

The  simplicity  of  diction,  and  pervading  beauty 
and  elevation  of  thought,  which  are  the  chief 
characteristics  of  « The  Sinless  Child,"  bring  it 
undoubtedly  within  the  last  category.  And  why 
do  such  writings  seize  at  once  on  the  feelings  of 
every  class  1  Wherein  lies  this  power  of  genius 
to  wake  a  response  in  society  ]  Is  it  the  force  of 
a  high  will,  fusing  feeble  natures,  and  stamping 
them  for  the  moment  with  an  impress  of  its  own  1 
Oi  is  it  that  in  every  heart,  unless  thoroughly  cor- 
rupted by  the  world,  in  every  mind,  unless  com- 
pletely encrusted  by  cant,  there  lurks  an  inward 
sense  of  the  simple,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true ; 
an  instinctive  perception  of  excellence  which  is 
both  more  unerring  and  more  universal  than  that 
of  mere  intellect.  Such  is  the  cheering  view  of 
humanity  enforced  in  "  The  Sinless  Child,"  and 
the  reception  of  it  is  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the 
doctrine  it  so  finely  shadows  forth.  « It  is  a  work 
(says  a  discriminating  critic)  which  demands  more 
in  its  composition  than  mere  imagination  or  intel- 
lect could  supply ;"  and  I  may  add  that  the  writer, 
in  unconsciously  picturing  the  actual  graces  of  her 
own  mind,  has  made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  the 
ideal  of  soul-loveliness  in  the  minds  of  her  readers. 
She  comes  before  us  like  the  florist  in  Arabian 
story,  whose  magic  vase  produced  a  plant  of  such 
simple,  yet  perfect  beauty,  that  the  multitude  were 
in  raptures  from  the  familiar  field  associations  of 
childhood  which  it  called  forth,  while  the  skill  of 
the  learned  alone  detected  the  unique  rarity  of  the 
enchanting  flower. 

There  are  two  editions  of  the  poems  of  Mrs. 
SMITH,  the  last  and  most  complete  of  which  was 
published  by  Mr.  Redfield,  of  New  York,  in  1845. 

379 


380 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


THE  ACORN. 

Ax  acorn  fell  from  an  old  oak  tree, 

And  lay  on  the  frosty  ground — 
«  O,  what  shall  the  fate  of  the  acorn  be  1" 

Was  whisper'd  all  around, 
By  low-toned  voices,  chiming  sweet, 

Like  a  floweret's  bell  when  swung — 
And  grasshopper  steeds  were  gathering  fleet, 

And  the  beetle's  hoofs  up-rung — 

For  the  woodland  Fays  came  sweeping  past 

In  the  pale  autumnal  ray, 
Where  the  forest-leaves  were  falling  fast, 

And  the  acorn  quivering  lay ; 
They  came  to  tell  what  its  fate  should  be, 

Though  life  was  unreveal'd; 
For  life  is  holy  mystery, 

Where'er  it  is  conceal'd. 

They  came  with  gifts  that  should  life  bestow : 

The  dew  and  the  living  air — 
The  bane  that  should  work  its  deadly  wo — 

Was  found  with  the  Fairies  there. 
In  the  gray  moss-cup  was  the  mildew  brought, 

And  the  worm  in  a  rose-leaf  roll'd, 
And  many  things  with  destruction  fraught, 

That  its  fate  were  quickly  told. 

But  it  needed  not ;  for  a  blessed  fate 

Was  the  acorn's  doom'd  to  be — 
The  spirits  of  earth  should  its  birth-time  wait, 

And  watch  o'er  its  destiny. 
To  a  little  sprite  was  the  task  assign'd 

To  bury  the  acorn  deep, 
Away  from  the  frost  and  searching  wind, 

When  they  through  the  forest  sweep. 

I  laugh'd  outright  at  the  small  thing's  toil, 

As  he  bow'd  beneath  the  spade, 
And  he  balanced  his  gossamer  wings  the  while 

To  look  in  the  pit  he  made. 
A  thimble's  depth  it  was  scarcely  deep, 

When  the  spade  aside  he  threw, 
And  roll'd  the  acorn  away  to  sleep 

In  the  hush  of  dropping  dew. 

The  spring-time  came  with  its  fresh,  warm  air, 

And  its  gush  of  woodland  song ; 
The  dew  came  down,  and  the  rain  was  there, 

And  the  sunshine  rested  long : 
Then  softly  the  black  earth  turn'd  aside, 

The  old  leaf  arching  o'er, 
And  up,  where  the  last  year's  leaf  was  dried, 

Came  the  acorn-shell  once  more. 

With  coiled  stem,  and  a  pale  green  hue, 

It  look'd  but  a  feeble  thing ; 
Then  deeply  its  roots  abroad  it  threw, 

Its  strength  from  the  earth  to  bring. 
The  woodland  sprites  are  gathering  round, 

Rejoiced  that  the  task  is  done — 
That  another  life  from  the  noisome  ground 

Is  up  to  the  pleasant  sun. 

The  young  child  pass'd  with  a  careless  tread, 
And  the  germ  had  well-nigh  crush'd ; 

But  a  spider,  launch'd  on  her  airy  thread, 
The  cheek  of  the  stripling  brush'd. 


He  little  knew,  as  he  started  back, 
How  the  acorn's  fate  was  hung 

On  the  very  point  in  the  spider's  track 

Where  the  web  on  his  cheek  was  flung. 

The  autumn  came,  and  it  stood  alone, 

And  bow'd  as  the  wind  pass'd  by — 
The  wind  that  utter'd  its  dirge-like  moan 

In  the  old  oak  s^ir  and  dry  ; 
And  the  hollow  brannies  creak'd  and  sway'd, 

But  they  bent  not  to  the  blast, 
For  the  stout  oak  tree,  where  centuries  play'd, 

Was  sturdy  to  the  last. 

A  schoolboy  beheld  the  lithe  young  shoot, 

And  his  knife  was  instant  out, 
To  sever  the  stalk  from  the  spreading  root, 

And  scatter  the  buds  about ; 
To  peel  the  bark  in  curious  rings, 

And  many  a  notch  and  ray, 
To  beat  the  air  till  it  whizzing  sings, 

Then  idly  cast  away. 

His  hand  was  stay'd ;  he  knew  not  why : 

'T  was  a  presence  breathed  around — 
A  pleading  from  the  deep-blue  sky, 

And  up  from  the  teeming  ground. 
It  told  of  the  care  that  lavish'd  had  been 

In  sunshine  and  in  dew — 
Of  the  many  things  that  had  wrought  a  screen 

When  peril  around  it  grew. 

It  told  of  the  oak  that  once  had  bow'd, 

As  feeble  a  thing  to  see ; 
But  now,  when  the  storm  was  raging  loud, 

It  wrestled  mightily. 
There's  a  deeper  thought  on  the  schoolboy's  brow, 

A  new  love  at  his  heart ; 
And  he  ponders  much,  as  with  footsteps  slow 

He  turns  him  to  depart. 

Up  grew  the  twig,  with  a  vigour  bold, 

In  the  shade  of  the  parent  tree, 
And  the  old  oak  knew  that  his  doom  was  told, 

When  the  sapling  sprang  so  free. 
Then  the  fierce  winds  came,  and  they  raging  tore 

The  hollow  limbs  away ; 
And  the  damp  moss  crept  from  the  earthy  floor 

Around  the  trunk,  time-worn  and  gray. 

The  young  oak  grew,  and  proudly  grew, 

For  its  roots  were  deep  and  strong ; 
And  a  shadow  broad  on  the  earth  it  threw, 

And  the  sunlight  linger'd  long 
On  its  glossy  leaf,  where  the  flickering  light 

Was  flung  to  the  evening  sky  ; 
And  the  wild  bird  came  to  its  airy  height, 

And  taught  her  young  to  fly. 

In  acorn-time  came  the  truant  boy, 

With  a  wild  and  eager  look, 
And  he  mark'd  the  tree  with  a  wondering  joy, 

As  the  wind  the  great  limbs  shook. 
He  look'd  where  the  moss  on  the  north  side  grew, 

The  gnarled  arms  outspread, 
The  solemn  shadow  the  huge  tree  threw, 

As  it  tower'd  above  his  head : 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


381 


And  vague-like  fears  the  boy  surround, 

In  the  shadow  of  that  tree ; 
So  growing  up  from  the  darksome  ground, 

Like  a  giant  mystery. 
His  heart  beats  quick  to  the  squirrel's  tread 

On  the  wither'd  leaf  and  dry, 
And  he  lifts  not  up  his  awe-struck  head 

As  the  eddying  wind  sweeps  by. 

And  regally  the  stout  oak  stood, 

In  its  vigour  and  its  pride ; 
A  monarch  own'd  in  the  solemn  wood, 

With  a  sceptre  spreading  wide — 
No  more  in  the  wintry  blast  to  bow, 

Or  rock  in  the  summer  breeze ; 
But  draped  in  green,  or  star-like  snow, 

Reign  king  of  the  forest  trees. 

And  a  thousand  years  it  firmly  grew, 

And  a  thousand  blasts  defied ; 
And,  mighty  in  strength,  its  broad  arms  threw 

A  shadow  dense  and  wide. 
It  grew  where  the  rocks  were  bursting  out 

From  the  thin  and  heaving  soil — 
Where  the  ocean's  roar,  and  the  sailor's  shout, 

Were  mingled  in  wild  turmoil — 

Where  the  far-off  sound  of  the  restless  deep 

Came  up  with  a  booming  swell ; 
And  the  white  foam  dash'd  to  the  rocky  steep, 

But  it  loved  the  tumult  well. 
Then  its  huge  limbs  creak'd  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  join'd  in  the  rude  uproar ; 
For  it  loved  the  storm  and  the  lightning's  glare, 

And  the  sound  of  the  breaker's  roar. 

The  bleaching  bones  of  the  sea-bird's  prey 

Were  heap'd  on  the  rocks  below ; 
And  the  bald-head  eagle,  fierce  and  gray, 

Look'd  off  from  its  topmost  bough. 
Where  its  shadow  lay  on  the  quiet  wave 

The  light  boat  often  swung, 
And  the  stout  ship,  saved  from  the  ocean-grave, 

Her  cable  round  it  flung. 

Change  came  to  the  mighty  things  of  earth — 

Old  empires  pass'd  away ; 
Of  the  generations  that  had  birth, 

O  Death  !  where,  where  were  they  1 
Yet  fresh  and  green  the  brave  oak  stood, 

Nor  dream'd  it  of  decay, 
Though  a  thousand  times  in  the  autumn  wood 

Its  leaves  on  the  pale  earth  lay. 

A  sound  comes  down  in  the  forest  trees, 

And  echoing  from  the  hill ; 
It  floats  far  off  on  the  summer  breeze, 

And  the  shore  resounds  it  shrill. 
Lo  !  the  monarch  tree  no  more  shall  stand 

Like  a  watch-tower  of  the  main — 
The  strokes  full  thick  from  the  woodman's  hand, 

And  its  falling  shakes  the  plain. 

The  stout  live  oak  ! — 'Twas  a  worthy  tree, 

And  the  builder  mark'd  it  out ; 
And  he  smiled  its  angled  limbs  to  see, 

As  he  measured  the  trunk  about. 


Already  to  him  was  a  gallant  bark 

Careering  the  rolling  deep, 
And  in  sunshine,  calm,  or  tempest  dark, 

Her  way  she  will  proudly  keep. 

The  chisel  clicks,  and  the  hammer  rings, 

And  the  merry  jest  goes  round ; 
While  he  who  longest  and  loudest  sings 

Is  the  stoutest  workman  found. 
With  jointed  rib,  and  trunnel'd  plank 

The  work  goes  gayly  on, 
And  light-spoke  oaths,  when  the  glass  they  drank, 

Are  heard  till  the  task  is  done. 

She  sits  on  the  rocks,  the  skeleton  ship, 

With  her  oaken  ribs  all  bare, 
And  the  child  looks  up  with  parted  lip, 

As  it  gathers  fuel  there — 
With  brimless  hat,  the  bare-foot  boy 

Looks  round  with  strange  amaze, 
And  dreams  of  a  sailor's  life  of  joy 

Are  mingling  in  that  gaze. 

With  graceful  waist  and  carvings  brave 

The  trim  hull  waits  the  sea — 
And  she  proudly  stoops  to  the  crested  wave, 

While  round  go  the  cheerings  three. 
Her  prow  swells  up  from  the  yeasty  deep, 

Where  it  plunged  in  foam  and  spray : 
And  the  glad  waves  gathering  round  her  sweep 

And  buoy  her  in  their  play. 

Thou  wert  nobly  rear'd,  O  heart  of  oak ! 

In  the  sound  of  the  ocean  roar, 
Where  the  surging  wave  o'er  the  rough  rock  broke, 

And  bellow'd  along  the  shore — 
And  how  wilt  thou  in  the  storm  rejoice, 

With  the  wind  through  spar  and  shroud, 
To  hear  a  sound  like  the  forest  voice, 

When  the  blast  was  raging  loud ! 

With  snow-white  sail,  and  streamer  gay, 

She  sits  like  an  ocean-sprite, 
Careering  on  in  her  trackless  way, 

In  sunshine  or  dark  midnight : 
Her  course  is  laid  with  fearless  skill, 

For  brave  hearts  man  the  helm ; 
And  the  joyous  winds  her  canvass  fill — 

Shall  the  wave  the  stout  ship  whelm  1 

On,  on  she  goes,  where  the  icebergs  roll, 

Like  floating  cities  by  ; 
Where  meteors  flash  by  the  northern  pole, 

And  the  merry  dancers  fly ; 
Where  the  glittering  light  is  backward  flung 

From  icy  tower  and  dome, 
And  the  frozen  shrouds  are  gayly  hung 

With  gems  from  the  ocean  foam. 

On  the  Indian  sea  was  her  shadow  cast, 

As  it  lay  like  molten  gold, 
And  her  pendant  shroud  and  towering  mast 

Seem'd  twice  on  the  waters  told. 
The  idle  canvass  slowly  swung 

As  the  spicy  breeze  went  by, 
And  strange,  rare  music  around  her  rung 

From  the  palm-tree  growing  nigii. 


382 


ELZIABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


0,  gallant  ship,  them  didst  bear  with  thee 

The  gay  and  the  breaking  heart, 
And  weeping  eyes  look'd  out  to  see 

Thy  white-spread  sails  depart. 
And  when  the  rattling  casement  told 

Of  many  a  perill'd  ship, 
The  anxious  wife  her  babes  would  fold, 

And  pray  with  trembling  lip. 

The  petrel  wheel'd  in  its  stormy  flight ; 

The  wind  piped  shrill  and  high ; 
On  the  topmast  sat  a  pale  blue  light, 

That  flicker'd  not  to  the  eye : 
The  black  cloud  came  like  a  banner  down, 

And  down  came  the  shrieking  blast ; 
The  quivering  ship  on  her  beams  is  thrown, 

And  gone  are  helm  and  mast. 

Helmless,  but  on  before  the  gale, 

She  ploughs  the  deep-trough'd  wave : 
A  gurgling  sound — a  frenzied  wail — 

And  the  ship  hath  found  a  grave. 
And  thus  is  the  fate  of  the  acorn  told, 

That  fell  from  the  old  oak  tree, 
And  the  woodland  Fays  in  the  frosty  mould 

Preserved  for  its  destiny. 

THE  DROWNED  MARINER. 

A  MARINER  sat  on  the  shrouds  one  night, 

The  wind  was  piping  free ; 

Now  bright,  now  dimm'd  was  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  the  phosphor  gleam'd  in  the  wake  of  the  whale, 

As  it  flounder'd  in  the  sea ; 
The  scud  was  flying  athwart  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  whistling  by, 
And  the  wave,  as  it  tower'd,  then  fell  in  spray, 
Look'd  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 

The  mariner  sway'd  and  rock'd  on  the  mast, 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well  : 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watch'd  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  fell, — 
For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide, 
And  they  lash'd  as  they  pass'd  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy  eyes,  all  huge  and  grim, 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 

Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurb'd  steed  along ; 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws, 
As  her  gallant  bow  the  water  ploughs, 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  and  strong ; 
The  topsail  is  reef  d,  and  the  sails  are  furl'd, 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world, 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood ; 
But  there  cometh  no  chill  to  the  mariner's  blood. 

Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  swingeth  at  ease, 

And  holdeth  by  the  shroud ; 
And  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 
The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees, 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 
Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  at  him, 
With  its  pallid  cheek,  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  7 
Did  it  beckon  him  down  7     Did  it  call  his  name  1 
Now  rolleth  the  ship  the  way  whence  it  came. 


The  mariner  look'd,  and  he  saw,  with  dread, 

A  face  he  knew  too  well ; 
And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 
And  its  long  hair  out  on  the  wave  was  spread, — 

Was  there  a  tale  to  tell  7 
The  stout  ship  rock'd  with  a  reeling  speed, 
And  the  mariner  groan'd,  as  well  he  need — 
For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 
The  dead  face  gleam'd  from  the  briny  tide. 

Bethink  thee,  mariner,  well  of  the  past  : 

A  voice  calls  loud  for  thee : 
There 's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last ; 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beams  is  cast, — 

O,  where  shall  thy  burial  be  7 
Bethink  thee  of  oaths,  that  were  lightly  spoken; 
Bethink  thee  of  vows,  that  were  lightly  broken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  all  that  is  dear  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea ; 

Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  the  wave, 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone ; 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave, 
To  struggle,  and  feel  there  is  none  to  save ! 

Gon  shield  thee,  helpless  one  ! 
The  stout  limbs  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past ; 
The  trembling  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast ; 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more, 
Then  slowly  sinks, — the  struggle  is  o'er. 

Down,  down  where  the  storm  is  hush'd  to  sleep, 

Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell ; 
Where  the  amber-drops  for  thee  shall  weep, 
And  the  rose-lipp'd  shell  its  music  keep ; 

There  thou  shall  slumber  well. 
The  gem  and  the  pearl  lie  heap'd  at  thy  side ; 
They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 
From  the  strong  man's  hand,from  the  maiden's  brow, 
As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  wave  below. 

A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean-bed ; 

The  mother  and  child  are  there : 
The  fervent  youth  and  the  hftary  head, 
The  maid,  with  her  floating  locks  outspread, 

The  babe,  with  its  silken  hair : 
As  the  water  moveth,  they  lightly  sway, 
And  the  tranquil  lights  on  their  features  play : 
And  there  is  each  cherish'd  and  beautiful  form, 
Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 


TO  THE  HUDSON. 

O,  RIVER  !  gently  as  a  wayward  child 

I  saw  thee  mid  the  moonlight  hills  at  rest, — 
Capricious  thing,  with  thine  own  beauty  wild, 

How  didst  thou  still  the  throbbings  of  thy  breast! 
Rude  headlands  were  about  thee,  stooping  round, 

As  if  amid  the  hills  to  hold  thy  stay  ; 
But  thou  didst  hear  the  far-off  ocean  sound, 

Inviting  thee  from  hill  and  vale  away, 
To  mingle  thy  deep  waters  with  its  own ; 

And,  at  that  voice,  thy  steps  did  onward  glide, 
Onward  from  echoing  hill  and  valley  lone; 

Like  thine,  O,  be  my  course — nor  turn'd  aside, 
While  listing  to  the  soundings  of  a  land, 
That,  like  the  ocean-call,  invites  me  to  its  strand. 


ELIZABETH    OAKES    SMITH. 


383 


SONNETS. 

I.      POESY. 

WITH  no  fond,  sickly  thirst  for  fame,  I  kneel, 

0  goddess  of  the  high-born  art,  to  thee ; 
Not  unto  thee  with  semblance  of  a  zeal 

1  come,  O  pure  and  heaven-eyed  Poesy  ! 
Thou  art  to  me  a  spirit  and  a  love, 

Felt  ever  from  the  time  when  first  the  earth, 
In  its  green  beauty,  and  the  sky  above 
Inform'd  my  soul  with  joy  too  deep  for  mirth. 
I  was  a  child  of  thine  before  my  tongue 
Could  lisp  its  infant  utterance  unto  thee, 
And  now,  albeit  from  my  harp  are  flung 
Discordant  numbers,  and  the  song  may  be 
That  which  I  would  not,  yet  I  know  that  thou   [bow. 
The  offering  wilt  not  spurn,  while  thus  to  thee  I 

II.      THE    BARD. 

IT  cannot  be,  the  baffled  heart,  in  vain, 
May  seek,  amid  the  crowd,  its  throbs  to  hide ; 
Ten  thousand  others  kindred  pangs  may  bide, 
Yet  not  the  less  will  our  own  griefs  complain. 
Chain'd  to  our  rock,  the  vulture's  gory  stain 
And  tearing  beak  is  every  moment  rife, 
Renewing  pangs  that  end  but  with  our  life. 
Thence  bursteth  forth  the  gushing  voice  of  song, 
The  soul's  deep  anguish  thence  an  utterance  finds, 
Appealing  to  all  hearts :  and  human  minds 
Bow  down  in  awe :  thence  doth  the  Bard  belong 
Unto  all  times :  and  this,  oh  this  is  fame — 
\He  ask'd  it  not :  his  soul  demanded  bread,     [stead. 
And  ye,  charm'd  with  the  voice,  gave  but  a  stone  in- 

III.      AN    INCIDENT. 

A  SIMPLE  thing,  yet  chancing  as  it  did, 
When  life  was  bright  with  its  illusive  dreams, 
A  pledge  and  promise  seem'd  beneath  it  hid ; 
The  ocean  lay  before  me,  tinged  with  beams, 
That  lingering  draped  the  west,  a  wavering  stir, 
And  at  my  feet  down  fell  a  worn,  gray  quill ; 
An  eagle,  high  above  the  darkling  fir, 
With  steady  flight,  seemed  there  to  take  his  fill 
Of  that  pure  ether  breathed  by  him  alone. 

0  noble  bird  !  why  did'st  thou  loose  for  me 
Thy  eagle  plume  ]  still  unessay'd,  unknown 
Must  be  that  pathway  fearless  wing'd  by  thee ; 

1  ask  it  not,  no  lofty  flight  is  mine, 

I  would  not  soar  bike  thee,  in  loneliness  to  pine ! 

IV.      THE  UNATTAINED 

AXD  is  this  life  1  and  are  we  born  for  this  1 
To  follow  phantoms  that  elude  the  grasp, 
Or  whatsoe'er  secured,  within  our  clasp, 
To  withering  lie,  as  if  each  earthly  kiss        [meet. 
Were  doom'd  death's  shuddering  touch  alone  to 
O  Life  !  hast  thou  reserved  no  cup  of  bliss  ? 
Must  still  THE  TJNATTAIN'D  beguile  our  feetl 
The  UXATTAIN-'D  with  yearnings  fill  the  breast, 
That  rob,  for  aye,  the  spirit  of  its  rest  ? 
Yes,  this  is  Life ;  and  everywhere  we  meet, 
Not  victor  crowns,  but  waitings  of  defeat ; 
Yet  faint  thou  not,  thou  dost  apply  a  test 
That  shall  incite  thee  onward,  upward  still, 
The  present  cannot  sate,  nor  e'er  thy  spirit  fill. 


v.    THE  WIFE. 

ALL  day,  like  some  sweet  bird,  content  to  sing 
In  its  small  cage,  she  moveth  to  and  fro—- 
And ever  and  anon  will  upward  spring 
To  her  sweet  lips,  fresh  from  the  fount  below, 
The  murmur'd  melody  of  pleasant  thought, 
Unconscious  utter'd,  gentle-toned  and  low. 
Light  household  duties,  evermore  inwrought 
With  placid  fancies  of  one  trusting  heart 
That  lives  but  in  her  smile,  and  turns 
From  life's  cold  seeming  and  the  busy  mart, 
With  tenderness,  that  heavenward  ever  yearns 
To  be  refresh'd  where  one  pure  altar  burns. 
Shut  out  from  hence,  the  mockery  of  life,     [wife. 
Thus  liveth  she  content,  the  meek,  fond,  trusting 


VI.      RELIGION. 

ALOHE,  yet  not  alone,  the  heart  doth  brood 
With  a  sad  fondness  o'er  its  hidden  grief; 
Broods  with  a  miser's  joy,  wherein  relief 
Comes  with  a  semblance  of  its  own  quaint  mood. 
How  many  hearts  this  point  of  life  have  pass'd ! 
And  some  a  train  of  light  behind  have  cast,         ' 
To  show  us  what  hath  been,  and  what  may  be ; 
That  thus  have  suffer'd  all  the  wise  and  good, 
Thus  wept  and  pray'd,  thus  struggled,  and  were 
So  doth  the  pilot,  trackless  through  the  deep,    [free. 
Unswerving  by  the  stars  his  reckoning  keep, 
He  moves  a  highway  not  untried  before, 
And  thence  he  courage  gains,  and  joy  doth  reap, 
Unfaltering  lays  his  course,  and  leaves  behind  the 
shore.  

VII.      THE   DREAM. 

I  DHEAM'D  last  night,  that  I  myself  did  lay 
Within  the  grave,  and  after  stood  and  wept, 
My  spirit  sorrow'd  where  its  ashes  slept ! 
'Twas  a  strange  dream,  and  yet  methinks  it  may 
Prefigure  that  which  is  akin  to  truth. 
How  sorrow  we  o'er  perish'd  dreams  of  youth, 
High  hopes  and  aspirations  doomed  to  be 
Crush'd  and  o'ermaster'd  by  earth's  destiny  ! 
Fame,  that  the  spirit  loathing  turns  to  ruth  ;— 
And  that  deluding  faith  so  loth  to  part, 
That  earth  will  shrine  for  us  one  kindred  heart ! 
Oh,  'tis  the  ashes  of  such  things  that  wring 
Tears  from  the  eyes — hopes  like  to  these  depart 
And  we  bow  down   in  dread,  o'ershadow'd   by 
death's  wing ! 


VIII.      WAYFARERS. 

EARTH  careth  for  her  own — the  fox  lies  down 
In  her  warm  bosom,  and  it  asks  no  more. 
The  bird,  content,  broods  in  its  lowly  nest, 
Or  its  fine  essence  stirr'd,  with  wing  outflown, 
Circles  in  airy  rounds  to  heaven's  own  door, 
And  folds  again  its  plume  upon  her  breast 
Ye,  too,  for  whom  her  palaces  arise, 
Whose  Tyrian  vestments  sweep  the  kindred  ground, 
Whose  golden  chalice  Ivy-Bacchus  djes, 
She,  kindly  Mother,  liveth  in  your  eyes, 
And  no  strange  anguish  may  your  lives  astound. 
But  ye,  O  pale  lone  watchers  for  the  true, 
She  knoweth  not.     In  Her  ye  have  not  found 
Place  for  your  stricken  heads,  wet  with  the  mid- 
night dew. 


384 


ELIZABETH    OAKES    SMITH. 


FROM  "THE   SINLESS   CHILD." 

MID-SUMMER. 
'Tis  the  summer  prime,  when  the  noiseless  air 

In  perfumed  chalice  lies, 
And  the  bee  goes  hy  with  a  lazy  hum, 

Beneath  the  sleeping  skies. 
When  the  brook  is  low  and  the  ripples  bright, 

As  down  the  stream  they  go, 
The  pebbles  are  dry  on  the  upper  side, 

And  dark  and  wet  below. 

The  tree  that  stood  when  the  soil's  athirst, 

And  the  mulleins  first  appear, 
Hath  a  dry  and  rusty-colour'd  bark, 

And  its  leaves  are  curled  and  sere  ; 
But  the  dogwood  and  the  hazle  bush 

Have  cluster'd  round  the  brook — 
Their  roots  have  stricken  deep  beneath, 

And  they  have  a  verdant  look. 

To  the  juicy  leaf  the  grasshopper  clings, 

And  he  gnaws  it  like  a  file  ; 
The  naked  stalks  are  withering  by, 

Where  he  has  been  erewhile. 
The  cricket  hops  on  the  glistening  rock, 

Or  pipes  in  the  faded  grass, 
The  beetle's  wings  are  folded  mute, 

When  the  steps  of  the  idler  pass. 


GUARDIAN  ANGELS. 
No  inward  pang,  no  yearning  love, 

Is  lost  to  human  hearts ; 
No  anguish  that  the  spirit  feels, 

When  bright-winged  hope  departs ; 
Though  in  the  mystery  of  life 

Discordant  powers  prevail, 
That  life  itself  be  weariness, 

And  sympathy  may  fail : 

Yet  all  becomes  a  discipline, 

To  lure  us  to  the  sky, 
And  angels  bear  the  good  it  brings, 

With  fostering  care  on  high. 
Though  others,  weary  at  the  watch, 

May  sink  to  toil-spent  sleep, 
And  we  are  left  in  solitude 

And  agony  to  weep : 

Yet  they,  with  ministering  zeal, 

The  cup  of  healing  bring, 
And  bear  our  love  and  gratitude 

Away,  on  heavenward  wing. 
And  thus  the  inner  life  is  wrought, 

The  blending  earth  and  heaven, 
The  love  more  earnest  in  its  glow, 

When  much  has  been  forgiven. 


CONSCIENCE. 
DEAR  mother !  in  ourselves  is  hid 

The  holy  spirit-land, 
Where  THOUGHT,  the  flaming  cherub,  stands 

With  its  relentless  brand ; 
We  feel  the  pang,  when  that  dread  sword 

Inscribes  the  hidden  sin, 
And  turneth  everywhere  to  guard 

The  paradise  within ! 


FLOWERS. 
EACH  leaflet  is  a  tiny  scroll 

Inscribed  with  holy  truth, 
A  lesson  that  around  the  heart 

Should  keep  the  dew  of  youth ; 
Bright  missals  from  angelic  throngs 

In  every  by-way  left, 
How  were  the  earth  of  glory  shorn, 

Were  it  of  flowers  bereft ! 

They  tremble  on  the  Alpine  heights, 

The  fissured  rock  they  press ; 
The  desert  wild,  with  heat  and  sand, 

Shares,  too,  their  blessedness ; 
And  wheresoe'er  the  weary  heart 

Turns  in  its  dim  despair, 
The  meek-eyed  blossom  upward  looks, 

Inviting  it  to  prayer. 


FIELD-ELVES. 
THE  tender  violets  bent  in  smiles 

To  the  Elves  that  sported  nigh, 
Tossing  the  drops  of  fragrant  dew, 

To  scent  the  evening  sky. 
They  kissed  the  rose  in  love  and  mirth, 

And  its  petals  fairer  grew ; 
A  shower  of  pearly  dust  they  brought, 

And  over  the  lily  threw. 

I  saw  one  dainty  creature  crown 

The  tulip's  painted  cup, 
And  bless  with  one  soft  kiss  the  urn, 

Then  fold  its  petals  up. 
A  finger  'rocked  the  young  bird's  nest, 

As  high  on  a  branch  it  hung, 
While  the  gleaming  night-dew  rattled  down 

Where  the  old  dry  leaf  was  flung. 


SUPERSTITION, 
oft  her  mother  sought  the  child 
Amid  the  forest  glade, 
And  marvell'd  that  in  darksome  glen 
So  tranquilly  she  stay'd ; 

For  every  jagged  limb  to  her 
A  shadowy  semblance  hath, 

Of  spectres  and  distorted  shapes, 
That  frown  upon  her  path, 

And  mock  her  with  their  hideous  eyes ; 

For  when  the  soul  is  blind 
To  freedom,  truth,  and  inward  light, 

Vague  fears  debase  the  mind. 


INFANT  SLUMBER. 
A  HOI.T  smile  was  on  her  lip, 

Whenever  sleep  was  there ; 
She  slept,  as  sleeps  the  blossom,  hush'd 

Amid  the  silent  air. 


SYMPATHY. 

ALAS  !  I  may  not  hope  on  earth 
Companionship  to  find ; 

Alone  must  be  the  pure  in  heart, 
Alone  the  high  in  mind  ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 


[Bora,  1809.] 


DOCTOR  HOLMES  is  a  son  of  the  late  Reverend 
AHIEL  HOLMES,  D.  D.,  and  was  born  at  Cambridge, 
in  Massachusetts,  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  Au- 
gust, 1809.  He  received  his  early  education  at  the 
Phillips  Exeter  Academy,  and  entered  Harvard 
University  in  1825.  On  being  graduated  he  com- 
menced the  study  of  the  law,  but  relinquished  it 
after  one  year's  application,  for  the  more  congenial 
pursuit  of  medicine,  to  which  he  devoted  himself 
with  much  ardour  and  industry.  For  the  more 
successful  prosecution  of  his  studies,  he  visited 
Europe  in  the  spring  of  1833,  passing  the  princi- 
pal portion  of  his  residence  abroad  at  Paris,  where 
he  attended  the  hospitals,  acquired  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  language,  and  became  personally 
acquainted  with  many  of  the  most  eminent  physi- 
cians of  France. 

He  returned  to  Boston  near  the  close  of  the  year 
1835,  and  in  the  following  spring  commenced  the 
practice  of  medicine  in  that  city.  In  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year  he  delivered  a  poem  before  the 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  University, 
which  was  received  with  extraordinary  and  well- 
merited  applause.  In  1838  he  was  elected  Pro- 
fessor of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  the  medical 
institution  connected  with  Dartmouth  College ;  but, 
on  being  married,  two  years  afterward,  he  resigned 
that  office,  and  has  since  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
the  duties  of  his  profession. 

The  earlier  poems  of  Doctor  HOLMES  appeared 
in  "The  Collegian."*  They  were  little  less  dis- 
tinguished for  correct  and  melodious  versification 
1  than  his  more  recent  and  most  elaborate  composi- 
tions. They  attracted  attention  by  their  humour 
aiul  originality,  and  were  widely  circulated  and 
repulilished  in  contemporary  periodicals.  But  a 
small  portion  of  them  have  been  printed  under 
his  proper  signature. 

In  1831  a  small  volume  appeared  in  Boston,  en- 
titled "  Illustrations  of  the  Athenaeum  Gallery  of 
Paintings,"  and  composed  of  metrical  pieces,  chiefly 
satirical,  written  by  Doctor  HOLMES  and  EPES  SAH- 
OEXT.  It  embraced  many  of  our  author's  best 
humorous  verses,  afterward  included  in  the  edition 
of  his  acknowledged  works.  His  principal  pro- 
duction, "Poetry,  a  Metrical  Essay,"  was  delivered 
before  a  literary  society  at  Cambridge.  It  is  in  the 
heroic  measure,  and  in  its  versification  it  is  not 
surpassed  by  any  poem  written  in  this  country. 


*  "The  Collegian"  was  a  monthly  miscellany  published 
in  1830,  by  the  undergraduates  at  Cambridffe.  Among  the 
editors  were  HOLMES,  the  late  WILLIAM  II.  SIMMONS,  who 
will  Ions:  he  remembered  for  his  admirable  lectures  on 
the  great  poets  and  orators  of  Eneland,  and  JOHN  O. 
SARGENT,  who  distinguished  himself  as  an  able  political 
writer  in  the  long  contest  which  resulted  in  the  election 
of  General  HARRISON  to  the  presidency,  and  is  now  en- 
in  the  successful  practice  of  the  law  in  the  city  of 


New  York. 


•19 


It  relates  to  the  nature  and  developments  of  poetry, 
which  he  regards  as  only  expression.     He  says: 
There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense; 
The  rudest  savage,  roaming  through  the  wild, 
The  simplest  rustic,  bending  o'er  his  child, 
The  infant,  listening  to  the  warbling  bird, 
The  mother,  smiling  at  its  half-formed  word ; 
The  freeman,  casting  with  unpurchased  hand 
The  vote  that  shakes  the  turrets  of  the  land ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted  chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning  plain  ; 
The  hot-cheek'd  reveller,  tossing  down  the  wine, 
To  join  the  chorus  pealing  "Auld  langsyne;" 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows  dim, 
While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening  hymn; 
The  jewel'd  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chandelier; 
E'en  trembling  age,  when  spring's  renewing  air 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silver'd  hair;— 
All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame, 
Whose  wider  halo  wreathes  the  poet's  name, 
While,  unembalm'd,  the  silent  dreamer  dies, 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and  sighs! 
The  poet,  he  contends,  is 

He,  whose  thoughts  differing  not  in  shape,  but  dress, 
What  others  feel,  more  fitly  can  express. 

In  another  part  of  the  essay  he  gives  the  fol- 
lowing fine  description  of  the  different  English 
measures : — 

Poets,  like  painters,  their  machinery  claim, 
And  verse  bestows  the  varnish  and  the  frame; 
Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  rack'd  axle  of  Art's  rattling  car, 
Fits  like  Mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word; 
From  Saxon  lips  AWACREON'S  numbers  glide, 
As  once  they  melted  on  the  Teian  tide, 
And,  fresh  transfused,  the  Iliad  thrills  again 
From  Albion's  cliffs  as  o'er  Achaia's  plain ; 
The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat, 
Rings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they  meet; 
The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it  flows, 
Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close, 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession  pour, 
Till  the  ninth  billow  melts  along  the  shore ; 
The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which  lives  immortal  in  the  verse  of  GRAY, 
In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On  eagle  pinion,  through  the  air  of  song; 
The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl, 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl ! 

For  several  years  the  attention  of  Doctor  HOLMES, 
as  I  have  before  remarked,  has  been  devoted  to  his 
professional  business.  He  has  obtained  two  or  three 
prizes  for  dissertations  on  medical  questions,  and 
as  a  physician  and  as  a  lecturer  on  physiological 
subjects,  he  has  become  eminently  popular  in  the 
city  in  which  he  resides.  As  a  poet  he  has  won 
an  enduring  reputation.  He  possesses  a  rich  vein 
of  humour,  with  learning  and  originality,  and  great 
skill  as  an  artist. 

2K  385 


386 


OLIVER  W.   HOLMES. 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD. 

OUK  ancient  church !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadow'd  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  sentinel  and  nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennon'd  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone ; 
The  child  unveils  his  cluster'd  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share ; 
The  sullen  ''Jang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Thrcbo'd  through  the  beating  air; 
The  rattling  cord, — the  rolling  stone, — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  *he  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  press'd  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherish'd  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power  ! 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  nour ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge, — 
Here  scatter'd  death ;  yet  seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar, — and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 
In  many  a  chisel  I'd  square, 


The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 
Of  honour'd  names  were  there ; 

Alas  !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazon'd  tablets  knew, 

Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 
Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillar'd  stone,* 

The  empty  urn  of  pride ; 
There  stands  the  goblet  and  the  sun, — 

What  need  of  more  beside  1 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead  1 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  1 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed  1 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's-)-  date  and  doom  ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes ; 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we,  r 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride  ! 

I  wander'd  to  thy  buried  mound, 

When  earth  was  hid,  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  roll'd, 
As  if  a  sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scatter'd  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lifts  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear, 

To  kiss  thy  funeral-stone ; 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  pass'd  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Lie  on  thine  early  grave ! 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  a1>ove, 

Have  bow'd  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust-grove 

Shall  swing  its  orient  flowers ; 
And  I  would  ask  no  movildering  bust, 

If  o'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 

*  The  tomb  of  the  VASSALL  family  is  marked  by  a  free- 
stone tablet,  supported  by  five  pillars,  and  bearing  nothing 
but  the  sculptured  reliefs  of  the  eoblet  and  the  sun,— Fas- 
So?,— which  designated  a  powerful  family,  now  almost 
foreotten. 

t  The  exile  referred  to  in  this  stanza  was  a  native  of 
Honfleur,  in  Normandy. 


OLIVER   W.   HOLMES. 


387 


AN  EVENING  THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN    AT   SEA. 


IF  sometimes  in  the  dark-blue  eye, 

Or  in  the  deep-red  wine, 
Or  soothed  by  gentlest  melody, 

Still  warms  this  heart  of  mine, 
Yet  something  colder  in  the  blood, 

And  calmer  in  the  brain, 
Have  whisper'd  that  my  youth's  bright  flood 

Ebbs,  not  to  flow  again. 

If  by  Helvetia's  azure  lake, 

Or  Arno's  yellow  stream, 
Each  star  of  memory  could  awake, 

As  in  my  first  young  dream, 
I  know  that  when  mine  eye  shall  greet 

The  hill-sides  bleak  and  bare, 
That  gird  my  home,  it  will  not  meet 

My  childhood's  sunsets  there. 

0,  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burn'd  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was  that  young  forehead  worn  as  this  1 

Was  that  flush'd  cheek  as  nowl 
Where  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing  heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive, 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art, 

To  dream  themselves  alive  1 

Alas !  the  morning  dew  is  gone, 

Gone  ere  the  full  of  day ; 
Life's  iron  fetter  still  is  on, 

Its  wreaths  all  torn  away ; 
Happy  if  still  some  casual  hour 

Can  warm  the  fading  shrine, 
Too  soon  to  chill  beyond  the  power 

Of  love,  or  song,  or  wine ! 


LA  GRISETTE. 


AH,  CLEXF.^CE  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 

Trip  down  the  Rue  de  Seine, 
And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  pass'd, 

I  said,  "  We  meet  again," — 
I  dream'd  not  in  that  idle  glance 

Thy  latest  image  came, 
And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 

A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak; 
Their  gentler  sighs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek ; 
The  trailing  of  thy  long,  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain, 
All,  all  return'd,  more  sweet,  more  fair ; 

0,  had  we  met  again  ! 

I  walk'd  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 

The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep, 

And  sins  to  be  forgiven  ; 
I  watch'd  where  GEXEVTETE  was  laid, 

I  knelt  by  MART'S  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  pray'd  ; 

Alas !  but  where  was  thine  1 


And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose*  of  Notre  Dame, 
I  wander'd  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai, 
Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 

In  vain,  in  vain ;  we  meet  no  more, 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall ; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call, 
When  years  have  clothed  the  line  in  moss 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  wither'd,  on  thy  simple  cross, 

The  wreaths  of  Pere-la-Chaise  ! 


THE  TREADMILL  SONG. 

THE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  1 

Wake  up,  wake  iip,  my  duck-legg'd  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs ; 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider-legs; 
What  though  you're  awkward  at  the  trade? 

There 's  time  enough  to  learn,— 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They  've  built  us  up  a  noble  wall, 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out  j 
We've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do, 

But  just  to  walk  about; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends : — 
It's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes, 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here  ; 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear ; 
He's  lost  them  both ;  don't  pull  his  hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch, 
But  poke  him  in  the  farther  eye, 

That  isn't  in  the  patch. 

Hark !  fellows,  there 's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It's  pretty  sport,— suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown. 
Now,  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own  ! 

*  Circular-stained  windows  are  called  roses. 


388 


OLIVER    W.   HOLMES. 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 

YES,  dear,  departed,  cherish'd  days, 

Could  Memory's  hand  restore 
Your  morning  light,  your  evening  rays, 

From  Time's  gray  urn  once  more, — 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still, 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 

While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream, 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore, 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam — 
Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, 

And  wilder  rolls  the  sea ; 
The  mist  grows  dark — the  sun  goes  down — 

Day  breaks — and  where  are  we  ? 


THE  DILEMMA. 

Now,  by  the  bless'd  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning-star  grew  dark  ; 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 
The  bright,  black  eye,  the  melting  blue, — 
I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams ; 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung. 
I  ask'd  the  hue  of  every  eye 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die ;  ( 
Ten  livid  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I  ask'd  a  matron,  which  she  deem'd 
With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beam'd ; 
She  answer'd,  some  thought  both  were  fair- 
Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 
But  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 
And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 
Came  marching  in — their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  ask'd  a  maiden ;  hack  she  flung 

The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung, 

And  turn'd  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 

Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 

On  me,  until,  beneath  its  rays, 

I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze ; 

She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green ; 

She  look'd  at  me ;  what  could  she  mean  1 

Ah !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  colouring  of  his  screen ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 


Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake, 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away  ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


THE  STAR  AND  THE  WATER-LILY. 

THE  Sun  stepp'd  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 

For  a  sleepy  thing  was  she ; 
What  is  the  Lily  dreaming  of! 

Why  crisp  the  waters  blue  ? 
See,  see,  she  is  lifting  her  varnish'd  lid ! 

Her  white  leaves  are  glistening  through ! 

The  Rose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide ; 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair, 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side ; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true ; 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  look'd  at  the  sky  so  blue. 

Remember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride  1 
«  0,  the  Rose  is  old,  and  thorny,  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,"  said  she; 
«  But  the  Star  is  fair  and  he  lives  in  the  air,' 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be." 

But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  should  come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant  sky, 

To  smile  on  a  thing  like  thee  1 
O,  no !  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne; 
The  winds  shall  blow  and  the  waves  shall  flow, 

And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain-top, 

Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the  sparkling  shore, 

Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 
That  he  has  not  cheer'd  with  his  fickle  smile, 

And  warm'd  with  his  faithless  beam, — 
And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower, 

That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 

Alas,  for  the  Lily!  she  would  not  heed, 

But  turn'd  to  the  skies  afar, 
And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling  ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star ; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darkcu'd  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide  ; 
She  look'd  in  vain  through  the  beating  rain, 

And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


OLIVER   W.   HOLMES. 


389 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

THERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 

One's  money  from  his  purse, 
And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse ; 
But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 

To  make  a  body  curse. 

Y"ou're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 

And  counting  up  your  gains ; 
A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush 

And 'takes  your  horse's  reins, 
Another  hints  some  words  about 

A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 
It's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you're  going  out  to  dine, — 

Some  filthy  creature  begs 
You'll  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor,  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread, — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You're  sitting  on  your  window-seat 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon ; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  crack'd  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum ; 
You  sit,  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "  Home,  sweet  home"  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place  ; 
Your  "Auld  acquaintance,"  all  at  once, 

Is  alter'd  in  the  face  ; 
Their  discords  sting  through  BURNS  and  MOORE, 

Like  hedgehogs  dress'd  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clime, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But,  hark !  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound ; 


It  cannot  be, — it  is, — it  is, — 
A  hat  is  going  round  ! 

No  !  Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear, 

That  stunn'd  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster,  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw ; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 
Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 

And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town ; 

Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 
And  shut  the  window  down ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 

Not  big  enough  for  that, 
Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 

Because  you  are  a  flat, 
Go  very  quietly  and  drop 

A  button  in  the  hat ! 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

DEAREST,  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way ; 
A  word,  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air ; 
A  touch,  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  nature's  pure  material  laws. 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 
In  sweetening  others,  grow  more  sweet; 
The  clouds  by  day,  the  stars  by  night, 
Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light ; 
The  rainbow,  Heaven's  own  forehead's  braid, 
Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found  ! 
How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them  round ! 
Like  mountain-streams  we  meet  and  part, 
Each  living  in  the  other's  heart, 
Our  course  unknown,  our  hope  to  be 
Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 

But  ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain, 
Bound  in  the  subtle  moonbeam's  chain; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold,  capricious  planet's  ray, 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charms, 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 

Alas !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn ; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
And  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close  ; 
But,  ah  !  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

0  !  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
When  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee  ! 
2  K2 


390 


OLIVER   W.   HOLMES. 


L'INCONNUE. 

Is  thy  name  MART,  maiden  fair  1 

Such  should,  methinks,  its  music  be ; 

The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear, 
Were  best  befitting  thee ; 

And  she  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 

Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 
I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair ; 

Ah  !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 
Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare ; 

And  she,  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing, 

Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 
To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown; 

When  evening  shades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone ; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 


THE  LAST  READER. 

I  SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree, 
And  read  my  own  sweet  songs ; 

Though  naught  they  may  to  others  be, 
Each  humble  line  prolongs 

A  tone  that  might  have  pass'd  away, 

But  for  that  scarce-remember'd  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf, 
That  some  dear  girl  has  given ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadow'd  hill. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 
Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  care-worn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child ; 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 

Around  these  yellow  leaves, 
Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  thread 

Oblivion's  insect  weaves ; 
Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream, 
It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 

On  these  neglected  songs, 
Nor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 

My  opening  bosom  wrongs ; 
For  who  would  trample,  at  my  side, 
A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 
Long  years  have  wash'd  away, 

And  where  were  golden  sands  before, 
Is  naught  but  common  clay  ; 

Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun, 

For  Memory  to  look  back  upon. 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 
My  lyre  no  more  is  known, 


Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 

In  silence  and  alone, 
Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing 
Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
And  give  the  worm  my  little  store, 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more  ! 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  pass'd  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that' in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn ; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  press'd 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady!  she  is  dead 

Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

And  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here, 

But  the  old  three-corner'd  hat, 
And  the  breeches — and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring — 
Let  them  smile  as  I  do  now 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


OLIVER   W.   HOLMES. 


391 


OLD  IRONSIDES.* 


AT,  tear  her  tatter'd  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquer'd  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

0,  better  that  her  shatter'd  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


STANZAS. 

STRAKGE  !  that  one  lightly-whisper'd  tone 

Is  far,  far  sweeter  unto  me, 
Than  all  the  sounds  that  kiss  the  earth, 

Or  breathe  along  the  sea ; 
But,  lady,  when  thy  voice  I  greet, 
Not  heavenly  music  seems  so  sweet. 

I  look  upon  the  fair,  blue  skies, 

And  naught  but  empty  air  I  see ; 

But  when  I  turn  me  to  thine  eyes, 
It  seemeth  unto  me 

Ten  thousand  angels  spread  their  wings 

Within  those  little  azure  rings. 

The  lily  hath  the  softest  leaf 

That  ever  western  breeze  hath  fann'd, 
But  thou  shall  have  the  tender  flower, 

So  I  may  take  thy  hand ; 
That  little  hand  to  me  doth  yield 
More  joy  than  all  the  broider'd  field. 

0,  lady  !  there  be  many  things 

That  seem  right  fair,  below,  above ; 

But  sure  not  one  among  them  all 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  love ; — 

Let  us  not  pay  our  vows  alone, 

But  join  two  altars  both  in  one. 

*  Written  when  it  wns  proposed  to  break  up  the  frigate 
Constitution,  as  unfit  for  service. 


THE  STEAMBOAT. 


SEE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves  ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heap'd  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells ; 
And,  flaming  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by  ! 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrow'd  sail; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scoop'd  and  strain'd, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stain'd 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark !  hark !  I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 
An  hour,  and,  whirl'd  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon-staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing ! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep ; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire ; 
Sleep  on — and  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
O,  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day ! 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


[Bora,  1809.] 


ALBERT  PIKE  was  born  in  Boston,  on  the  twen- 
ty-ninth day  of  December,  1 809.  When  he  was 
about  four  years  old,  his  parents  removed  to  New- 
buryport.  His  father,  he  informs  me,  "  was  a  jour- 
neyman shoemaker,  who  worked  hard,  paid  his 
taxes,  and  gave  all  his  children  the  benefit  of  an 
education."  The  youth  of  the  poet  was  passed 
principally  in  attending  the  district-schools  at  New- 
buryport,  and  an  academy  at  Framingham,  until 
he  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  when,  after  a  rigid 
and  triumphant  examination,  he  was  admitted  to 
Harvard  College.  Not  being  able  to  pay  the  ex- 
penses of  a  residence  at  Cambridge,  however,  he 
soon  after  became  an  assistant  teacher  in  the 
grammar-school  at  Newburyport,  and,  at  the  end 
of  a  year,  its  principal.  He  was  induced  to  resign 
this  office  after  a  short  time,  and  in  the  winter 
which  followed  was  the  preceptor  of  an  academy  at 
Fairhaven.  He  returned  to  Newburyport  in  the 
spring,  on  foot,  and  for  one  year  taught  there  a 
private  school.  During  all  this  time  he  had  been 
a  diligent  student,  intending  to  enter  the  uni- 
versity, in  advance;  but  in  the  spring  of  1831  he 
changed  his  plans,  and  started  on  his  travels  to  the 
west  and  south. 

He  went  first  to  Niagara,  and  then,  through 
Cleveland,  Cincinnati,  Nashville,  and  Paducah, 
much  of  the  way  on  foot,  to  Saint  Louis.  He  left 
that  city  in  August,  with  a  company  of  forty  per- 
sons, among  whom  were  two  young  men  besides 
himself  from  Newburyport,  for  Mexico ;  and  after 
much  fatigue  and  privation,  arrived  at  Santa  Fe 
on  the  twenty-eighth  of  November.  Here  he  re- 
mained nearly  a  year,  passing  a  part  of  the  time 
as  a  clerk  in  a  store,  and  the  residue  in  selling 
merchandise  through  the  country.  Near  the  close 
of  September,  1832,  he  left  Taos,  with  a  trapping- 
party  ;  travelled  around  the  sources  of  Red  River 
to  the  head  waters  of  the  Brazos ;  separated  from 
the  company,  with  four  others,  and  came  into  Ar- 
kansas,— travelling  the  last  five  hundred  miles  on 
foot,  and  reaching  Fort  Smith,  in  November, "  with- 
out a  rag  of  clothing,  a  dollar  in  money,  or  know- 
ing a  person  in  the  territory." 

Near  this  place  he  spent  the  winter  in  teaching 
a  few  children,  and  in  the  following  July  he  went 
further  down  the  country,  and  opened  a  school 
under  more  favourable  auspices ;  but  after  a  few 
weeks,  being  attacked  by  a  fever,  was  compelled  to 
abandon  it.  He  had  in  the  mean  time  written  seve- 
ral poems  for  a  newspaper  printed  at  Little  Rock, 
which  pleased  the  editor  so  much  that  he  sent  for 
him  to  go  there  and  become  his  partner.  The 
proposition  was  gladly  accepted,  and  in  October  he 
crossed  the  Arkansas  and  landed  at  Little  Rock, 
paying  his  last  cent  for  the  ferriage  of  a  poor  old 
wldier,  who  had  known  his  father  in  New  England. 

Here  commenced  a  new  era  in  the  life  of  PIKE. 


From  this  time  his  efforts  appear  to  have  been 
crowned  with  success.  The  "Arkansas  Advo- 
cate" was  edited  by  him  until  the  autumn  of  1834, 
when  it  became  his  property.  Soon  after  his  ar- 
rival at  his  new  home  he  began  to  devote  his  leisure 
to  the  study  of  the  law,  and  he  was  now  admitted 
to  the  bar.  He  continued  both  to  write  for  his 
paper  and  to  practise  in  the  courts,  until  the  sum- 
mer of  1836,  when  he  sold  his  printing  establish- 
ment; and  since  then  he  has  successfully  pursued 
his  profession.  He  was  married  at  Little  Rock,  in 
November,  1834. 

About  this  time  he  published  at  Boston  a  volume 
of  prose  sketches  and  poems,  among  which  are  an 
interesting  account  of  his  journeys  over  the  prai- 
ries, and  some  fine  poetry,  written  at  Santa  Fe  and 
among  the  mountains  and  forests  of  Mexico.  In 
the  preface  to  it,  he  says:  "What  I  have  written 
has  been  a  transcript  of  my  own  feelings — too  much 
so,  perhaps,  for  the  purposes  of  fame.  Writing 
has  always  been  to  me  a  communion  with  my  own 
soul.  These  poems  were  composed  in  desertion 
and  loneliness,  and  sometimes  in  places  of  fear 
and  danger.  My  only  sources  of  thought  and 
imagery  have  been  my  own  mind,  and  Nature, 
who  has  appeared  to  me  generally  in  desolate 
guise  and  utter  dreariness,  and  not  unfrequently 
in  sublimity." 

His  "Hymns  to  the  Gods,"  published  afterward, 
were  composed  at  an  early  age,  in  Fairhaven,  and 
principally  while  he  was  surrounded  by  pupils, 
in  the  school-room.  They  are  bold,  spirited, 
scholarly  and  imaginative,  and  their  diction  is  ap- 
propriate and  poetical,  though  in  some  instances 
marred  by  imperfect  and  double  rhymes.  Of  his 
minor  pieces,  "Spring"  and  "To  the  Mocking- 
bird," are  the  best.  I  have  heard  praise  bestowed 
on  "Ariel,"  a  poem  much  longer  than  these,  pub- 
lished in  1835,  but  as  it  appeared  in  a  periodical 
which  had  but  a  brief  existence,  I  have  not  been 
able  to  obtain  a  copy  of  it.  In  "Fantasma,"  in 
which,  I  suppose,  he  intended  to  shadow  forth  his 
own  "eventful  history,"  he  speaks  of  one  who 

"Was  young, 

And  had  not  known  the  hpnt  of  his  own  mind, 
Until  the  mighty  spell  of  COLERIDGE  woke 
Its  hidden  powers," 

and  in  some  of  his  poems  there  is  a  cast  of  thought 
similar  to  that  which  pervades  many  of  the  works 
of  this  poet,  though  nothing  that  amounts  to 
imitation.  His  early  struggles,  and  subsequent 
wanderings  and  observations  furnished  him  with 
the  subjects,  thoughts,  and  imagery  of  many  of  his 
pieces,  and  they  therefore  leave  on  the  mind  an 
impression  of  nature  and  truth.  He  still  writes  oc- 
casionally for  the  literary  magazines,  but  none  of 
his  later  poems  seem  to  be  equal  to  those  which  I 
have  quoted  in  this  work. 

392 


ALBERT    PIKE. 


393 


HYMNS  TO  THE  GODS. 

NO.    I. TO    NEPTUNE. 

GOD  of  the  mighty  deep  !  wherever  now 
The  waves  beneath  thy  brazen  axles  bow — 
Whether  thy  strong,  proud  steeds,  wind-wing'd 

and  wild, 

Trample  the  storm-vex'd  waters  round  them  piled, 
Swift  as  the  lightning-flashes,  that  reveal 
The  quick  gyrations  of  each  brazen  wheel ; 
While  round  and  under  thee,  with  hideous  roar, 
The  broad  Atlantic,  with  thy  scourging  sore, 
Thundering,  like  antique  Chaos  in  his  spasms, 
In  heaving  mountains  and  deep-yawning  chasms, 
Fluctuates  endlessly;  while,  through  the  gloom, 
Their  glossy  sides  and  thick  manes  fleck'd  with  foam, 
Career  thy  steeds,  neighing  with  frantic  glee 
In  fierce  response  to  the  tumultuous  sea, — 
Whether  thy  coursers  now  career  below, 
Where,  amid  storm-wrecks,  hoary  sea-plants  grow, 
Broad-leaved,  and  fanning  with  a  ceaseless  motion 
The  pale,  cold  tenants  of  the  abysmal  ocean — 
O,  come !  our  altars  waiting  for  thee  stand, 
Smoking  with  incense  on  the  level  strand ! 

Perhaps  thou  lettest  now  thy  horses  roam 
Upon  some  quiet  plain ;  no  wind-toss'd  foam 
Is  now  upon  their  limbs,  hut  leisurely 
They  tread  with  silver  feet  the  sleeping  sea, 
Fanning  the  waves  with  slowly-floating  manes, 
Like  mist  in  sunlight;  haply,  silver  strains 
From  clamorous  trumpets  round  thy  chariot  ring, 
And  green-robed  sea-gods  unto  thee,  their  king, 
Chant,  loud  in  praise:  APOLLO  now  doth  gaze 
With  loving  looks  upon  thee,  and  his  rays 
Light  up  thy  steeds'  wild  eyes :  a  pleasant  warmth 
Is  felt  upon  the  sea,  where  fierce,  cold  storm 
Has  just  been  rushing,  and  the  noisy  winds, 
That  ^EOLUS  now  within  their  prison  binds, 
Flying  with  misty  wings :  perhaps,  below 
Thou  liest  in  green  caves,  where  bright  things  glow 
With  myriad  colours — many  a  monster  cumbers 
The  sand  a-near  thee,  while  old  TRITON  slumbers 
As  idly  as  his  wont,  and  bright  eyes  peep 
Upon  thee  every  way,  as  thou  dost  sleep. 

Perhaps  thou  liest  on  some  Indian  isle, 
Under  a  waving  tree,  where  many  a  mile 
Stretches  a  sunny  shore,  with  golden  sands 
Heap'd  up  in  many  shapes  by  naiads'  hands, 
And,  blushing  as  the  waves  come  rippling  on, 
Shaking  the  sunlight  from  them  as  they  run 
And  curl  upon  the  beach — like  molten  gold 
Thick-set  with  jewellery  most  rare  and  old — 
And  sea-nymphs  sit,  and,  with  small,  delicate  shells, 
Make  thee  sweet  melody :  as  in  deep  dells 
We  hear,  of  summer  nights,  by  fairies  made, 
The  while  they  dance  within  some  quiet  shade, 
Sounding  their  silver  flutes  most  low  and  sweet, 
In  strange  but  beautiful  tunes,  that  their  light  feet 
May  dance  upon  the  bright  and  misty  dew 
In  better  time :  all  wanton  airs  that  blew 
But  lately  over  spice  trees,  now  are  here, 
Waving  their  wings,  all  odour-laden,  near 
The  bright  and  laughing  sea.     O,  wilt  thou  rise, 
And  come  with  them  to  our  new  sacrifice  ! 
50 


NO.    II. TO    APOLLO. 

Bright-hair'd  APOLLO  ! — thou  who  ever  art 
A  blessing  to  the  world — whose  mighty  heart 
Forever  pours  out  love,  and  light,  and  life : 
Thou,  at  whose  glance  all  things  of  earth  are  rife 
With  happiness ;  to  whom,  in  early  spring, 
Bright  flowers  raise  up  their  heads,  where'er  they 
On  the  steep  mountain-side,  or  in  the  vale      [cling 
Are  nestled  calmly.     Thou  at  whom  the  pale 
And  weary  earth  looks  up,  when  winter  flees, 
With  patient  gaze:  thouforwhomwind-stripp'd  trees 
Put  on  fresh  leaves,  and  drink  deep  of  the  light 
That  glitters  in  thine  eye :  thou  in  whose  bright 
And  hottest  rays  the  eagle  fills  his  eye 
With  quenchless  fire,  and  far,  far  up  on  high 
Screams  out  his  joy  to  thee :  by  all  the  names 
That  thou  dost  bear — whether  thy  godhead  claims 
PHOEBUS,  or  SOL,  or  golden-hair'd  APOLLO, 
Cynthian  or  Pythian — if  thou  dost  follow 

The  fleeing  night,  O,  hear 
Our  hymn  to  thee,  and  smilingly  draw  near! 

O,  most  high  poet !  thou  whose  great  heart's  swell 
Pours  itself  out  on  mountain  and  deep  dell : 
Thou  who  dost  touch  them  with  thy  golden  feet, 
And  make  them  for  a  poet's  theme  most  meet: 
Thou  who  dost  make  the  poet's  eye  perceive 
Great  beauty  everywhere — in  the  slow  heave 
Of  the  unquiet  sea,  or  in  the  war 
Of  its  unnumber'd  waters ;  on  the  shore 
Of  pleasant  streams,  upon  the  jagged  cliff 
Of  savage  mountain,  where  the  black  clouds  drift 
Full  of  strange  lightning;  or  upon  the  brow 
Of  silent  night,  that  solemnly  and  slow 
Comes  on  the  earth ;  O,  thou !  whose  influence 
Touches  all  things  with  beauty,  makes  each  sense 
Double  delight,  tinges  with  thine  own  heart 
Each  thing  thou  meetest ;  thou  who  ever  art 
Living  in  beauty — nay,  who  art,  in  truth, 
Beauty  imbodied — hear,  while  all  our  youth 

With  earnest  calling  cry ! 
Answer  our  hymn,  and  corne  to  us,  most  high! 

0,  thou !  who  strikest  oft  thy  golden  lyre 
In  strange  disguise,  and  with  a  wondrous  fire 
Sweepest  its  strings  upon  the  sunny  glade, 
While  dances  to  thee  many  a  village  maid, 
Decking  her  hair  with  wild  flowers,  or  a  wreath 
Of  thine  own  laurel,  while,  reclined  beneath 
Some  ancient  oak,  with  smiles  at  thy  good  heart, 
As  though  thou  wert  of  this  our  world  a  part, 
Thou  lookest  on  them  in  the  darkening  wood, 
While  fauns  come  forth,  and,  with  their  dances  rude 
Flit  round  among  the  trees  with  merry  leap, 
Like  their  god,  PAN  ;  and  from  fir  thickets  deep 
Come  up  the  satyrs,  joining  the  wild  crew, 
And  capering  for  thy  pleasure:  from  each  yew, 
And  oak,  and  beech,  the  wood-nymphs  oft  peep  out 
To  see  the  revelry,  while  merry  shout 
And  noisy  laughter  rings  about  the  wood, 
And  thy  lyre  cheers  the  darken'd  solitude — 

O,  come  !  while  we  do  sound 
Our  flutes  and  pleasant-pealing  lyres  around ! 

^ 

O,  most  high  prophet ! — thou  that  showest  men 
Deep-hidden  knowledge :  thou  that  from  its  den 


394 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


Bringest  futurity,  that  it  comes  by 
In  visible  shape,  passing  before  the  eye 
Shrouded  in  visions :  tliou  in  whose  high  power 
Are  health  and  sickness :  thou  who  oft  dost  shower 
Great  plagues  upon  the  nations,  with  hot  breath 
Scorching  away  their  souls,  and  sending  death 
Like  fiery  mist  amid  them ;  or  again, 
Like  the  sweet  breeze  that  comes  with  summer  rain, 
Touching  the  soul  with  joy,  thou  sendest  out 
Bright  health  among  the  people,  who  about 
With  dewy  feet  and  fanning  wings  doth  step, 
And  touch  each  poor,  pale  cheek  with  startling  lip, 
Filling  it  with  rich  blood,  that  leaps  anew 
Out  from  the  shrivdl'd  heart,  and  courses  through 
The  long-forsaken  veins ! — 0.  thou,  whose  nanfe 
Is  sung  by  all,  let  us,  too,  dare  to  claim 

Thy  holy  presence  here ! 
Hear  us,  bright  god,  and  come  in  beauty  near! 

O,  thou,  the  lover  of  the  springing  bow ! 
Who  ever  in  the  gloomy  woods  dost  throw 
Thine  arrows  to  the  mark,  like  the  keen  flight 
Of  those  thine  arrows  that  with  midday  light 
Thou  proudly  pointest;  thou  from  whom  grim  bears 
And  lordly  lions  flee,  with  strange,  wild  fears, 
And  hide  among  the  mountains :  thou  whose  cry 
Sounds  often  in  the  woods,  where  whirl  and  fly 
The  time-worn  leaves — when,  with  a  merry  train, 
BACCHUS  is  on  the  hills,  and  on  the  plain 
The  full-arm'd  CERES — when  upon  the  sea 
The  brine-gods  sound  their  horns,  and  merrily 
The  whole  earth  rings  with  pleasure :  then  thy  voice 
Stills  into  silence  every  stirring  noise, 
With  utmost  sweetness  pealing  on  the  hills, 
And  in  the  echo  of  the  dancing  rills, 
And  o'er  the  sea,  and  on  the  busy  plain, 
And  on  the  air,  until  all  voices  wane 

Before  its  influence — 
0,  come,  great  god,  be  ever  our  defence ! 

By  that  most  gloomy  day,  when  with  a  cry 
Young  HYACINTH  fell  down,  and  his  dark  eye 
Was  fill'd  with  dimming  blood — when  on  a  bed 
Of  his  own  flowers  he  laid  his  wounded  head, 
Breathing  deep  sighs;  by  those  heart-cherish'd  eyes 
Of  long-loved  HYACINTH — by  all  the  sighs 
That  thou,  O,  young  APOLLO,  then  didst  pour 
On  every  gloomy  hill  and  desolate  shore, 
Weeping  at  thy  great  soul,  and  making  dull 
Thy  ever-quenchless  eye,  till  men  were  full 
Of  strange  forebodings  for  thy  lustre  dimm'd, 
And  many  a  chant  in  many  a  fane  was  hymn'd 
Unto  the  pale-eyed  sun ;  the  satyrs  stay'd 
Long  time  in  the  dull  woods,  then  on  the  glade 
They  came  and  look'd  for  thee ;  and  all  in  vain 
Poor  DIAN  sought  thy  love,  and  did  complain 
For  want  of  light  and  life ; — by  all  thy  grief, 
O,  bright  APOLLO  !  hear,  and  give  relief 

To  us  who  cry  to  thee — 
O,  come,  and  let  us  now  thy  glory  see ! 


TSTO.    III. TO    VENUS. 

0,  thou,  most  lovely  and  most  beautiful ! 
Whether  thy  doves  now  lovingly  do  lull 


Thy  bright  eyes  to  soft  slumbering  upon 
Some  dreamy  south  wind :  whether  thou  hast  gone 
Upon  the  heaven  now,  or  if  thou  art 
Within  some  floating  cloud,  and  on  its  heart 
Pourest  rich-tinted  joy ;  whether  thy  wheels 
Are  touching  on  the  sun-forsaken  fields, 
And  brushing  off  the  dew  from  bending  grass, 
Leaving  the  poor  green  blades  to  look,  alas ! 
With  dim  eyes  at  the  moon — (ah!  so  dost  thou 
Full  oftquench  brightness !) — VENUS,  whether  now 
Thou  passest  o'er  the  sea,  while  each  light  wing 
Of  thy  fair  doves  is  wet,  while  sea-maids  bring 
Sweet  odours  for  thee — (ah !  how  foolish  they ! 

They  have  not  felt  thy  smart !) — 
They  know  not,  while  in  ocean-caves  they  play, 

How  strong  thou  art. 

Where'er  thou  art,  O,  VENUS  !  hear  our  song — 
Kind  goddess,  hear !  for  unto  thee  belong 
All  pleasant  offerings:  bright  doves  coo  to  thee, 
The  while  they  twine  their  necks  with  quiet  glee 
Among  the  morning  leaves ;  thine  are  all  sounds 
Of  pleasure  on  the  earth ;  and  where  abounds 
Most  happiness,  for  thee  we  ever  look ; 
Among  the  leaves,  in  dimly-lighted  nook, 
Most  often  hidest  thou,  where  winds  may  wave 
Thy  sunny  curls,  and  cool  airs  fondly  lave 
Thy  beaming  brow,  and  ruffle  the  white  wings 
Of  thy  tired  doves;  and  where  his  love-song  sings, 
With  lightsome  eyes,  some  little,  strange,  sweet  bird, 
With  notes  that  never  but  by  thee  are  heard — 
O,  in  such  scene,  most  bright,  thou  liest  now, 

And,  with  half-open  eye, 
Drinkest  in  beauty — O,  most  fair,  that  thou 

Wouldst  hear  our  cry ! 

O,  thou,  through  whom  all  things  upon  the  earth 
Grow  brighter:  thou  for  whom  even  laughing  mirth 
Lengthens  his  note;  thou  whom  the  joyous  bird 
Singeth  continuously;  whose  name  is  heard 
In  every  pleasant  sound :  at  whose  warm  glance 
All  things  look  brighter:  for  whom  wine  doth  dance 
More  merrily  within  the  brimming  vase, 
To  meet  thy  lip :  thou,  at  whose  quiet  pace 
Joy  leaps  on  faster,  with  a  louder  laugh, 
And  Sorrow  tosses  to  the  sea  his  staff, 
And  pushes  back  the  hair  from  his  dim  eyes, 
To  look  again  upon  forgotten  skies ; 
While  Avarice  forgets  to  count  his  gold, 
Yea,  unto  thee  his  wither'd  hand  doth  hold, 
Fill'd  with  that  heart-blood :  thou,  to  whose  high 

All  things  are  made  to  bow,  [might 

Come  thou  to  us,  and  turn  thy  looks  of  light 

Upon  us  now ! 

O,  hear,  great  goddess !  thou  whom  all  obey ; 
At  whose  desire  rough  satyrs  leave  their  play, 
And  gather  wild-flowers,  decking  the  bright  hair 
Of  her  they  love,  and  oft  blackberries  bear 
To  shame  them  at  her  eyes :  O,  thou  !  to  whom 
They  leap  in  awkward  mood,  within  the  gloom 
Of  darkening  oak  trees,  or  at  lightsome  noon 
Sing  unto  thee,  upon  their  pipes,  a  tune      [power 
Of  wondrous  languishment :    thou   whose   great 
Brings  up  the  sea-maids  from  each  ocean-bower, 
With  many  an  idle  song,  to  sing  to  thee, 
And  bright  locks  flowing  half  above  the  sea, 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


395 


And  gleaming  eyes,  as  if  in  distant  caves 
They  spied  their  lovers — (so  among  the  waves 
Small  bubbles  flit,  mocking  the  kindly  sun, 

With  little,  laughing  brightness) — 
0,  come,  and  ere  our  festival  be  done, 

Our  new  loves  bless ! 

0,  thou  who  once  didst  weep,  and  with  sad  tears 
Bedew  the  pitying  woods ! — by  those  great  fears 
That  haunted  thee  when  thy  beloved  lay 
With  dark  eyes  drown'd  in  death — by  that  dull  day 
When  poor  ADONIS  fell,  with  many  a  moan, 
Among  the  leaves,  and  sadly  and  alone 
Breathed  out  his  spirit — 0,  do  thou  look  on 
All  maidens  who,  for  too  great  love,  grow  wan, 
And  pity  them :  come  to  us  when  night  brings 
Her  first  faint  stars,  and  let  us  hear  the  wings 
Of  thy  most  beauteous  and  bright-eyed  doves 
Stirring  the  breathless  air;  let  all  thy  loves 
Be  flying  round  thy  car,  with  pleasant  songs 
Moving  upon  their  lips :  come !  each  maid  longs 
For  thy  fair  presence — goddess  of  rich  love ! 

Come  on  the  odorous  air; 
And,  as  thy  light  wheels  roll,  from  us  remove 

All  love-sick  care ! 

Lo,  we  have  many  kinds  of  incense  here 

To  offer  thee,  and  sunny  wine  and  clear, 

Fit  for  young  BACCHUS  :  flowers  we  have  here  too, 

That  we  have  gather'd  when  the  morning  dew 

Was  moist  upon  them ;  myrtle-wreaths  we  bear, 

To  place  upon  thy  bright,  luxuriant  hair, 

And  shade  thy  temples  too;  'tis  now  the  time 

Of  all  fair  beauty :  thou  who  lovest  the  clime 

Of  our  dear  Cyprus,  where  sweet  flowers  blow 

With  honey  in  their  cups,  and  with  a  glow 

Like  thine  own  cheek,  raising  their  modest  heads 

To  be  refresh'd  with  the  transparent  beads 

Of  silver  dew :  behold,  this  April  night, 

Our  altars  burn  for  thee;  lo,  on  the  light 

We  pour  out  incense  from  each  golden  vase ; 

O,  goddess,  hear  our  words ! 
And  hither  turn,  with  thine  own  matchless  grace, 

Thy  white-wing'd  birds. 

NO.    IT. TO   DIANA. 

Most  graceful  goddess ! — whether  now  thou  art 
Hunting  the  dun  deer  in  the  silent  heart 
Of  some  old,  quiet  wood,  or  on  the  side 
Of  some  high  mountain,  and,  most  eager-eyed, 
Dashing  upon  the  chase,  with  bended  bow 
And  arrow  at  the  string,  and  with  a  glow 
Of  wondrous  beauty  on  thy  cheek,  and  feet 
Like  thine  own  silver  moon — yea,  and  as  fleet 
As  her  best  beams — and  quiver  at  the  back, 
Rattling  to  all  thy  stoppings  ;   if  some  track 
In  distant  Thessaly  thou  followest  up, 
Brushing  the  dews  from  many  a  flower-cup 
And  quiet  leaf,  and  listening  to  the  bay 
Of  thy  good  hounds,  while  in  the  deep  woods  they, 
feuong-limb'd  and  swift,  leap  on  with  eager  bounds, 
And  with  their  long,  deep  note  each  hill  resounds, 
Making  thee  music : — goddess,  hear  our  cry, 
And  let  us  worship  thee,  while  far  and  high 
Goes  up  thy  brother — while  his  light  is  full 
Upon  the  earth ;  for,  when  the  night-winds  lull 


The  world  to  sleep,  then  to  the  lightless  sky 
DIAN  must  go,  with  silver  robes  of  dew, 
And  sunward  eye. 

Perhaps  thou  liest  on  some  shady  spot 
Among  the  trees,  while  frighten'd  beasts  hear  not 
The  deep  bay  of  thy  hounds ;  but,  dropping  down 
Upon  green  grass,  and  leaves  all  sere  and  brown, 
Thou  pillowest  thy  delicate  head  upon 
Some  ancient  mossy  root,  where  wood-winds  run 
Wildly  about  thee,  and  thy  fair  nymphs  point 
Thy  death-wing'd  arrows,  or  thy  hair  anoint 
With  Lydian  odours,  and  thy  strong  hounds  lie 
Lazily  on  the  earth,  and  watch  thine  eye, 
And  watch  thine  arrows,  while  thou  hast  a  dream. 
Perchance,  in  some  deep-bosom'd,  shaded  stream 
Thou  bathest  now,  where  even  thy  brother  sun 
Cannot  look  on  thee — where  dark  shades  and  dun 
Fall  on  the  water,  making  it  most  cool, 
Like  winds  from  the  broad  sea,  or  like  some  pool 
In  deep,  dark  cavern :  hanging  branches  dip 
Their  locks  into  the  stream,  or  slowly  drip 
With  tear-drops  of  rich  dew :  before  no  eyes 
But  those  of  flitting  wind-gods,  each  nymph  hies 

Into  the  deep,  cool,  running  stream,  and  there 
Thou  pillowest  thyself  upon  its  breast, 

O  queen,  most  fair  ! 

By  all  thine  hours,of  pleasure — when  thou  wast 
Upon  tall  Latmos,  moveless,  still,  and  lost 
In  boundless  pleasure,  ever  gazing  on 
Thy  bright-eyed  youth,  whether  the  unseen  sun 
Was  lighting  the  deep  sea,  or  at  mid-noon 
Careering  through  the  sky — by  every  tune 
And  voice  of  joy  that  thrill'd  about  the  chords 
Of  thy  deep  heart,  when  thou  didst  hear  his  words 
In  that  cool,  shady  grot,  where  thou  hadst  brought 
And  placed  END  YMION;  where  fair  hands  had  taught 
All  beauty  to  shine  forth ;  where  thy  fair  maids 
Had  brought  up  shells  for  thee,  and  from  the  glades 
All  sunny  flowers,  with  precious  stones  and  gems 
Of  utmost  beauty,  pearly  diadems 
Of  many  sea-gods ;  birds  were  there,  that  sang 
Ever  most  sweetly;  living  waters  rang 
Their  changes  to  all  time,  to  soothe  the  soul 
Of  thy  ENDYMION;  pleasant  breezes  stole 
With  light  feet  through  the  cave,  that  they  might 
His  dewy  lips ; — O,  by  those  hours  of  bliss       [kiss 

That  thou  didst  then  enjoy,  come  to  us,  fair 
And  beautiful  DIANA — take  us  now 

Under  thy  care ! 

NO.  IV. TO    MEHCUHT.  \ 

0,  winged  messenger!  if  thy  light  feet 

Are  in  the  star-paved  halls  where  high  gods  meet, 

Where  the  rich  nectar  thou  dost  take  and  sip 

At  idly-pleasant  leisure,  while  thy  lip 

Utters  rich  eloquence,  until  thy  foe, 

JUNO  herself,  doth  her  long  hate  forego, 

And  hangs  upon  thine  accents;  VENUS  smiles, 

And  aims  her  looks  at  thee  with  winning  wiles ; 

And  wise  MINERVA'S  cup  stands  idly  by 

The  while  thou  speakest.    Whether  up  on  high 

Thou  wing'st  thy  way — or  dost  but  now  unfurl 

Thy  pinions  like  the  eagle,  while  a  whirl 


396 


ALBERT    PIKE. 


Of  air  takes  place  about  thee— if  thy  wings 

Are  over  the  broad  sea,  where  Afric  flings 

His  hot  breath  on  the  waters ;  by  the  shore 

Of  Araby  the  blest,  or  in  the  roar 

Of  crashing  northern  ice — O,  turn,  and  urge 

Thy  winged  course  to  us !  Leave  the  rough  surge, 

Or  icy  mountain-height,  or  city  proud, 

Or  haughty  temple,  or  dim  wood  down  bow'd 

With  weaken'd  age, 
And  come  to  us,  thou  young  and  mighty  sage ! 

Thou  who  invisibly  dost  ever  stand 
Nea.  each  high  orator;  and,  hand  in  hand 
With  the  gold-robed  Apollo,  touch  the  tongue 
Of  every  poet ;  on  whom  men  have  hung 
With  strange  enchantment,  when  in  dark  disguise 
Thou  hast  descended  from  cloud-curtain'd  skies, 
And  lifted  tip  thy  voice,  to  teach  bold  men 
Thy  world-arousing  art :  0,  thou !  that,  when 
The  ocean  was  untrack'd,  didst  teach  them  send 
Great  ships  upon  it :  thou  who  dost  extend 
In  storm  a  calm  protection  to  the  hopes 
Of  the  fair  merchant :  thou  who  on  the  slopes 
Of  Mount  Cyllene  first  madest  sound  the  lyre 
And  many-toned  harp  with  childish  fire, 
And  thine  own  beauty  sounding  in  the  caves 
A  strange,  new  tune,  unlike  the  ruder  staves 
That  PAN  had   utter'd — while   each  wondering 

nymph 

Came  out  from  tree  and  mountain,  and  pure  lymph 
Of  mountain-stream,  to  drink  each  rolling  note 
That  o'er  the  listening  woods  did  run.  and  float 

With  fine,  clear  tone, 
Like  silver  trumpets  o'er  still  waters  blown : 

O,  matchless  artist !  thou  of  wondrous  skill, 
Who  didst  in  ages  past  the  wide  eaith  fill 
With  every  usefulness :  thou  who  dost  teach 
Quick-witted  thieves  the  miser's  gold  to  reach, 
And  rob  him  of  his  sleep  for  many  a  night, 
Getting  thee  curses:  0,  mischievous  sprite ! 
Thou  Rogue-god  MEECCIIY!  ever  glad  to  cheat 
All  gods  and  men ;  with  mute  and  noiseless  feet 
Going  in  search  of  mischief;  now  to  steal 
The  fiery  spear  of  MARS,  now  clog  the  wheel 
Of  bright  APOLLO'S  car,  that  it  may  crawl 
Most  slowly  upward :  thou  whom  wrestlers  call, 
Whether  they  strive  upon  the  level  green 
At  dewy  nightfall,  under  the  dim  screen 
Of  ancient  oak,  or  at  the  sacred  games 
In  fierce  contest :  thou  whom  each  then  names 
In  half-thought  prayer,  when  the  quick  breath  is 

drawn 

For  the  last  struggle :  thou  whom  on  the  lawn 
The  victor  praises,  making  unto  thee 
Offering  for  his  proud  honours — let  us  be 

Under  thy  care : 
O,  winged  messenger,  hear,  hear  our  prayer ! 


"SO.  VI. TO    BACCHUS. 


Where  art  thou,  BACCHUS]  On  the  vine-spread  hills 
Of  some  rich  country,  where  the  red  wine  fills 
The  cluster'd  grapes — staining  thy  lips  all  red 
With  generous  liquor — pouring  on  thy  head 
The  odorous  wine,  and  ever  holding  up 
Unto  the  smiling  sun  thy  brimming  cup, 


And  filling  it  with  light  ?  Or  doth  thy  car, 
Under  the  blaze  of  the  far  northern  star, 
Roll  over  Thracia's  hills,  while  all  around 
Are  shouting  Bacchanals,  and  every  sound 
Of  merry  revelry,  while  distant  men 
Start  at  thy  noisings  1  Or  in  shady  glen 
Reclinest  thou,  beneath  green  ivy  leaves, 
And  idlest  off  the  day,  while  each  Faun  weaves 
Green  garlands  for  thee,  sipping  the  rich  bowl 
That  thou  hast  given  him — while  the  loud  roll 
Of  thy  all-conquering  wheels  is  heard  no  more, 
And  thy  strong  tigers  have  lain  down  before 

Thy  grape-stain'd  feet '? 

O,  BACCHUS  !  come  and  meet 
Thy  worshippers,  the  while,  with  merry  lore 

Of  ancient  song,  thy  godhead  they  do  greet ! 

0,  thou  who  lovest  pleasure !  at  whose  heart 
Rich  wine  is  always  felt ;  who  hast  a  part 
In  all  air-swelling  mirth ;  who  in  the  dance 
Of  merry  maidens  join'st,  where  the  glance 
Of  bright  black  eyes,  or  white  and  twinkling  feet 
Of  joyous  fair  ones,  doth  thy  quick  eyes  greet 
Upon  some  summer-green  :  Maker  of  joy 
To  all  care-troubled  men  !  who  dost  destroy 
The  piercing  pangs  of  grief;  for  whom  the  maids 
Weave  ivy  garlands,  and  in  pleasant  glades 
Hang  up  thy  image,  and  with  beaming  looks 
Go  dancing  round,  while  shepherds  with  their  crooks 
Join  the  glad  company,  and  pass  about, 
With  merry  laugh  and  many  a  gleesome  shout, 
Staining  with  rich,  dark  grapes  each  little  cheek 
They  most  do  love ;  and  then,  with  sudden  freak, 
Taking  the  willing  hand,  and  dancing  on 
About  the  green  mound :  0,  thou  merry  son 

Of  lofty  JOYK  ! 

Where  thou  dost  rove 
Among  the  grape-vines,  come,  ere  day  is  done, 

And  let  us  too  thy  sunny  influence  prove ! 

Where  art  thou,  conqueror  ?  before  whom  fell 
The  jewell'd  kings  of  Ind,  when  the  strong  swell 
Of  thy  great  multitudes  came  on  them,  and 
Thou  hadst  thy  thyrsus  in  thy  red,  right  hand, 
Shaking  it  over  them,  till  every  soul 
Grew  faint  as  with  wild  lightning ;  when  the  roll 
Of  thy  great  chariot-wheels  was  on  the  neck 
Of  many  a  conqueror ,  when  thou  didst  check 
Thy  tigers  and  thy  lynxes  at  the  shore 
Of  the  broad  ocean,  and  didst  still  the  roar, 
Pouring  a  sparkling  and  most  pleasant  wine 
Into  its  waters ;  when  the  dashing  brine 
Toss'd  up  new  odours,  and  a  pleasant  scent 
Upon  its  breath,  and  many  who  were  spent 
With  weary  sickness,  breathed  of  life  anew, 
When  wine-inspired  breezes  on  them  blew ; — 
BACCHUS  !  who  bringest  all  men  to  thy  feet ! 
Wine-god !  with  brow  of  light,  and  smiles  most 

Make  this  our  earth  [sweet ! 

A  sharer  in  thy  mirth — 
Let  us  rejoice  thy  wine-devv'd  hair  to  greet, 

And  chant  to  thee,  who  gavest  young  Joy  his 
birth. 

Come  to  our  ceremony !  lo,  we  rear 
An  altar  of  bright  turf  unto  thee  here, 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


397 


And  crown  it  with  the  vine  and  pleasant  leaf 

Of  clinging  ivy :   Come,  and  drive  sad  Grief 

Far  from  us !  lo,  we  pour  thy  turf  upon 

Full  cups  of  wine,  bidding  the  westering  sun 

Fill  the  good  air  with  odour ;  see,  a  mist 

Is  rising  from  the  sun-touch'd  wine ! — (ah !  hist ! — 

Alas  !  'twas  not  his  cry !) — with  all  thy  train 

Of  laughing  Satyrs,  pouring  out  a  strain 

Of  utmost  shrillness  on  the  noisy  pipe — 

0,  come  ! — with  eye  and  lip  of  beauty,  ripe 

And  wondrous  rare — O  !  let  us  hear  thy  wheels 

Coming  upon  the  hills,  while  twilight  steals 

Upon  us  quietly — while  the  dark  night 

Is  hinder'd  from  her  course  by  the  fierce  light 

Of  thy  wild  tigers'  eyes; — 0  !  let  us  see 

The  revelry  of  thy  wild  company, 

With  all  thy  train  ; 

And,  ere  night  comes  again, 
We'll  pass  o'er  many  a  hill  and  vale  with  thee, 

Raising  to  thee  a  loudly-joyous  strain. 

NO.  VII. TO  SOMTfUS. 

0,  thou,  the  leaden-eyed  !  with  drooping  lid 
Hanging  upon  thy  sight,  and  eye  half-hid 
By  matted  hair:  that,  with  a  constant  train 
Of  empty  dreams,  all  shadowless  and  vain 
As  the  dim  wind,  dost  sleep  in  thy  dark  cave 
With  poppies  at  the  mouth, which  night-winds  wave, 
Sending  their  breathings  downward — on  thy  bed, 
Thine  only  throne,  with  darkness  overspread, 
And  curtains  black  as  are  the  eyes  of  night  : 
Thou,  who  dost  come  at  time  of  waning  light 
And  sleep  among  the  woods,  where  night  doth  hide 
And  tremble  at  the  sun,  and  shadows  glide 
Among  the  waving  tree-tops;  if  now  there 
Thou  sleepest  in  a  current  of  cool  air, 
Within  somo  nook,  amid  thick  flowers  and  moss, 
Gray-colour'd  as  thine  eyes,  while  thy  dreams  toss 

Their  fantasies  about  the  silent  earth, 

In  waywardness  of  mirth — 
0,  come !  and  hear  the  hymn  that  we  are  chanting 
Amid  the  star-light  through  the  thick  leaves  slanting. 

Thou  lover  of  the  banks  of  idle  streams 
O'crshaded  by  broad  oaks,  with  scatter'd  gleams 
From  the  few  stars  upon  them ;  of  the  shore 
Of  the  broad  sea,  with  silence  hovering  o'er; 
The  great  moon  hanging  out  her  lamps  to  gild 
The  murmuring  waves  with  hues  all  pure  and  mild, 
Where  thou  dost  lie  upon  the  sounding  sands, 
While  winds  come  dancing  on  from  southern  lands 
With  dreams  upon  their  backs,  and  unseen  waves 
Of  odours  in  their  hands :  thou,  in  the  caves 
Of  the  star-lighted  clouds,  on  summer  eves 
Reclining  lazily,  while  Silence  leaves 
Her  influence  about  thee :  in  the  sea 
That  liest,  hearing  the  monotony 
Of  waves  far-off  above  thee,  like  the  wings 
Of  passing  dreams,  while  the  great  ocean  swings 

His  bulk  above  thy  sand-supported  head — 

(As  chain'd  upon  his  bed 
Some  giant,  with  an  idleness  of  motion 
So  swings  the  still  and  slcep-enthrall'd  ocean.) 

Thou  who  dost  bless  the  weary  with  thy  touch, 
And  makest  Agony  relax  his  clutch 


Upon  the  bleeding  fibres  of  the  heart ; 
Pale  Disappointment  lose  her  constant  smart, 
And  Sorrow  dry  her  tears,  and  cease  to  weep 
Her  life  away,  and  gain  new  cheer  in  sleep  : 
Thou  who  dost  bless  the  birds,  in  every  place 
Where  they  have  sung  their  songs  with  wondrous 

grace 

Throughout  the  day,  and  now,  with  drooping  wing, 
Amid  the  leaves  receive  thy  welcoming : — 
Come  with  thy  crowd  of  dreams,  0,  thou !  to  whom 
All  noise  is  most  abhorr'd,  and  in  this  gloom, 
Beneath  the  shaded  brightness  of  the  sky, 
Where  are  no  sounds  but  as  the  winds  go  by, — 
Here  touch  our  eyes,  great  SOMJJUS  !  with  thy  wand ; 
Ah !  here  thou  art,  with  touch  most  mild  and  bland, 

And  we  forget  our  hymn,  and  sink  away; 

And  here,  until  broad  day 
Come  up  into  the  sky,  with  fire-steeds  leaping, 
Will  we  recline,  beneath  the  vine-leaves  sleeping. 

NO.  Till. TO  CEHES. 

Goddess  of  bounty !  at  whose  spring-time  call,  t 
When  on  the  dewy  earth  thy  first  tones  fall, 
Pierces  the  ground  each  young  and  tender  blade, 
And  wonders  at  the  sun ;  each  dull,  gray  glade 
Is  shining  with  new  grass ;  from  each  chill  hole, 
Where  they  had  lain  enchain'd  and  dull  of  soul, 
The  birds  come  forth,  and  sing  for  joy  to  thee 
Among  the  springing  leaves ;  and,  fast  and  free, 
The  rivers  toss  their  chains  up  to  the  sun, 
And  through  their  grassy  banks  leapingly  run, 
When  thou  hast  touch'd  them :  thou  who  ever  art 
The  goddess  of  all  beauty :  thou  whose  heart 
Is  ever  in  the  sunny  meads  and  fields ; 
To  whom  the  laughing  earth  looks  up  and  yields 
Her  waving  treasuies :  thou  that  in  thy  car, 
With  winged  dragons,  when  the  morning  star 
Sheds  his  cold  light.,  touchest  the  morning  trees 
Until  they  spread  their  blossoms  to  the  breeze ; — 

0,  pour  thy  light 

Of  truth  and  joy  upon  our  souls  this  night, 
And  grant  to  us  all  plenty  and  good  ease ! 

O,  thou,  the  goddess  of  the  rustling  corn  ! 
Thou  to  whom  reapers  sing,  and  on  the  lawn 
Pile  up  their  baskets  with  the  full-ear'd  wheat ; 
While  maidens  come,  with  little  dancing  feet, 
And  bring  thee  poppies,  weaving  thee  a  crown 
Of  simple  beauty,  bending  their  heads  down 
To  garland  thy  full  baskets :  at  whose  side, 
Among  the  sheaves  of  wheat,  doth  BACCHUS  ride 
With  bright  and  sparkling  eyes,  and  feet  and  mouth 
All  wine-stain'd  from  the  warm  and  sunny  south : 
Perhaps  one  arm  about  thy  neck  he  twines, 
While  in  his  car  ye  ride  among  the  vines, 
And  with  the  other  hand  he  gathers  up 
The  rich,  full  grapes,  and  holds  the  glowing  cup 
Unto  thy  lips — and  then  he  throws  it  by, 
And  crowns  thee  with  bright  leaves  to  shade  thine 
So  it  may  gaze  with  richer  love  and  light       [eye, 
Upon  his  beaming  brow :  If  thy  swift  flight 

Be  on  some  hill 

Of  vine-hung  Thrace — O,  come,  while  night  is 

still, 

And  greet  with  heaping  arms  our  gladden'd  sight ! 
2L 


398 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


Lo !  the  small  stars,  above  the  silver  wave, 
Come  wandering  up  the  sky,  and  kindly  lave 
The  thin  clouds  with  their  light,  like  floating  sparks 
Of  diamonds  in  the  air ;  or  spirit  barks, 
With  unseen  riders,  wheeling  in  the  sky. 
Lo  !  a  soft  mist  of  light  is  rising  high, 
Like  silver  shining  through  a  tint  of  red, 
And  soon  the  queened  moon  her  love  will  shed, 
Like  pearl-mist,  on  the  earth  and  on  the  sea, 
Where  thou  shalt  cross  to  view  our  mystery. 
Lo !  we  have  torches  here  for  thee,  and  urns, 
Where  incense  with  a  floating  odour  burns, 
And  altars  piled  with  various  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  ears  of  corn,  gather'd  at  early  hours, 
And  odours  fresh  from  India,  with  a  heap 
Of  many-colour'd  -poppies : — Lo !  we  keep 
Our  silent  watch  for  thee,  sitting  before 
Thy  ready  altars,  till  to  our  lone  shore 

Thy  chariot  wheels 

Shall  come,  while  ocean  to  the  burden  reels, 
And  utters  to  the  sky  a  stifled  roar. 


TO  THE  PLANET  JUPITER. 

THOU  art,  in  truth,  a  fair  and  kingly  star, 
Planet !  whose  silver  crest  now  gleams  afar 
Upon  the  edge  of  yonder  eastern  hill, 
That,  night-like,  seems  a  third  of  heaven  to  fill. 
Thou  art  most  worthy  of  a  poet's  lore, 
His  worship — as  a  thing  to  bend  before ; 
And  yet  thou  smilest  as  if  I  might  sing, 
Weak  as  I  am — my  lyre  unused  to  ring 
Among  the  thousand  harps  which  fill  the  world. 
The  sun's  last  fire  upon  the  sky  has  curl'd, 
And  on  the  clouds,  and  now  thou  hast  arisen, 
And  in  the  east  thine  eye  of  love  doth  glisten — 
Thou,  whom  the  ancients  took  to  be  a  king, 
And  that  of  gods ;  and,  as  thou  wert  a  spring 
Of  inspiration,  I  would  soar  and  drink, 
While  yet  thou  art  upon  the  mountain's  brink. 
Who  bid  men  say  that  thou,  O  silver  peer, 
Wast  to  the  moon  a  servitor,  anear 
To  sit,  and  watch  her  eye  for  messages, 
Like  to  the  other  fair  and  silver  bees 
That  swarm  around  her  when  she  sits  her  throne  7 
What  of  the  moon  1     She  bringeth  storm  alone, 
At  new,  and  full,  and  every  other  time ;    [rhyme, 
She  turns  men's  brains,  and  so  she  makes  them 
And  rave,  and  sigh  away  their  weary  life ; 
And  shall  she  be  of  young  adorers  rife, 
And  thou  have  none  ]     Nay,  one  will  sing  to  thee, 
And  turn  his  eye  to  thee,  and  bend  the  knee. 
Lo !  on  the  marge  of  the  dim  western  plain, 
The  star  of  love  doth  even  yet  remain — 
She  of  the  ocean-foam — and  watch  thy  look, 
As  one  might  gaze  upon  an  antique  book, 
When  he  doth  sit  and  read,  at  deep,  dead  night, 
Stealing- from  Time  his  hours.     Ah,  sweet  delay! 
And  now  she  sinks  to  follow  fleeting  day, 
Contented  with  thy  glance  of  answering  love : 
And  where  she  worships  can  I  thoughtless  prove1? 
Now  as  thou  risest  higher  into  sight, 
Marking  the  water  with  a  line  of  light, 
On  wave  and  ripple  quietly  aslant, 


Thy  influences  steal  upon  the  heart, 

With  a  sweet  force  and  unresisted  art, 

Like  the  still  growth  of  some  unceasing  plant. 

The  mother,  watching  by  her  sleeping  child, 

Blesses  thee,  when  thy  light,  so  still  and  mild, 

Falls  through  the  casement  on  her  babe's  pale  face. 

And  tinges  it  with  a  benignant  grace, 

Like  the  white  shadow  of  an  angel's  wing. 

The  sick  man,  who  has  lain  for  many  a  day, 

And  wasted  like  a  lightless  flower  away, 

He  blesses  thee,  O  JOVE  !  when  thou  dost  shine 

Upon  his  face,  with  influence  divine, 

Soothing  his  thin,  blue  eyelids  into  sleep. 

The  child  its  constant  murmuring  will  keep, 

Within  the  nurse's  arms,  till  thou  dost  glad 

His  eyes,  and  then  he  sleeps.     The  thin,  and  sad, 

And  patient  student  closes  up  his  books 

A  space  or  so,  to  gain  from  thy  kind  looks 

Refreshment.     Men,  in  dungeons  pent, 

Climb  to  the  window,  and,  with  head  upbent, 

Gaze  they  at  thee.     The  timid  deer  awake, 

And,  'neath  thine  eye,  their  nightly  rambles  make, 

Whistling  their  joy  to  thee.     The  speckled  trout 

From  underneath  his  rock  comes  shooting  out, 

And  turns  his  eye  to  thee,  and  loves  thy  light, 

And  sleeps  within  it.     The  gray  water  plant 

Looks  up  to  thee  beseechingly  aslant, 

And  thou  dost  feed  it  there,  beneath  the  wave. 

Even  the  tortoise  crawls  from  out  his  cave, 

And  feeds  wherever,  on  the  dewy  grass, 

Thy  light  hath  linger'd.     Thou  canst  even  pass 

To  water-depths,  and  make  the  coral-fly 

Work  happier,  when  flatter' d  by  thine  eye. 

Thou  touchest  not  the  roughest  heart  in  vain ; 

Even  the  sturdy  sailor,  and  the  swain, 

Bless  thee,  whene'er  they  see  thy  lustrous  eye 

Open  amid  the  clouds,  stilling  the  sky. 

The  lover  praises  thee,  and  to  thy  light 

Compares  his  love,  thus  tender  and  thus  bright ; 

And  tells  his  mistress  thou  dost  kindly  mock 

Her  gentle  eye.     Thou  dost  the  heart  unlock 

Which  Care  and  Wo  have  render'd  comfortless, 

And  teachesl  it  thy  influence  to  bless, 

And  even  for  a  time  its  grief  to  brave. 

The  madman,  that  beneath  the  moon  doth  rave, 

Looks  to  thy  orb,  and  is  again  himself. 

The  miser  stops  from  counting  out  his  pelf, 

When  through  the  barred  windows  comes  thy  lull — 

And  even  he,  he  thinks  thee  beautiful. 

0  !  while  thy  silver  arrows  pierce  the  air, 
And  while  beneath  thee,  the  dim  forests,  where 
The  wind  sleeps,  and  the  snowy  mountains  tall 
Are  still  as  death — O  !  bring  me  back  again 
The  bold  and  happy  heart  that  bless'd  me,  when 
My  youth  was  green ;  ere  home  and  hope  were  veil'd 
In  desolation !     Then  my  cheek  was  paled, 

But  not  with  care.     For,  late  at  night,  and  long, 

1  toil'd,  that  I  might  gain  myself  among 
Old  tomes,  a  knowledge;  and  in  truth  I  did: 
I  studied  long,  and  things  the  wise  had  hid 

In  their  quaint  books,  I  learn'd ;  and  then  I  thought 
The  poet's  art  was  mine ;  and  so  I  wrought 
My  boyish  feelings  into  words,  and  spread 
Them  out  before  the  world — and  I  was  fed 
With  praise,  and  with  a  name.     Alas !  to  him, 


ALBERT    PIKE. 


399 


Whose  eye  and  heart  must  soon  or  late  grow  dim, 
Toiling  with  poverty,  or  evils  worse, 
This  gift  of  poetry  is  but  a  curse, 
Unfitting  it  amid  the  world  to  brood, 
And  toil  and  jostle  for  a  livelihood. 
The  feverish  passion  of  the  soul  hath  been 
My  bane.     O  JOVE  !  couldst  thou  but  wean 
Me  back  to  boyhood  for  a  space,  it  were 
Indeed  a  gift.     There  was  a  sudden  stir, 
Thousands  of  years  ago,  upon  the  sea; 
The  waters  foam'd,  and  parted  hastily, 
As  though  a  giant  left  his  azure  home, 
And  Delos  woke,  and  did  to  light  up  come 
Within  that  Grecian  sea.     LATONA  had, 
Till  then,  been  wandering,  listlessly  and  sad, 
About  the  earth,  and  through  the  hollow  vast 
Of  water,  follow'd  by  the  angry  haste 
Of  furious  JCNO.     Many  a  weary  day, 
Above  the  shaggy  hills  where,  groaning,  lay 
ENTELADUS  and  TTPHON,  she  had  roam'd, 
And  over  volcanoes,  where  fire  upfoam'd ; 
And  sometimes  in  the  forests  she  had  lurk'd, 
Where  the  fierce  serpent  through  the  herbage  work'd, 
Over  gray  weeds,  and  tiger-trampled  flowers, 
And  where  the  lion  hid  in  tangled  bowers, 
And  where  the  panther,  with  his  dappled  skin, 
Made  day  like  night  with  his  deep  moaning  din : 
All  things  were  there  to  fright  the  gentle  soul — 
The  hedgehog,  that  across  the  path  did  roll, 
Gray  eagles,  fang'd  like  cats,  old  vultures,  bald, 
Wild  hawks  and  restless  owls,  whose  cry  appall'd, 
Black  bats  and  speckled  tortoises,  that  snap, 
And  scorpions,  hiding  underneath  gray  stones, 
With  here  and  there  old  piles  of  human  bones 
Of  the  first  men  that  found  out  what  was  war, 
Brass  heads  of  arrows,  rusted  scimetar, 
Old  crescent,  shield,  and  edgeless  battle-axe, 
And  near  them  skulls,  with  wide  and  gaping  cracks, 
Too  old  and  dry  for  worms  to  dwell  within ; 
Only  the  restless  spider  there  did  spin, 
And  made  his  house.   And  then  she  down  would  lay 
Her  restless  head,  among  dry  leaves,  and  faint, 
And  close  her  eyes  till  thou  wouldst  come  and  paint 
Her  visage  with  thy  light;  and  then  the  blood 
Would  stir  again  about  her  heart,  endued, 
By  thy  kind  look,  with  life  again,  and  speed ; 
And  then  wouldst  thou  her  gentle  spirit  feed 
With  new-wing'd  hopes,  and  sunny  fantasies, 
And,  looking  piercingly  amid  the  trees, 
Drive  from  her  path  all  those  unwelcome  sights. 
Then  would  she  rise,  and  o'er  the  flower-blights, 
And  through  the  tiger-peopled  solitudes, 
And  odorous  brakes,  and  panther-guarded  woods, 
Would  keep  her  way  until  she  reach'd  the  edge 
Of  the  blue  sea,  and  then,  on  some  high  ledge 
Of  thunder-blacken'd  rocks,  would  sit  and  look 
Into  thine  eye,  nor  fear  lest  from  some  nook 
Should  rise  the  hideous  shapes  that  Juxo  ruled, 
And  persecute  her.     Once  her  feet  she  cool'd 
Upon  a  long  and  narrow  beach.     The  brine 
Had  mark'd,  as  with  an  endless  serpent-spine, 
The  sanded  shore  with  a  long  line  of  shells, 
Like  those  the  Nereids  weave,  within  the  cells 
Of  their  queen  THETIS — such  they  pile  around 
The  feet  of  cross  old  NEBEUS,  having  found 


That  this  will  gain  his  grace,  and  such  they  bring 
To  the  quaint  PROTEUS,  as  an  offering, 
When  they  would  have  him  tell  their  fate,  and  who 
Shall  first  embrace  them  with  a  lover's  glow. 
And  there  LATOXA  stepp'd  along  the  marge 
Of  the  slow  waves,  and  when  one  came  more  large, 
And  wet  her  feet,  she  tingled,  as  when  JOVE 
Gave  her  the  first,  all-burning  kiss  of  love. 
Still  on  she  kept,  pacing  along  the  sand, 
And  on  the  shells,  and  now  and  then  would  stand, 
And  let  her  long  and  golden  hair  outfloat 
Upon  the  waves — when,  lo !  the  sudden  note 
Of  the  fierce,  hissing  dragon  met  her  ear. 
She  shudder'd  then,  and,  all-possess'd  with  fear, 
Rush'd  wildly  through  the  hollow-sounding  vast 
Into  the  deep,  deep  sea ;  and  then  she  pass'd 
Through  many  wonders — coral-rafter'd  caves, 
Deep,  far  below  the  noise  of  upper  waves — 
Sea-flowers,  that  floated  into  golden  hair, 
Like  misty  silk — fishes,  whose  eyes  did  glare, 
And  some  surpassing  lovely — fleshless  spine 
Of  old  behemoths — flasks  of  hoarded  wine 
Among  the  timbers  of  old,  shatter'd  ships — 
Goblets  of  gold,  that  had  not  touch'd  the  lips  • 
Of  men  a  thousand  years.     And  then  she  lay 
Her  down,  amid  the  ever-changing  spray, 
And  wish'd,  and  begg'd  to  die ;  and  then  it  was 
That  voice  of  thine  the  deities  that  awes, 
Lifted  to  light  beneath  the  Grecian  skies 
That  rich  and  lustrous  Delian  paradise, 
And  placed  LATOXA  there,  while  yet  asleep, 
With  parted  lip,  and  respiration  deep, 
And  open  palm ;  and  when  at  length  she  woke,. 
She  found  herself  beneath  a  shadowy  oak, 
Huge  and  majestic ;  from  its  boughs  look'd  out 
All  birds,  whose  timid  nature  't  is  to  doubt 
And  fear  mankind.     The  dove,  with  patient  eyes 
Earnestly  did  his  artful  nest  devise, 
And  was  most  busy  under  sheltering  leaves ; 
The  thrush,  that  loves  to  sit  upon  gray  eaves 
Amid  old  ivy,  she,  too,  sang  and  built ;          [spilt 
And  mock-bird  songs  rang  out  like  hail-showers 
Among  the  leaves,  or  on  the  velvet  grass ; 
The  bees  did  all  around  their  store  amass, 
Or  down  depended  from  a  swinging  bough, 
In  tangled  swarms.     Above  her  dazzling  brow 
The  lustrous  humming-bird  was  whirling ;  and, 
So  near,  that  she  might  reach  it  with  her  hand, 
Lay  a  gray  lizard — such  do  notice  give 
When  a  foul  serpent  comes,  and  they  do  live 
By  the  permission  of  the  roughest  hind ; 
Just  at  her  feet,  with  mild  eyes  up-inclined, 
A  snowy  antelope  iropp'd  off  the  buds 
From  hanging  limbs ;  and  in  the  solitudes 
No  noise  disturb'd  the  birds,  except  the  dim 
Voice  of  a  fount,  that,  from  the  grassy  brim, 
Rain'd  upon  violets  its  liquid  light, 
And  visible  love ;  also,  the  murmur  slight 
Of  waves,  that  softly  sang  their  anthem,  and 
Trode  gently  on  the  soft  and  noiseless  sand, 
As  gentle  children  in  sick-chambers  grieve, 
And  go  on  tiptoe.     Here,  at  call  of  eve, 
When  thou  didst  rise  above  the  barred  east, 
Touching  with  light  LATOXA'R  snowy  breast 
And  gentler  eyes,  and  when  the  happy  earth 


400 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


Sent  up  its  dews  to  thee— then  she  gave  birth 
Unto  APOLLO  and  the  lustrous  DIAN  ; 
And  when  the  wings  of  morn  commenced  to  fan 
The  darkness  from  the  east,  afar  there  rose, 
Within  the  thick  and  odour-dropping  forests,  [est, 
Where  moss  was  grayest  and  dim  caves  were  hoar- 
Afar  there  rose  the  known  and  dreadful  hiss 
Of  the  pursuing  dragon.     Agonies 
Grew  on  LATONA'S  soul ;  and  she  had  fled, 
And  tried  again  the  ocean's  pervious  bed, 
Had  not  APOLLO,  young  and  bright  APOLLO, 
Restrained  from  the  dim  and  perilous  hollow, 
And  ask'd  what  meant  the  noise.  "  It  is,  O  child ! 
The  hideous  dragon  that  hath  aye  defiled 
My  peace  and  quiet,  sent  by  heaven's  queen 
To  slay  her  rival,  me."     Upon  the  green 
And  mossy  grass  there  lay  a  nervous  bow, 
And  heavy  arrows,  eagle-wing'd,  which  thou, 

0  JOVE  !  hadst  placed  within  APOLLO'S  reach. 
These  grasping,  the  young  god  stood  in  the  breach 
Of  circling  trees,  with  eye  that  fiercely  glanced, 
Nostril  expanded,  lip  press'd,  foot  advanced, 
And  arrow  at  the  string;  when,  lo !  the  coil 

Of-  the  fierce  snake  came  on  with  winding  toil, 
And  vast  gyrations,  crushing  down  the  branches, 
With  noise  as  when  a  hungry  tiger  cranches 
Huge  bones :  and  then  APOLLO  drew  his  bow 
Full  at  the  eye — nor  ended  with  one  blow : 
Dart  after  dart  he  hurl'd  from  off  the  string — 
All  at  the  eye — until  a  lifeless  thing 
The  dragon  lay.     Thus  the  young  sun-god  slew 
Old  Juu o's  scaly  snake :  and  then  he  threw 
(So  strong  was  he)  the  monster  in  the  sea ; 
And  sharks  came  round  and  ate  voraciously, 
Lashing  the  waters  into  bloody  foam, 
By  their  fierce  fights.     LATOXA,  then,  might  roam 
In  earth,  air,  sea,  or  heaven,  void  of  dread ; 
For  even  JUNO  badly  might  have  sped 
With  her  bright  children,  whom  thou  soon  didst  set 
To  rule  the  sun  and  moon,  as  they  do  yet. 
Thou !  who  didst  then  their  destiny  control, 

1  here  would  woo  thee,  till  into  my  soul 

Thy  light  might  sink.     0  JOVE  !  I  am  full  sure 
None  bear  unto  thy  star  a  love  more  pure 
Than  I ;  thou  hast  been,  everywhere,  to  me 
A  source  of  inspiration.     I  should  be 
Sleepless,  could  I  not  first  behold  thine  orb 
Rise  in  the  west ;  then  doth  my  heart  absorb, 
Like  other  withering  flowers,  thy  light  and  life ; 
For  that  neglect,  which  cutteth  like  a  knife, 
I  never  have  from  thee,  unless  the  lake 
Of  heaven  be  clouded.  Planet!  thou  wouldst  make 
Me,  as  thou  didst  thine  ancient  worshippers, 
A  poet ;  but,  alas  !  whatever  stirs 
My  tongue  and  pen,  they  both  are  faint  and  weak : 
APOLLO  hath  not,  in  some  gracious  freak, 
Given  to  me  the  spirit  of  his  lyre, 
Or  touch'd  my  heart  with  his  ethereal  fire 
And  glorious  essence :  thus,  whate'er  I  sing 
Is  weak  and  poor,  and  may  but  humbly  ring 
Above  the  waves  of  Time's  far-booming  sea. 
All  I  can  give  is  small ;  thou  wilt  not  scorn 
A  heart :  I  give  no  golden  sheaves  of  corn ; 
I  burn  to  thee  no  rich  and  odorous  gums ; 
I  offer  up  to  thee  no  hecatombs, 


And  build  no  altars :  't  is  a  heart  alone ; 
Such  as  it  is,  I  give  it — 't  is  thy  own. 

TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

THOU  glorious  mocker  of  the  world  !     I  hear 
Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 
Of  these  green  solitudes — and  all  the  clear, 
Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear 
And  floods  the  heart.     Over  the  sphered  tombs 
Of  vanish'd  nations  rolls  thy  music  tide. 
No  light  from  history's  starlike  page  illumes 
The  memory  of  those  nations — they  have  died. 
None  cares  for  them  but  thou,  and  thou  may  st  sing, 
Perhaps,  o'er  me — as  now  thy  song  doth  ring 
Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  wast  deified. 

Thou  scorner  of  all  cities !     Thou  dost  leave 
The  world's  turmoil  and  never-ceasing  din, 
Where  one  from  others  no  existence  weaves, 

.-Where  the  old  sighs,  the  young  turns  gray  and 

grieves, 

Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden's  heart  within: 
And  thou  dost  flee  into  the  broad,  green  woods, 
And  with  thy  soul  of  music  thou  dost  win 
Their  heart  to  harmony — no  jar  intrudes 
Upon  thy  sounding  melody.     0,  where, 
Amid  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air, 

Is  one  so  dear  as  thee  to  these  old  solitudes  1 

Ha !  what  a  burst  was  that !  the  JSolian  strain 
Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 
Of  the  lone  woods — and  now  it  comes  again — 
A  multitudinous  melody — like  a  rain 
Of  glossy  music  under  echoing  trees, 
Over  a  ringing  lake ;  it  wraps  the  soul 
With  a  bright  harmony  of  happiness — 
Even  as  a  gem  is  wrapt,  when  round  it  roll 
Their  waves  of  brilliant  flame — till  we  become, 
E'en  with  the  excess  of  our  deep  pleasure,  dumb, 
And  pant  like  some  swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 

I  would,  sweet  bird,  that  I  might  live  with  thee, 

Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  the  shades, 

Alone  with  nature — but  it  may  not  be ; 

I  have  to  struggle  with  the  tumbling  sea 

Of  human  life,  until  existence  fades 

Into  death's  darkness.     Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar 

Through  the  thick  woods  and  shadow-checker'd 

glades, 

While  naught  of  sorrow  casts  a  dimness  o'er 

The  brilliance  of  thy  heart — but  I  must  wear 

As  now,  my  garmenting  of  pain  and  care. — 

As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sackcloth  wore. 

Yet  why  complain  7 — What  though  fond  hopes 
deferr'd  [gloom ! 

Have  overshadow'd  Youth's    green  paths  with 
Still,  joy's  rich  music  is  not  all  unheard, — 
There  is  a  voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird, 
To  welcome  me,  within  my  humble  home  ; — 
There  is  an  eye  with  love's  devotion  bright, 
The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume !         [Mitrht 
Then  why  complain] — When  death  shall  cast  his 
Over  the  spirit,  then  my  bones  shall  rest 
Beneath  these  trees — and  from  thy  swelling  breast, 
O'er  them  thy  song  shall  pour  likearich  flood  of  light 


ALBERT   PIKE. 


401 


TO  SPRING. 


O  THOU  delicious  Spring ! 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  thin  and  subtle  showers, 

Which  fall  from  clouds  that  lift  their  snowy  wing 
From  odorous  beds  of  light-enfolded  flowers, 

And  from  enmassed  bowers, 
That  over  grassy  walks  their  greenness  fling, 
Come,  gentle  Spring ! 

Thou  lover  of  young  wind, 
That  cometh  from  the  invisible  upper  sea     [bind, 
Beneath  the  sky,  which  clouds,  its  white  foam, 
And,  settling  in  the  trees  deliciously, 

Makes  young  leaves  dance  with  glee, 
Even  in  the  teeth  of  that  old,  sober  hind, 
Winter  unkind, 

•  Come  to  us ;  for  thou  art 
Like  the  fine  love  of  children,  gentle  Spring ! 

Touching  the  sacred  feeling  of  the  heart, 
Or  like  a  virgin's  pleasant  welcoming ; 

And  thou  dost  ever  bring 
A  tide  of  gentle  but  resistless  art 
Upon  the  heart. 

Red  Autumn  from  the  south 
Contends  with  thee  ;  alas !  what  may  he  show  1 

What  are  his  purple-stain'd  and  rosy  mouth, 
And  browned  cheeks,  to  thy  soft  feet  of  snow, 

And  timid,  pleasant  glow, 
Giving  earth-piercing  flowerstheirprimal  growth, 
And  greenest  youth  1 

Gay  Summer  conquers  thee ; 
And  yet  he  has  no  beauty  such  as  thine ; 

What  is  his  ever-streaming,  fiery  sea, 
To  the  pure  glory  that  with  thee  doth  shine  ? 

Thou  season  most  divine, 

What  may  his  dull  and  lifeless  minstrelsy 

Compare  with  thee  1 

Come,  sit  upon  the  hills, 

And  bid  the  waking  streams  leap  down  their  side, 

And  green  the  vales  with  their  slight-sounding 

And  when  the  stars  upon  the  sky  shall  glide,  [rills ; 

And  crescent  Dian  ride, 
I  too  will  breathe  of  thy  delicious  thrills, 
On  grassy  hills. 

Alas !  bright  Spring,  not  long 
Shall  I  enjoy  thy  pleasant  influence ; 

For  thou  shall  die  the  summer  heat  among, 
Sublimed  to  vapour  in  his  fire  intense, 

And,  gone  forever  hence, 
Exist  no  more :  no  more  to  earth  belong, 
Except  in  song. 

So  I  who  sing  shall  die : 
Worn  unto  death,  perchance, by  care  and  sorrow; 

And,  fainting  thus  with  an  unconscious  sigh, 
Bid  unto  this  poor  body  a  good-morrow, 

Which  now  sometimes  I  borrow, 
And  breathe  of  joyance  keener  and  more  high, 
Ceasing  to  sigh ! 


51 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROCKY 
MOUNTAINS. 


THE  deep,  transparent  sky  is  full 

Of  many  thousand  glittering  lights — 
Unnumber'd  stars  that  calmly  rule 

The  dark  dominions  of  the  night. 
The  mild,  bright  moon  has  upward  risen, 

Out  of  the  gray  and  boundless  plain, 
And  all  around  the  white  snows  glisten, 

Where  frost,  and  ice,  and  silence  reign, — 
While  ages  roll  away,  and  they  unchanged  remain. 

These  mountains,  piercing  the  blue  sky 

With  their  eternal  cones  of  ice ; 
The  torrents  dashing  from  on  high, 

O'er  rock  and  crag  and  precipice ; 
Change  not,  but  still  remain  as  ever, 

Unwasting,  deathless,  and  sublime, 
And  will  remain  while  lightnings  quiver, 

Or  stars  the  hoary  summits  climb, 
Or  rolls  the  thunder-chariot  of  eternal  Time. 

It  is  not  so  with  all — I  change, 

And  waste  as  with  a  living  death, 
Like  one  that  hath  become  a  strange, 

Unwelcome  guest,  and  lingereth 
Among  the  memories  of  the  past, 

Where  he  is  a  forgotten  name ; 
For  Time  hath  greater  power  to  blast 

The  hopes,  the  feelings,  and  the  fame, 
To  make  the  passions  fierce,  or  their  first  strength 
to  tame. 

The  wind  comes  rushing  swift  by  me, 

Pouring  its  coolness  on  my  brow ; 
Such  was  I  once — as  proudly  free, 

And  yet,  alas!  how  alter'd  now! 
Yet,  while  I  gaze  upon  yon  plain, 

These  mountains,  this  eternal  sky, 
The  scenes  of  boyhood  come  again, 

And  pass  before  the  vacant  eye, 
Still  wearing  something  of  their  ancient  brilliancy. 

Yet  why  complain1? — for  what  is  wrong, 

False  friends,  cold-hearted  ness,  deceit, 
And  life  already  made  too  long, 

To  one  who  walks  with  bleeding  feet 
Over  its  paths  1 — it  will  but  make 

Death  sweeter  when  it  comes  at  last — 
And  though  the  trampled  heart  may  ache, 

Its  agony  of  pain  is  past, 

And  calmness  gathers  there,  while  life  is  ebbing 
fast. 

Perhaps,  when  I  have  pass'd  away, 

Like  the  sad  echo  of  a  dream, 
There  may  be  some  one  found  to  say 

A  word  that  might  like  sorrow  seem. 
That  I  would  have — one  sadden'd  tear, 

One  kindly  and  regretting  thought — 
Grant  me  but  that ! — and  even  here, 

Here,  in  this  lone,  unpeopled  spot, 
To  breathe  away  this  life  of  pain,  I  murmur  not. 


2i.2 


PARK  BENJAMIN. 


[Born,  1809.] 


THE  paternal  ancestors  of  Mr.  BEXJAMIH  came 
to  New  England  at  an  early  period  from  Wales. 
His  father,  who  was  a  merchant,  resided  many 
years  at  Demerara,  in  British  Guiana,  where  he 
acquired  a  large  fortune.  There  the  subject  of 
this  notice  was  born  in  the  year  1809.  When  he 
was  about  three  years  old,  in  consequence  of  a 
severe  illness  he  was  brought  to  this  country, 
under  the  care  of  a  faithful  female  guardian,  and 
here,  except  during  a  few  brief  periods,  he  has 
since  resided.  The  improper  medical  treatment  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected  in  Demerara  pre- 
vented his  complete  restoration  under  the  more 
skilful  physicians  of  New  England,  and  he  has 
been  lame  from  his  childhood ;  but  I  believe  his 
general  health  has  been  uniformly  good  for  many 
years. 

While  a  boy  he  was  sent  to  an  excellent  school 
in  the  rural  village  of  Colchester,  in  Connecticut. 
At  twelve  he  was  removed  to  New  Haven,  where 
he  resided  three  years  in  his  father's  family,  after 
which  he  was  sent  to  a  private  boarding  school 
near  Boston,  in  which  he  remained  until  he  en- 
tered Harvard  College,  in  1825.  He  left  this 
venerable  institution  before  the  close  of  his  second 
academic  year,  in  consequence  of  a  protracted  and 
painful  illness,  and  on  his  recovery  entered  Wash- 
ington College,  at  Hartford,  then  under  the  presi- 
dency of  the  Right  Reverend  THOMAS  C.  BROWN- 
ELI,,  now  Bishop  of  Connecticut.  He  was  gradu- 
ated in  1829,  with  the  highest  honours  of  his 
class. 

In  1830,  Mr.  BENJAMIIT  entered  the  Law 
School  at  Cambridge,  at  that  time  conducted  by 
Mr.  Justice  STORY  and  Professor  ASHMUN.  He 
pursued  his  legal  studies  with  much  industry  for 
a  considerable  period  at  this  seminary,  but  finished 
the  acquirement  of  his  profession  at  New  Haven, 
under  Chief  Justice  DAGGETT  and  Professor 
HITCHCOCK.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Connecti- 
cut bar  in  1833,  and  removing  soon  after  to  Bos- 
ton, the  residence  of  his  relatives  and  friends,  he 
was  admitted  to  the  courts  of  Massachusetts,  as 
attorney  and  counsellor  at  law  and  solicitor  in 
chancery. 

His  disposition  to  devote  his  time  to  literature 
prevented  his  entering  upon  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  and  on  the  death  of  EDWIN  BUCKING- 
HAM, one  of  its  original  editors,  I  believe  he  be- 
came connected  with  the  "  New  England  Maga- 
zine." In  1836  that  periodical  was  joined  to  the 
"  American  Monthly  Magazine,"  published  in 
New  York,  and  edited  by  CHARLES  F.  HOFFMAN, 
and  Mr.  BENJAMIN  was  soon  after  induced  to  go 
to  reside  permanently  in  that  city.  By  unfortu- 
nate investments,  and  the  calamities  in  which  so 
irmnv  were  involved  in  that  period,  he  had  lost 
most  of  his  patrimonial  property,  and  the  remainder 


of  it  he  now  invested  in  a'pnblishing  establish- 
ment ;  but  the  commercial  distress  of  the  time,  by 
which  many  of  the  wealthiest  houses  were  over- 
thrown, prevented  the  realization  of  his  expecta- 
tions, and  the  business  was  abandoned.  He  pur- 
chased, I  believe,  near  the  close  of  the  year  1837, 
the  "American  Monthly  Magazine,"  and  for 
about  two  years  conducted  it  with  much  ability ; 
but  by  giving  to  some  of  the  later  numbers  of  it 
a  political  character,  its  prosperity  was  destroyed, 
and  he  relinquished  it  to  become  associated  with 
Mr.  HOTIACE  GREELET  in  the  editorship  of  the 
"  New  Yorker,"  a  popular  weekly  periodical,  de- 
voted to  literature  and  politics.  In  1840  several 
weekly  gazettes  of  unprecedented  size  were  esta- 
blished in  New  York,  and  rapidly  attained  a  great 
circulation.  With  the  most  prominent  of  these  he 
was  connected,  and  his  writings  contributed  largely 
to  its  success. 

In  both  prose  and  verse  Mr.  BENJAMIN  has 
been  a  very  prolific  author.  His  rhythmical  com- 
positions would  fill  many  volumes.  They  are 
generally  short  "  A  Poem  on  the  Contemplation 
of  Nature,"  read  before  the  classes  of  Washington 
College,  on  the  day  of  his  graduation ;  "  Poetry,  a 
Satire,"  published  in  1843,  and  "Infatuation,  a 
Satire,"  published  in  1845,  are  the  longest  of  his 
printed  works.  He  has  written  several  dramatic 
pieces,  of  which  only  fragments  have  been  given 
to  the  public. 

There  have  not  been  many  successful  American 
satires.  THUMBULL'S  «  Progress  of  Dulness"  and 
"  McFingal,"  are  the  best  that  had  been  produced 
at  the  close  of  the  Revolution.  FRENEAU,  HOP- 
KINS, DWIGHT,  ALSOP,  CLIFFTON,  and  others, 
attempted  this  kind  of  writing  with  various  suc- 
cess, but  none  of  them  equalled  TRUMBI'LL.  More 
recently  FESSENDEN,  VERPLANCK,  PIERPONT, 
HALLECK,  HOLMES,  WARD,  OSBOHN,  and  BEN- 
JAMIN, have  essayed  it.  HALLECK'S  "  Fanny" 
and  "  Epistles"  are  witty,  spirited  and  playful, 
but  local  in  their  application.  The  "Vision  of 
Rubeta"  has  felicitous  passages,  and  shows  that 
its  author  is  a  scholar,  but  it  is  cumbrous  and  oc- 
casionally coarse.  Mr.  BENJAMIN'S  satires  are 
lively,  pointed,  and  free  from  malignity  or  licen- 
tiousness. 

In  some  of  his  shorter  poems,  Mr.  BENJAMIN 
has  shown  a  quick  perception  of  the  ridiculous; 
in  others,  warm  affections  and  a  meditative  spirit ; 
and  in  inoro,  prnycty.  His  poems  are  adorned  with 
apposite  and  pretty  fancies,  and  seem  generally  to 
be  expressive  of  actual  feelings.  Some  of  his  hu- 
mourous pieces,  as  the  sonnet  entitled  "Sport," 
which  is  quoted  in  the  following  pages,  are  happily 
expressed,  but  his  style  is  generally  more  like  that 
of  an  improvisator  than  an  artist  He  rarely 
makes  use  of  the  burnisher. 

402 


PARK   BENJAMIN. 


403 


GOLD. 

"  Gold  is,  in  its  last  analysis,  the  sweat  of  the  poor  and 
the  blood  of  the  brave." — JOSEPH  NAPOLEON. 

WASTE  treasure  like  water,  ye  noble  and  great ! 
Spend  the  wealth  of  the  world  to  increase  your  es- 
Pile  up  your  temples  of  marble,  and  raise       [tate ; 
Columns  and  domes,  that  the  people  may  gaze 
And  wonder  at  beauty,  so  gorgeously  shown 
By  subjects  more  rich  than  the  king  on  his  throne. 
Lavish  and  squander — for  why  should  ye  save 
"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave  1" 

Pour  wine  into  goblets,  all  crusted  with  gems — 

Wear  pearls  on  your  collars  and  pearls  on  your 

Let  diamonds  in  splendid  profusion  outvie  [herns; 

The  myriad  stars  of  a  tropical  sky  ! 

Though  from  the  night  of  the  fathomless  mine 

These  may  be  dug  at  your  banquet  to  shine, 

Little  care  ye  for  the  chains  of  the  slave, 

"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave." 

Behold,  at  your  gates  stand  the  feeble  and  old, 
Let  them  burn  in  the  sunshine  and  freeze  in  the  cold ; 
Let  them  starve :  though  a  morsel,  a  drop  will  impart 
New  vigour  and  warmth  to  the  limb  and  the  heart : 
You  taste  not  their  anguish,  you  feel  not  their  pain, 
Your  heads  are  not  bare  to  the  wind  and  the  rain — 
Must  wretches  like  these  of  your  charity  crave 
"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave  1" 

An  army  goes  out  in  the  morn's  early  light, 
Ten  thousand  gay  soldiers  equipp'd  for  the  fight ; 
An  army  comes  home  at  the  closing  of  day; 
O,  where  are  their  banners,  their  goodly  array] 
Ye  widows  and  orphans,  bewail  not  so  loud — 
Your  groans  may  imbitter  the  feast  of  the  proud  ; 
To  win  for  thoir  store,  did  the  wild  battle  rave, 
"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave." 

Gold  !  gold  !  in  all  ages  the  curse  of  mankind, 
Thy  fetters  are  forged  for  the  soul  and  the  mind: 
The  limbs  may  be  free  as  the  wings  of  a  bird, 
And  the  mind  be  the  slave  of  a  look  and  a  word. 
To  gain  thee,  men  barter  eternity's  crown, 
Yield  honour,  affection,  and  lasting  renown, 
And  mingle  like  foam  with  life's  swift-rushing  wave 
"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave." 

UPON  SEEING  A  PORTRAIT 

OF   A    LADY,  PAI.N'TED    BY  GIOVA.YXI  C.   THOMPSON. 


THKRE  is  a  sweetness  in  those  tipturn'd  eyes, 
A  tearful  lustre — such  as  fancy  lends 
To  the  Madonna — and  a  soft  surprise, 

As  if  they  saw  stra.ige  beauty  in  the  air ; 
Perchance  a  bird,  whose  little  pinion  bends 

To  the  same  breeze  that  lifts  that  flowing  hair. 

And,  O,  that  lip,  and  cheek,  and  forehead  fair, 
Reposing  on  the  canvass  ! — that  bright  smile, 

Casting  a  mellow  radiance  over  all ! 
Say,  didst  thou  strive,  young  artist,  to  beguile 

The  gazer  of  his  reason,  and  to  thrall 
His  every  sense  in  meshes  of  delight — 
When  thou,unconscious,mad'st  this  phantom  bright? 
Sure  nothing  real  lives,  which  thus  can  charm  the 
sight ! 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

THIS  is  the  bird  that  sweeps  o'er  the  sea — 

Fearless  and  rapid  and  strong  is  he  ; 

He  never  forsakes  the  billowy  roar, 

To  dwell  in  calm  on  the  tranquil  shore, 

Save  when  his  mate  from  the  tempest's  shocks 

Protects  her  young  in  the  splinter'd  rocks. 

Birds  of  the  sea,  they  rejoice  in  storms ; 
On  the  top  of  the  wave  you  may  %ee  their  forms ; 
They  run  and  dive,  and  thfey  whirl  and  fly, 
Where  the  glittering  foam  spray  breaks  on  high ; 
And  against  the  force  of  the  strongest  gale, 
Like  phantom  ships  they  soar  and  sail. 

All  over  the  ocean,  far  from  land, 
When  the  storm-king  rises  dark  and  grand, 
The  mariner  sees  the  petrel  meet 
The  fathomless  waves  with  steady  feet, 
And  a  tireless  wing  and  a  dauntless  breast, 
Without  a  home  or  a  hope  of  rest. 

So,  mid  the  contest  and  toil  of  life, 
My  soul !  when  the  billows  of  rage  and  strife 
Are  tossing  high,  and  the  heavenly  blue 
Is  shrouded  by  vapours  of  sombre  hue — 
Like  the  petrel  wheeling  o'er  foam  and  spray, 
Onward  and  upward  pursue  thy  way ! 


THE  NAUTILUS. 

THE  Nautilus  ever  loves  to  glide 

Upon  the  crest  of  the  radiant  tide. 

When  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  wave  is  bright, 

Look  over  the  sea  for  a  lovely  sight ! 

You  may  watch,  and  watch  for  many  a  mile, 

And  never  see  Nautmis  all  the  while, 

Till,  just  as  your  patience  is  nearly  lost, 

Lo !  there  is  a  bark  in  the  sunlight  toss'd  ! 

"  Sail  ho !  and  whither  away  so  fast  1" 

What  a  curious  thing  she  has  rigg'd  for  a  mast ! 

"  Ahoy  !  ahoy  !  don't  you  hear  our  hail  1" 

How  the  breeze  is  swelling  her  gossamer  sail ! 

The  good  ship  Nautilus — yes,  'tis  she ! 

Sailing  over  the  gold  of  the  placid  sea ; 

And  though  she  will  never  deign  reply, 

I  could  tell  her  hull  with  the  glance  of  an  eye. 

Now,  I  wondnr  where  Nautilus  can  be  bound ; 
Or  does  she  always  sail  round  and  round, 
With  the -fairy  queen  and  her  court  on  board, 
And  mariner-sprites,  a  glittering  horde  ? 
Does  she  roam  and  roam  till  the  evening  light? 
And  where  does  she  go  in  the  deep  midnight? 
So  crazy  a  vessel  could  hardly  sail, 
Or  weather  the  blow  of  "  a  fine,  stiff  gale." 

O,  the  selfsame  hand  that  holds  the  chain 
Which  the  ocean  binds  to  the  rocky  main — 
Which  guards  from  the  wreck  when  the  tempest 

raves. 

And  the  stout  ship  reels  on  the  surging  waves — 
Directs  the  course  of  thy  little  bark, 
And  in  the  light  or  the  shadow  dark, 
And  near  the  shore  or  far  at  sea, 
Makes  safe  a  billowy  path  for  thee ! 


404 


PARK   BENJAMIN. 


TO  ONE  BELOVED. 

i. 

YEARS,  years  have  pass'd, 
My  sweetest,  since  I  heard  thy  voice's  tone, 
Saying  thou  wouldst  be  mine  and  mine  alone ; 

Dark  years  have  cast 

Their  shadows  on  me,  and  my  brow  no  more 
Smiles  with  the  happy  light  that  once  it  wore. 

My  heart  is  sere, 

As  a  leaf  toss'd  upon  the  autumnal  gale ; 
The  early  rose-hues  of  my  life  are  pale, 

Its  garden  drear, 

Its  bower  deserted,  for  my  singing  bird 
Among  its  dim  retreats  no  more  is  heard. 

O,  trust  them  not 

Who  say  that  I  have  long  forgotten  thee, 
Or  even  now  thou  art  not  dear  to  me  ! 

Though  far  my  lot 

From  thine,  and  though  Time's  onward  rolling  tide 
May  never  bear  me,  dearest,  to  thy  side. 

I  would  forget, 

Alas !  I  strive  in  vain — in  dreams,  in  dreams 
The  radiance  of  thy  glance  upon  me  beams : — 

No  star  has  met 

My  gaze  for  years  whose  beauty  doth  not  shine, 
Whose  look  of  speechless  love  is  not  like  thine ! 

The  evening  air — 

Soft  witness  of  the  floweret's  fragrant  death — 
Strays  not  so  sweetly  to  me  as  thy  breath ; 

The  moonlight  fair 

On  snowy  waste  sleeps  not  with  sweeter  ray, 
Than  thy  clear  memory  on  my  heart's  decay. 

I  love  thee  still — 

And  I  shall  love  thee  ever,  fmd  above 
All  earthly  objects  with  undying  love. 

The  mountain-rill 

Seeks,  with  no  surer  flow,  the  far,  bright  sea, 
Than  my  unchanged  affection  flows  to  thee. 

ii. 

A  year  has  flown, 

My  heart's  best  angel,  since  to  thee  I  strung 
My  frail,  poetic  lyre — since  last  I  sung, 

In  faltering  tone, 

My  love  undying:  though  in  all  my  dreams 
Thy  smiles  have  linger'd,  like  the  stars  in  streams. 

On  ruffled  wing, 

Like  storm-toss'd  bird,  that  year  has  sped  away 
Into  the  shadow'd  past,  and  not  a  day 

To  me  could  bring 

Familiar  joys  like  those  I  knew  of  yore, 
But  mom,  and  noon,  and  night,  a  sorrow  bore. 

Alas,  for  Time ! 

For  me  his  sickle  reaps  the  harvest  fair 
Of  hopes  that  blossom'd  in  the  summer  air 

Of  youth's  sweet  clime ; 
But  leaves  to  bloom  the  deeply-rooted  tree 
Which  thou  hast  planted,  deathless  Memory ! 

Beneath  its  shade 

I  muse,  and  muse  alone — while  daylight  dies, 
Changing  its  dolphin  hues  in  western  skies, 

And  when  they  fade. 


And  when  the. moon,  of  fairy  stars  the  queen, 
Waves  her  transparent  wand  o'er  all  the  scene ; 

I  seek  the  vale, 

And,  while  inhaling  the  moss-rose's  breath, — 
(Less  sweet  than  thine,  unmatch'd  ELIZABETH!) 

A  vision,  pale 

As  the  far  robes  of  seraphs  in  the  night, 
Rises  before  me  with  supernal  light. 

I  seek  the  mount, 

And  there,  in  closest  commune  with  the  blue, 
Thy  spiritual  glances  meet  my  view. 

I  seek  the  fount : 

And  thou  art  my  EGERIA,  and  the  glade 
Encircling  it  around  is  holier  made. 

I  seek  the  brook : 

And,  in  the  silver  shout  of  waters,  hear 
Thy  merry,  melting  tones  salute  mine  ear : 

And,  in  the  look 

Of  lilies  floating  from  the  flowery  land, 
See  something  soft  and  stainless  as  thy  hand. 

All  things  convey 

A  likeness  of  my  early,  only  love — 
All  fairest  things  around,  below,  above : 

The  foamy  spray 

Over  the  billow,  and  the  bedded  pearls, 
And  the  light  flag  the  lighter  breeze  unfurls. 

For,  in  the  grace 

As  well  as  in  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 
I  find  a  true  similitude  to  thee ; 

And  I  can  trace 

Thine  image  in  the  loveliness  that  dwells 
Mid  inland  forests  and  sequester'd  dells. 

I  am  thine  own, 

My  dearest,  though  thou  never  mayst  be  mine ; 
I  would  not  if  I  could  the  band  untwine 

Around  me  thrown — 

Since  first  I  breathed  to  thee  that  word  of  fire — 
Re-echo'd  now,  how  feebly !  by  my  lyre. 

Love,  constant  love ! 

Age  cannot  quench  it — like  the  primal  ray 
From  the  vast  fountain  that  supplies  the  day, 

Far,  far  above 

Our  cloud-encircled  region,  it  will  flow 
As  pure  and  as  eternal  in  its  glow. 

0,  when  I  die 

(If  until  then  thou  mayst  not  drop  a  tear) 
Weep  then  for  one  to  whom  thou  wert  most  dear; 

To  whom  thy  sigh, 

Denied  in  life,  in  death,  if  fondly  given, 
Will  seem  the  sweetest  incense-air  of  heaven ! 

in. 

Dost  thou  not  turn, 

Fairest  and  sweetest,  from  the  flowery  way 
On  which  thy  feet  are  treading  every  day, 

And  seek  to  learn 

Tidings,  sometimes,  of  him  who  loved  thee  well — 
More  than  his  pen  can  write  or  tongue  can  tell  ] 

Gaze  not  thine  eyes 

(0,  wild  and  lustrous  eyes,  ye  were  my  fate  !) 
Upon  the  lines  he  fashion'd  not  of  late, 

But  when  the  skies 


PARK    BENJAMIN. 


405 


Of  joy  were  over  him,  and  he  was  bless'd 
That  he  could  sing  of  treasures  he  possess'd  ? 

Treasures  more  dear 
Than  gold  in  ingots,  or  barbaric  piles 
Of  pearls  and  diamonds,  thy  most  precious  smiles ! 

Bring,  bring  me  here, 

0,  ruthless  Time,  some  of  those  treasures  now, 
And  print  a  hundred  wrinkles  on  my  brow. 

Make  me  grow  old 

Before  my  years  are  many — take  away 
Health,  youth,  ambition — let  my  strength  decay, 

My  mind  be  sold 

To  be  the  slave  of  some  strange,  barren  lore — 
Only  those  treasures  to  my  heart  restore  ! 

Ah !  I  implore 

A  boon  that  cannot  be,  a  blessing  flown 
Unto  a  realm  so  distant  from  my  own, 

That,  could  I  soar 

On  eagle's  wings,  it  still  would  be  afar, 
As  if  I  strove  by  flight  to  reach  a  star ! 

The  future  vast 

Before  me  lifts  majestic  steeps  on  high, 
Which  I  must  stand  upon  before  I  die ! 

For,  in  the  past 

Love  buried  lies ;  and  nothing  lives  but  fame 
To  speak  unto  the  coming  age  my  race  and  name. 


THE  TIRED  HUNTER. 

REST  thee,  old  hunter !  the  evening  cool 

Will  sweetly  breathe  on  thy  heated  brow, 
Thy  dogs  will  lap  of  the  shady  pool ; 

Thou  art  very  weary — O,  rest  thee  now ! 
Thou  hast  wander'd  far  through  mazy  woods, 

Thou  hast  trodden  the  bright-plumed  birds' retreat, 
Thou  hast  broken  in  on  their  solitudes, — 

O,  give  some  rest  to  thy  tired  feet ! 

There's  not  a  nook  in  the  forest  wide 

Nor  a  leafy  dell  unknown  to  thee ; 
Thy  step  has  been  where  no  sounds,  beside 

The  rustle  of  wings  in  the  sheltering  tree, 
The  sharp,  clear  cry  of  the  startled  game, 

The  wind's  low  murmur,  the  tempest's  roar, 
The  bay  that  follow'd  thy  gun's  sure  aim, 

Or  thy  whistle  shrill,  were  heard  before. 

Then  rest  thee ! — thy  wife  in  her  cottage-door, 

Shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun's  keen  ray, 
Peers  into  the  forest  beyond  the  moor, 

To  hail  thy  coming  ere  fall  of  day ; — 
But  thou  art  a  score  of  miles  from  home, 

And  the  hues  of  the  kindling  autumn  leaves 
Grow  brown  in  the  shadow  of  evening's  dome, 

And  swing  to  the  rush  of  the  freshening  breeze. 

Thou  must  even  rest !  for  thou  canst  not  tread 

Till  yon  star  in  the  zenith  of  midnight  glows, 
And  a  sapphire  light  over  earth  is  spread, 

The  place  where  thy  wife  and  babes  repose. 
Rest  thee  a  while — and  then  journey  on 

Through  the  wide  forest,  and  over  the  moor: 
Then  call  to  thy  dogs,  and  fire  thy  gun, 

And  a  taper  will  gleam  from  thy  cottage-door ! 


THE  DEPARTED. 

THE  departed !  the  departed ! 

They  visit  us  in  dreams, 
And  they  glide  above  our  memories 

Like  shadows  over  streams ; 
But  where  the  cheerful  lights  of  home 

In  constant  lustre  burn, 
The  departed,  the  departed 

Can  never  more  return ! 

The  good,  the  brave,  the  beautiful, 

How  dreamless  is  their  sleep, 
Where  rolls  the  dirge-like  music 

Of  the  ever-tossing  deep ! 
Or  where  the  hurrying  night-winds 

Pale  winter's  robes  have  spread 
Above  theur  narrow  palaces, 

In  the  cities  of  the  dead ! 

I  look  around  and  feel  the  awe 

Of  one  who  walks  alone 
Among  the  wrecks  of  former  days, 

In  mournful  ruin  strown ; 
I  start  to  hear  the  stirring  sounds 

Among  the  cypress  trees, 
For  the  voice  of  the  departed 

Is  borne  upon  the  breeze. 

That  solemn  voice !  it  mingles  with 

Each  free  and  careless  strain ; 
I  scarce  can  think  earth's  minstrelsy 

Will  cheer  my  heart  again. 
The  melody  of  summer  waves, 

The  thrilling  notes  of  birds, 
Can  never  be  so  dear  to  me 

As  their  remember'd  words. 

I  sometimes  dream  their  pleasant  smiles 

Still  on  me  sweetly  fall, 
Their  tones  of  love  I  faintly  hear 

My  name  in  sadness  call. 
I  know  that  they  are  happy, 

With  their  angel-plumage  on, 
But  my  heart  is  very  desolate 

To  think  that  they  are  gone. 


I  AM  NOT  OLD. 

I  AM  not  old — though  years  have  cast 

Their  shadows  on  my  way ; 
I  am  not  old — though  youth  has  pass'd 

On  rapid  wings  away. 
For  in  my  heart  a  fountain  flows, 
And  round  it  pleasant  thoughts  repose; 
And  sympathies  and  feelings  high, 
Spring  like  the  stars  on  evening's  sky. 

I  am  not  old — Time  may  have  set 

"  His  signet  on  my  brow," 
And  some  faint  furrows  there  have  met, 

Which  care  may  deepen  now : 
Yet  love,  fond  love,  a  chaplet  weaves 
Of  fresh,  young  buds  and  verdant  leaves ; 
And  still  in  fancy  I  can  twine 
Thoughts,  sweet  as  flowers,  that  once  were  mine. 


406 


PARK  BENJAMIN. 


THE  DOVE'S  ERRAND. 

Under  cover  of  the  night, 
Feather'd  darling,  take  your  flight ! 
Lest  some  cruel  archer  fling 
Arrow  at  your  tender  wing, 
And  your  white,  unspotted  side 
Be  with  crimson  colour  died : — 
For  with  men  who  know  not  love 
You  and  I  are  living,  Dove. 

Now  I  bind  a  perfumed  letter 
Round  your  neck  with  silken  fetter; 
Bear  it  safely,  bear  it  well, 
Over  mountain,  lake,  and  dell. 
While  the  darkness  is  profound 
You  may  fly  along  the  ground, 
But  when  morning's  herald  sings, 
Mount  ye  on  sublimer  wings ; 
High  in  heaven  pursue  your  way 
Till  the  fading  light  of  day, 
From  the  palace  of  the  west, 
Tints  with  fleckering  gold  your  breast, 
Shielded  from  the  gaze  of  men, 
You  may  stoop  to  earth  again. 

Stay,  then,  feather'd  darling,  stay, 
Pause,  and  look  along  your  way : 
Well  I  know  how  fast  you  fly, 
And  the  keenness  of  your  eye. 
By  the  time  the  second  eve 
Comes,  your  journey  you'll  achieve, 
And  above  a  gentle  vale 
Will  on  easy  pinion  sail. 
In  that  vale,  with  dwellings  strown, 
One  is  standing  all  alone : 
White  it  rises  mid  the  leaves, 
Woodbines  clamber  o'er  its  eaves, 
And  the  honeysuckle  falls 
Pendant  on  its  silent  walls. 
'T  is  a  cottage,  small  and  fair 
As  a  cloud  in  summer  air. 

By  a  lattice,  wreathed  with  flowers 
Such  as  link  the  dancing  hours, 
Sitting  in  the  twilight  shade, 
Envied  dove,  behold  a  maid  ! 
Locks  escaped  from  sunny  band, 
Cheeks  reclined  on  snowy  hand, 
Looking  sadly  to  the  sky, 
She  will  meet  your  searching  eye. 
Fear  not,  doubt  not,  timid  dove, 
You  have  found  the  home  of  love ! 
She  will  fold  you  to  her  breast — 
Seraphs  have  not  purer  rest ; 
She  your  weary  plumes  will  kiss — 
Seraphs  have  not  sweeter  bliss  ! 
Tremble  not,  my  dove,  nor  start, 
Should  you  feel  her  throbbing  heart ; 
Joy  has  made  her  bright  eye  dim — 
Well  she  knows  you  came  from  him, 
Him  she  loves.     O,  luckless  star ! 
He  from  her  must  dwell  afar. 

From  your  neck  her  fingers  fine 
Will  the  silken  string  untwine  ; 
Reading  then  the  words  I  trace, 
Blushes  will  suffuse  her  face ; 


To  her  lips  the  lines  she  '11  press, 
And  again  my  dove  caress. 
Mine,  yes,  mine — O,  would  that  I 
Could  on  rapid  pinions  fly ! 
Then  I  should  not  send  you,  dove, 
On  an  errand  to  my  love : 
For  I  'd  brave  the  sharpest  gale, 
And  along  the  tempest  sail ; 
Caring  not  for  danger  near, 
Hurrying  heedless,  void  of  fear, 
But  to  hear  one  tender  word, 
Breathed  for  me,  my  happy  bird ! 

At  the  early  dawn  of  day, 
She  will  send  you  on  your  way, 
Twining  with  another  fetter 
Round  your  neck  another  letter. 
Speed  ye,  then,  O,  swiftly  speed, 
Like  a  prisoner  newly  freed  : 
O'er  the  mountain,  o'er  the  vale, 
Homeward,  homeward,  swiftly  sail ! 
Never,  never  poise  a  plume, 
Though  beneath  you  Edens  bloom: 
Never,  never  think  of  rest, 
Till  night's  shadow  turns  your  breast 
From  pure  white  to  mottled  gray, 
And  the  stars  are  round  your  way, — 
Love's  bright  beacons,  they  will  shine, 
Dove,  to  show  your  home  and  mine  ! 


"  HOW  CHEERY  ARE  THE  MARINERS !" 

How  cheery  are  the  mariners — 

Those  lovers  of  the  sea ! 
Their  hearts  are  like  its  yesty  waves, 

As  bounding  and  as  free. 
They  whistle  when  the  storm-bird  wheels 

In  circles  round  the  mast ; 
And  sing  when  deep  in  foam  the  ship 

Ploughs  onward  to  the  blast. 

What  care  the  mariners  for  gales  ? 

There 's  music  in  their  roar, 
When  wide  the  berth  along  the  lee, 

And  leagues  of  room  before. 
Let  billows  toss  to  mountain  heights, 

Or  sink  to  chasms  low, 
The  vessel  stout  will  ride  it  out, 

Nor  reel  beneath  the  blow. 

With  streamers  down  and  canvass  furl'd, 

The  gallant  hull  will  float 
Securely,  as  on  inland  lake 
-    A  silken-tassell'd  boat ; 
And  sound  asleep  some  mariners, 

And  some  with  watchful  eyes, 
Will  fearless  be  of  dangers  dark 

That  roll  along  the  skies. 

Gon  keep  those  cheery  mariners  ! 

And  temper  all  the  gales 
That  sweep  against  the  rocky  coast 

To  their  storm-shatter'd  sails ; 
And  men  on  shore  will  bless  the  ship 

That  could  so  guided  be, 
Safe  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 

To  brave  the  mighty  sea ! 


PARK   BENJAMIN. 


407 


LINES  SPOKEN  BY  A  BLIND  BOY. 

THE  bird,  that  never  tried  his  wing1, 
Can  blithely  hop  and  sweetly  sing, 
Though  prison'd  in  a  narrow  cage, 
Till  his  bright  feathers  droop  with  age. 
So  I,  while  never  blcss'd  with  sight, 
Shut  out  from  heaven's  surrounding  light, 
Life's  hours,  and  days,  and  years  enjoy, — 
Though  blind,  a  merry-hearted  boy. 

That  captive  bird  may  never  float 
Through  heaven,  or  pour  his  thrilling  note 
Mid  shady  groves,  by  pleasant  streams 
That  sparkle  in  the  soft  moonbeams ; 
But  he  may  gayly  flutter  round 
Within  his  prison's  scanty  bound, 
And  give  his  soul  to  song,  for  he 
Ne'er  longs  to  taste  sweet  liberty. 

0  !  may  I  not  as  happy  dwell 
Within  my  unillumined  cell  ] 
May  I  not  leap,  and  sing,  and  play, 
And  turn  my  constant  night  to  day  1 

1  never  saw  the  sky,  the  sea, 
The  earth  was  never  green  to  me : 
Then  why,  O,  why  should  I  repine 
For  blessings  that  were  never  mine ! 

Think  not  that  blindness  makes  me  sad, 
My  thoughts,  like  yours,  are  often  glad. 
Parents  I  have,  who  love  me  well, 
Their  different  voices  I  can  tell. 
Though  far  away  from  them,  I  hear, 
In  dreams,  their  music  meet  my  ear. 
Is  there  a  star  so  dear  above 
As  the  low  voice  of  one  you  love  ? 

I  never  saw  my  father's  face, 
Yet  on  his  forehead  when  I  place 
My  hand,  and  feel  the  wrinkles  there, 
Left  less  by  time  than  anxious  care, 
I  fear  the  world  has  sights  of  wo, 
To  knit  the  brows  of  manhood  so, — 
I  sit  upon  my  father's  knee : 
He'd  love  me  less  if  I  could  see. 

I  never  saw  my  mother  smile  : 
Her  gentle  tones  my  heart  beguile. 
They  fall  like  distant  melody, 
They  are  so  mild  and  sweet  to  me. 
She  murmurs  not — my  mother  dear ! 
Though  sometimes  I  have  kiss'd  the  tear 
From  her  soft  cheek,  to  toll  the  joy 
One  smiling  word  would  give  her  boy. 

Right  merry  was  I  every  day ! 

Fearless  to  run  about  and  play 

With  sisters,  brothers,  friends,  and  all,— 

To  answer  to  their  sudden  call, 

To  join  the  ring,  to  speed  the  chase, 

To  find  each  playmate's  hiding-place, 

And  pass  my  hand  across  his  brow, 

To  tell  him  I  could  do  it  now  ! 

Yet  though  delightful  flew  the  hours, 
So  pass'd  in  childhood's  peaceful  bowers, 
When  all  were  gone  to  school  but  I, 
I  used  to  sit  at  home  and  sigh ; 


And  though  I  never  long'd  to  view 
The  earth  so  green,  the  sky  so  blue, 
I  thought  I'd  give  the  world  to  look 
Along  the  pages  of  a  book. 

Now,  since  I  'vc  learn'd  to  read  and  write, 
My  heart  is  fill'd  with  new  delight ; 
And  music  too, — can  there  be  found 
A  sight  so  beautiful  as  sound  ? 
Tell  me,  kind  friends,  in  one  short  word, 
_Am  I  not  like  a  captive  bird  ! 
I  live  in  song,  and  peace,  and  joy, — 
Though  blind,  a  merry-hearted  boy. 


THE  ELYSIAN  ISLE. 


"It  arose  before  them,  the  most  beautiful  island  in  the 
world."— IRVING' s  Columbus. 

IT  was  a  sweet  and  pleasant  isle — 

As  fair  as  isle  could  be  ; 
And  the  wave  that  kiss'd  its  sandy  shore 

Was  the  wave  of  the  Indian  sea. 

It  seem'd  an  emerald  set  by  Heaven 
On  the  ocean's  dazzling  brow — 

And  where  it  glow'd  long  ages  past, 
It  glows  as  greenly  now. 

I've  wander'd  oft  in  its  valleys  bright, 
Through  the  gloom  of  its  leafy  bowers, 

And  breathed  the  breath  of  its  spicy  gales 
And  the  scent  of  its  countless  flowers. 

I  've  seen  its  bird  with  the  crimson  wing 
Float  under  the  clear,  blue  sky  ; 

I  've  heard  the  notes  of  its  mocking-bird 
On  the  evening  waters  die. 

In  the  starry  noon  of  its  brilliant  night, 
When  the  world  was  hush'd  in  sleep — 

I  dream'd  of  the  shipwreck'd  gems  that  lie 
On  the  floor  of  the  soundless  deep. 

And  I  gather'd  the  shells  that  buried  were 

In  the  heart  of  its  silver  sands, 
And  toss'd  them  back  on  the  running  wave, 

To  be  caught  by  viewless  hands. 

There  are  sister-spirits  that  dwell  in  the  sea, 
Of  the  spirits  that  dwell  in  the  air ; 

And  they  never  visit  our  northern  clime, 
Where  the  coast  is  bleak  and  bare : 

But  around  the  shores  of  the  Indian  isles 

They  revel  and  sing  alone — 
Though  I  saw  them  not,  I  heard  by  night 

Their  low,  mysterious  tone. 

Elysian  isle  !  I  may  never  view 

Thy  birds  and  roses  more, 
Nor  meet  the  kiss  of  thy  loving  breeze  . 

As  it  seeks  thy  jewell'd  shore. 

Yet  thou  art  treasured  in  my  heart 

As  in  thine  own  deep  sea ; 
And,  in  all  my  dreams  of  the  spirits'  home, 

Dear  isle,  I  picture  thee ! 


408 


PARK    BENJAMIN. 


A  GREAT  NAME. 

TIME  !  thou  destroyest  the  relics  of  the  past, 
And  hidest  all  the  footprints  of  thy  march 
On  shatter'd  column  and  on  crumbled  arch, 

By  moss  and  ivy  growing  green  and  fast. 

Hurl'd  into  fragments  by  the  tempest-blast, 
The  Rhodian  monster  lies ;  the  obelisk, 
That  with  sharp  line  divided  the  broad  disc 

Of  Egypt's  sun,  down  to  the  sands  was  cast  : 

And  where  these  stood,  no  remnant-trophy  stands, 
And  even  the  art  is  lost  by  which  they  rose : 

Thus,  with  the  monuments  of  other  lands, 

The  place  that  knew  them  now  no  longer  knows. 

Yet  triumph  not,  O,  Time ;  strong  towers  decay, 

But  a  great  name  .shall  never  pass  away ! 

INDOLENCE. 

THERE  is  no  type  of  indolence  like  this : — 

A  ship  in  harbour,  not  a  signal  flying, 

The  wave  unstirr'd  about  her  huge  sides  lying, 

No  breeze  her  drooping  pennant-flag  to  kiss, 

Or  move  the  smallest  rope  that  hangs  aloft : 

Sailors  recumbent,  listless,  stretch'd  around 
Upon  the  polish'd  deck  or  canvass — soft 

To  his  tough  limbs  that  scarce  have  ever  found 
A  bed  more  tender,  since  his  mother's  knee 
The  stripling  left  to  tempt  the  changeful  sea. 
Some  are  asleep,  some  whistle,  try  to  sing, 
Some  gape,  and  wonder  when  the  ship  will  sail, 
Some' 'damn'  the  calm  and  wish  it  was  a  gale ; 
But  every  lubber  there  is  lazy  as  a  king. 

SPORT. 

To  see  a  fellow  of  a  summer's  morning, 
With  a  large  foxhound  of  a  slumberous  eye 
And  a  slim  gun,  go  slowly  lounging  by, 

About  to  give  the  feather'd  bipeds  warning, 
That  probably  they  may  be  shot  hereafter, 
Excites  in  me  a  quiet  kind  of  laughter ; 

For,  though  I  am  no  lover  of  the  sport 
Of  harmless  murder,  yet  it  is  to  me 
Almost  the  funniest  thing  on  earth  to  see 

A  corpulent  person,  breathing  with  a  snort, 

Go  on  a  shooting  frolic  all  alone ; 

For  well  I  know  that  when  he 's  out  of  town, 
He  and  his  dog  and  gun  will  all  lie  down, 

And  undestructive  sleep  till  game  and  light  are  flown. 

M.I. 

BOTH*  in  the  north,  and  rear'd  in  tropic  lands : 

Her  mind  has  all  the  vigour  of  a  tree, 

Sprung  from  a  rocky  soil  beside  the  sea, 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  a  rose  that  stands 

In  the  soft  sunshine  on  some  shelter'd  lea. 

She  seems  all  life,  and  light,  and  love  to  me ! 
No  winter  lingers  in  her  glowing  smile, 

No  coldness  in  her  deep,  melodious  words, 
But  all  the  warmth  of  her  dear  Indian  isle, 

And  all  the  music  of  its  tuneful  birds. 
With  her  conversing  of  my  native  bowers, 

In  the  far  south,  I  feel  the  genial  air 
Of  some  delicious  morn,  and  taste  those  flowers, 

Which,  like  herself,  are  bright  above  compare. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

SISTER!  dear  sister,  I  am  getting  old  : 
My  hair  is  thinner,  and  the  cheerful  light 
That  glisten'd  in  mine  eyes  is  not  as  bright, 

Though  while  on  thee  I  look,  'tis  never  cold. 

My  hand  is  not  so  steady  while  I  pen 

These  simple  words  to  tell  how  warm  and  clear 
Flows  my  heart's  fountain  toward  thee,sister  dear! 

For  years  I  've  lived  among  my  fellow-men,  [joys, 
Shared  their  deep  passions,  known  their  griefs  a  nd 
And  found  Pride,  Power,  and  Fame  but  gilded 

And,  sailing  far  upon  Ambition's  waves,  [toys; 
Beheld  brave  mariners  on  a  troubled  sea,  [graves. 

Meet,  what  they  fear'd  not — shipwreck  and  their 
My  spirit  seeks  its  haven,  dear,  with  thee ! 


TO 


'T  is  Winter  now— but  Spring  will  blossom  soon, 
And  flowers  will  lean  to  the  embracing  air — 
And  the  young  buds  will  vie  with  them  to  share 

Each  zephyr's  soft  caress ;  and  when  the  Moon 
Bends  her  new  silver  bow,  as  if  to  fling 
Her  arrowy  lustre  through  some  vapour's  wing, 

The  streamlets  will  return  the  glance  of  night 
From  their  pure,  gliding  mirrors,  set  by  Spring 

Deep  in  rich  frames  of  clustering  chrysolite, 

Instead  of  Winter's  crumbled  sparks  of  white. 
So,  dearest !  shall  our  loves,  though  frozen  now 

By  cold  unkindness,  bloom  like  buds  and  flowers, 
Like  fountain's  flash,  for  Hope  with  smiling  brow 

Tells  of  a  Spring,  whose  sweets  shall  all  be  ours ! 

TO . 

LADT,  farewell !  my  heart  no  more  to  thee 
Bends  like  the  Parsee  to  the  dawning  sun; 

No  more  thy  beauty  lights  the  world  for  me, 
Or  tints  with  gold  the  moments  as  they  run. 

A  cloud  is  on  the  landscape,  and  the  beams 
That  made  the  valleys  so  divinely  fair, 

And  scatter'd  diamonds  on  the  gliding  streams, 
And  crown'd  the  mountains  in  their  azure  air — 

Are  veil'd  forever ! — Lady,  fare  thee  well ! 
Sadly  as  one  who  longeth  for  a  sound 
To  break  the  stillness  of  a  deep  profound, 

I  turn  and  strike  my  frail,  poetic  shell: — 
Listen !  it  is  the  last ;  for  thee  alone 
My  heart  no  more  shall  wake  its  sorrowing  tone. 

TO  A  LADY  WITH  A  BOUQUET. 

FLOWERS  are  love's  truest  language ;  they  betray, 
Like  the  divining  rods  of  Magi  old, 
Where  priceless  wealth  lies  buried,  not  of  gold, 

But  love — strong  love,  that  never  can  decay ! 

I  send  thee  flowers,  0  dearest !  and  I  deem 

That  from  their  petals  thou  wilt  hear  sweet  words, 
Whose  music,  clearer  than  the  voice  of  birds, 

When  breathed  to  thee  alone,  perchance,  may  seem 
All  eloquent  of  feelings  unexpress'd. 

0,  wreathe  them  in  those  tresses  of  dark  hair ! 

Let  them  repose  upon  thy  forehead  fair, 

And  on  thy  bosom's  yielding  snow  be  press'd  ! 

Thus  shall  thy  fondness  for  my  flowers  reveal 

The  love  that  maiden  coyness  would  conceal ! 


RALPH    HOYT. 

[Born  about  181A] 


REV.  RALPH  HOTT  was  born  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  of  which  he  is  a  resident,  in  the  se- 
cond lustrum  of  the  present  century.  After  pass- 
ing several  years  as  a  teacher,  and  as  a  writer  for 
the  gazettes,  he  studied  theology,  and  was  ordained 
a  presbyter  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  church  hi 
1842.  Verse  is  but  an  episode,  though  a  natural 
one,  in  the  life  of  a  clergyman  devoted  to  the  active 
pursuit  of  good.  Mr.  HOTT  may  have  written 
much,  but  he  has  acknowledged  little.  He  is 
known  chiefly  by  «  The  Chaunt  of  Life  and  other 
Poems,"  published  in  1844,.  and  by  the  second 
portion  of  « The  Chaunt  of  Life,"  etc.,  which 


appeared  in  the  summer  of  1845.  The  "  Chaunt 
of  Life"  is  chiefly  occupied  with  passages  of  per- 
sonal sentiment  and  reflection.  The  pieces  entitled 
"Snow"  and  "The  World 'for  Sale,"  in  his  first 
volume,  attracted  more  attention,  and  the  author 
was  led  to  pursue  the  vein,  in  «  New"  and  "  Old," 
which  were  subsequently  written.  A  simple,  na- 
tural current  of  feeling  runs  through  them;  the 
versification  grows  out  of  the  subject,  and  the  whole 
clings  to  us  as  something  written  from  the  heart 
of  the  author.  A  few  such  pieces  have  often 
prolonged  a  reputation,  while  writers  of  greater 
effort  have  been  forgotten. 


OLD. 


BY  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
Sat  a  hoary  pilgrim  sadly  musing ; 

Oft  I  marked  him  sitting  there  alone, 
All  the  landscape  like  a  page  perusing ; 
Poor,  unknown — 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 

Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-rimm'd  hat, 
Coat  as  ancient  as  the  form  'twas  folding, 

Silver  buttons,  queue,  and  crimpt  cravat, 
Oaken  staff,  his  feeble  hand  upholding, 
There  he  sat ! 

Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-rimm'd  hat 

Seem'd  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there, 
No  one  sympathising,  no  one  heeding, 

None  to  love  him  for  his  thin  gray  hair, 
And  the  furrows  all  so  mutely  pleading, 
Age,  and  care : 

Seem'd  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there. 

It  was  summer,  and  we  went  to  school, 
Dapper  country  lads,  and  little  maidens, 

Taught  the  motto  of  the  «  Dunce's  Stool," 
Its  grave  import  still  my  fancy  ladens, 
"HEIIE'S  A  FOOL!" 

It  was  summer,  and  we  went  to  school. 

When  the  stranger  seem'd  to  mark  our  play, 
Some  of  us  were  joyous,  some  sad-hearted, 
I  remember  well, — too  well,  that  day ! 
Oftentimes  the  tears  unbidden  started, 

Would  not  stay  ! 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  play. 
One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell, 

Ah !  to  me  her  name  was  always  heaven ! 
She  besought  him  all  his  grief  to  tell, 
(I  was  then  thirteen,  and  she  eleven,) 

ISABEL  ! 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell. 
52 


Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I  am  old ; 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a  morrow, 
Yet,  why  I  sit  here  thou  shalt  be  told, 

Then  his  eye  betray'd  a  pearl  of  sorrow, 

Down  it  roll'd  ! 
Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I  am  old ! 

I  have  totter'd  here  to  look  once  more 
On  the  pleasant  scene  where  I  delighted 

In  the  careless,  happy  days  of  yore, 

Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 
To  the  core ! 

I  have  totter'd  here  to  look  once  more ! 

All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear ! 

E'en  this  gray  old  rock  where  I  am  seated, 
Is  a  jewel  worth  my  journey  here ; 

Ah,  that  such  a  scene  must  be  completed 

With  a  tear ! 
All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear ! 

Old  stone  school-house ! — it  is  still  the  same ! 

There's  the  very  step  I  so  oft'  mounted ; 
There's  the  window  creaking  in  its  frame, 

And  the  notches  that  I  cut  and  counted 

For  the  game ; 
Old  stone  school-house ! — it  is  still  the  same ! 

In  the  cottage,  yonder,  I  was  born ; 

Long  my  happy  home — that  humble  dwelling ; 
There  the  fields  of  clover,  wheat,  and  corn, 

There  the  spring,  with  limpid  nectar  swelling ; 

Ah,  forlorn ! 
In  the  cottage,  yonder,  I  was  born. 

Those  two  gate-way  sycamores  you  see, 

Then  were  planted,  just  so  far  asunder 
That  long  well-pole  from  the  path  to  free, 
And  the  wagon  to  pass  safely  under ; 

Ninety-three  ! 
Those  two  gate-way  sycamores  you  see ! 

2M  409 


410 


RALPH    HOYT. 


There's  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb 
When  my  mates  and  I  were  boys  together, 

Thinking  nothing  of  the  flight  of  time, 

Fearing  naught  but  work  and  rainy  weather ; 
Past  its  prime ! 

There's  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb ! 

There,  the  rude,  three-corner'd  chestnut  rails, 
Round  the  pasture  where  the  flocks  were  graz- 
ing. 

Where,  so  sly,  I  used  to  watch  for  quails 
In  the  crops  of  buckwheat  we  were  raising, 

Traps  and  trails, — 
There,  the  rude,  three-corner'd  chestnut  rails. 

There's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow  grain ; 

Pond,  and  river  still  serenely  flowing ; 
Cot,  there  nestling  in  the  shaded  lane, 

Where  the  lily  of  my  heart  was  blowing, 

MART  JANE! 
There's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow  grain ! 

There's  the  gate  on  which  I  used  to  swing, 

Brook,  and  bridge,  and  barn,  and  old  red  stable ; 

But  alas !  no  more  the  morn  shall  bring 
That  dear  group  around  my  father's  table ; 
Taken  wing! 

There's  the  gate  on  which  I  used  to  swing ! 

I  am  fleeing ! — all  I  loved  are  fled ! 

Yon  green  meadow  was  our  place  for  playing ; 
That  old  tree  can  tell  of  sweet  things  said, 

When  around  it  Jane  and  I  were  straying: 

She  is  dead ! 
I  am  fleeing ! — all  I  loved  are  fled ! 

Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky, 
Tracing  silently  life's  changeful  story, 

So  familiar  to  my  dim  old  eye, 

Points  me  to  seven  that  are  now  in  glory 
There  on  high ! 

Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky ! 

Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod, 
Guided  thither  by  an  angel  mother ; 

Now  she  sleeps  beneath  its  sacred  sod, 
Sire  and  sisters,  and  my  little  brother ; 
Gone  to  God ! 

Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod ! 

There  I  heard  of  wisdom's  pleasant  ways, 
Bless  the  holy  lesson  ! — but,  ah,  never 

Shall  I  hear  again  those  songs  of  praise, 
Those  sweet  voices, — silent  now  for  ever  ! 
Peaceful  days ! 

There  I  heard  of  wisdom's  pleasant  ways ! 

There  my  Mary  blest  me  with  her  hand, 

When  our  souls  drank  in  the  nuptial  blessing, 

Ere  she  hasten'd  to  the  spirit-land ; 

Yonder  turf  her  gentle  bosom  pressing ; 
Broken  band ! 

There  my  Mary  blest  me  with  her  hand ! 

I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more, 

And  the  sacred  place  where  we  delighted, 
Where  we  worshipp'd  in  the  days  of  yore, 


Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 

To  the  core! 
I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more. 

Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I  am  old ! 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a  morrow ; 
Now,  why  I  sit  here  thou  hast  been  told : 

In  his  eye  another  pearl  of  sorrow, 

Down  it  rolled ! 
Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I  am  old ! 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
Sat  the  hoary  pilgrim,  sadly  musing ; 

Still  I  marked  him,  sitting  there  alone, 
All  the  landscape,  like  a  page,  perusing ; 
Poor,  unknown, 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone ! 


NEW. 

STILL  sighs  the  world  for  something  new, 

For  something  new ; 
Imploring  me,  imploring  you, 

Some  Will-o'-wisp  to  help  pursue ; 
Ah,  hapless  world,  what  will  it  do ! 
Imploring  me,  imploring  you, 
For  something  NEW  ! 

Each  pleasure,  tasted,  fades  away, 

It  fades  away ; 
Nor  you,  nor  I  can  bid  it  stay, 

A  dew-drop  trembling  on  a  spray ; 
A  rainbow  at  the  close  of  day ; 
Nor  you,  nor  I  can  bid  it  stay ; 
It  fades  away. 

Fill  up  life's  chalice  to  the  brim ; 

Up  to  the  brim ; 
'Tis  only  a  capricious  whim ; 

A  dreamy  phantom,  flitting  dim, 
Inconstant  still  for  Her,  or  Him; 
'Tis  only  a  capricious  whim, 
Up  to  the  brim  ! 


She,  young  and  fair,  expects  delight ; 

Expects  delight ; 
Forsooth,  because  the  morn  is  bright, 

She  deems  it  never  will  be  night, 
That  youth  hath  not  a  wing  for  flight, 
Forsooth,  because  the  morn  is  bright, 
Expects  delight ! 

The  rose,  once  gather'd,  cannot  please, 

It  cannot  please ; 
Ah,  simple  maid,  a  rose  to  seize, 

That  only  blooms  to  tempt  and  tease : 
With  thorns  to  rob  the  heart  of  ease ; 
Ah,  simple  maid,  a  rose  to  seize ; 
It  cannot  please ! 

'Tis  winter,  but  she  pines  for  spring; 

She  pines  for  spring ; 
No  bliss  its  frost  and  follies  bring ; 
A  bird  of  passage  on  the  wing ; 


RALPH   HOYT. 


411 


Unhappy,  discontented  thing ; 

No  bliss  its  frost  and  follies  bring ; 
She  pines  for  spring ! 

Delicious  May,  and  azure  skies ; 

And  azure  skies ; 
With  flowers  of  paradisial  dyes ; 

Now,  maiden,  happy  be  and  wise: 
Ah,  JUNE  can  only  charm  her  eyes 
With  flowers  of  paradisial  dyes, 
And  azure  skies ! 

The  glowing,  tranquil  summertime ; 

The  summertime ; 
Too  listless  in  a  maiden's  prime, 
Dull,  melancholy  pantomime ; 
Oh,  for  a  gay  autumnal  clime : 
Too  listless  in  a  maiden's  prime, 
The  summertime ! 

October !  with  earth's  richest  store ; 

Earth's  richest  store ; 
Alas !  insipid  as  before ; 

Days,  months,  and  seasons,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Remotest  lands  their  treasures  pour ; 
Alas,  insipid  as  before, 
Earth's  richest  store ! 

Love  nestles  in  that  gentle  breast ; 

That  gentle  breast ; 
Ah,  love  will  never  let  it  rest ; 

The  cruel,  sly,  ungrateful  guest; 
A  viper  in  a  linnet's  nest, 

Ah,  love  will  never  let  it  rest ; 
That  gentle  breast ! 

Could  she  embark  on  Fashion's  tide ; 

On  fashion's  tide ; 
How  gaily  might  a  maiden  glide ; — 

Contentment,  innocence,  and  pride, 
All  stranded  upon  either  side ; — 
How  gaily  might  a  maiden  glide, 
On  fashion's  tide ! 

Ah,  maiden,  time  will  make  thee  smart : 

Will  make  thee  smart ; 
Some  new,  and  keen,  and  poison'd  dart, 
Will  pierce  at  last  that  restless  heart ; 
Youth,  friends,  and  beauty  will  depart; 
Some  new,  and  keen,  and  poisoned  dart, 
Will  make  thee  smart ! 

So  pants  for  change  the  fickle  fair ; 

The  fickle  fair; 
A  feather,  floating  in  the  air, 

Still  wafted  here,  and  wafted  there, 
No  charm,  no  hazard  worth  her  care  ; 
A  feather  floating  in  the  air, 
The  fickle  fair! 


How  sad  his  lot,  the  hapless  swain ; 

The  hapless  swain ; 
With  care,  and  toil,  in  heat  and  rain, 
To  speed  the  plough  or  harvest-wain ; 


Still  reaping  only  fields  of  grain, 

With  care,  and  toil,  in  heat  and  rain; 
The  hapless  swain ! 

Youth,  weary  youth,  'twill  soon  he  past ; 

'Twill  soon  be  past ; 
His  MANHOOD'S  happiness  shall  last; 

Renown,  and  riches,  far  and  fast, 
Their  potent  charms  shall  round  him  cast, 

His  Manhood's  happiness  shall  last : — 
'Twill  soon  be  past! 

Now  toiling  up  ambition's  steep ; 

Ambition's  steep; 
The  rugged  path  is  hard  to  keep ; 

The  spring  how  far !  the  well  how  deep ! 
Ah  me !  in  folly's  bower  asleep  ! 
The  rugged  path  is  hard  to  keep ; 
Ambition's  steep ! 

The  dream  fulfilled !  rank,  fortune,  fame ; 

Rank,  fortune,  fame ; 
Vain  fuel  for  celestial  flame  ! 

He  wins  and  wears  a  glittering  name, 
Yet  sighs  his  longing  soul  the  same ; 
Vain  fuel  for  celestial  flame, 
Rank,  fortune,  fame ! 

Sweet  beauty  aims  \vnh  Cupid's  how  ; 

With  Cupid's  bow ; 
Can  she  transfix  him  now  1 — ah,  no ! 

Amid  the  fairest  flowers  that  blow, 
The  torment  but  alights — to  go  : 

Can  she  transfix  him  now  7 — ah,  no, 
With  Cupid's  bow ! 

Indulgent  heav'n,  O  grant  but  this, 

O  grant  but  this, 
The  boon  shall  be  enough  of  bliss, 

A  HOME,  with  true  affection's  kiss, 
To  mend  whate'er  may  hap  amiss, 

O  grant  but  this ! 

The  Eden  won: — insatiate  still; 

Insatiate  still; — 
A  wider,  fairer  range,  he  will ; 

Some  mountain  higher  than  his  hill ; 
Some  prospect  fancy's  map  to  fill ; 
A  wider,  fairer  range,  he  will; 
Insatiate  still ! 

From  maid  to  matron,  son  to  sire ; 

From  son  to  sire, 
Each  bosom  burns  with  quenchless  fire, 

Where  life's  vain  phantasies  expire 
In  some  new  phoenix  of  desire; 

Each  bosom  burns  with  quenchless  fire, 
From  son  to  sire ! 

Still  sighs  the  world  for  something  new ; 

For  something  new ; 
Imploring  me,  imploring  you 

Some  Will-o'-wisp  to  help  pursue : 
Ah  hapless  world,  what  will  it  do ; 

Imploring  me,  imploring  you, 

FOR    SOMETHING    NEW ! 


412 


RALPH    HOYT. 


SALE. 

THE  WORLD  FOB  SALE  ! — Hang  out  the  sign ; 

Call  every  traveller  here  to  me ; 
Who'll  buy  this  brave  estate  of  mine, 

And  set  me  from  earth's  bondage  free : — 
'Tis  going ! — Yes,  I  mean  to  fling 

The  bauble  from  my  soul  away ; 
I'll  sell  it,  whatsoe'r  it  bring  ; — 

The  World  at  Auction  here  to-day ! 

It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  see, — 

Ah,  it  has  cheated  me  so  sore ! 
It  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be  : 

For  sale  !  It  shall  be  mine  no  more. 
Come,  turn  it  o'er  and  view  it  well ; — 

I  would  not  have  you  purchase  dear ; 
'Tis  going — going ! — I  must  sell ! 

Who  bids?— Who'll  buy  the  Splendid  Tear  1 

Here's  WEALTH  in  glittering  heaps  of  gold, — 

Who  bids? — But  let  me  tell  you  fair, 
A  baser  lot  was  never  sold ; — 

Who'll  buy  the  heavy  heaps  of  care  ] 
And  here,  spread  out  in  broad  domain, 

A  goodly  landscape  all  may  trace ; 
Hall — cottage — tree — field — hill  and  plain ; 

Who'll  buy  himself  a  burial  place ! 

Here's  LOVE,  the  dreamy  potent  spell 

That  beauty  flings  around  the  heart ; 
I  know  its  power,  alas  !  too  well ; — 

'Tis  going — Love  and  I  must  part ! 
Must  part ! — What  can  I  more  with  Love ! 

All  over  the  enchanter's  reign ; 
Who'll  buy  the  plumeless,  dying  dove, — 

An  hour  of  buss, — an  age  of  pain ! 

And  FRIENDSHIP, — rarest  gem  of  earth, — 

(Who  e'er  hath  found  the  jewel  his?) 
Frail,  fickle,  false  and  little  worth, — 

Who  bids  for  Friendship — as  it  is ! 
'Tis  going — going  ! — Hear  the  call  : 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  ! — 'Tis  very  low  ! 
'Twas  once  my  hope,  my  stay,  my  all, — 

But  now  the  broken  staff  must  go ! 

FAME  !  hold  the  brilliant  meteor  high ; 

How  dazzling  every  gilded  name  ! 
Ye  millions,  now's  the  time  to  buy  ! — 

How  much  for  Fame !  How  much  for  Fame ! 
Hear  how  it  thunders ! — Would  you  stand 

On  high  Olympus,  far  renown'd, — 
Now  purchase,  and  a  world  command  ! — 

And  be  with  a  world's  curses  crown'd ! 

Sweet  star  of  HOPE  !  with  ray  to  shine 

In  every  sad  foreboding  breast, 
Save  this  desponding  one  of  mine, — 

Who  bids  for  man's  last  friend  and  best  \ 
Ah,  were  not  mine  a  bankrupt  life, 

This  treasure  should  my  soul  sustain ; 
But  Hope  and  I  are  now  at  strife, 

Nor  ever  may  unite  again. 

And  SONG  ! — For  sale  my  tuneless  lute ; 

Sweet  solace,  mine  no  more  to  hold ; 
The  chords  that  charmed  my  soul  are  mute, 

I  cannot  wake  the  notes  of  old  ! 


Or  e'en  were  mine  a  wizard  shell, 

Could  chain  a  world  in  raptures  high ; 

Yet  now  a  sad  farewell ! — farewell ! — 
Must  on  its  last  faint  echoes  die. 

Ambition,  fashion,  show,  and  pride, — 

I  part  from  all  for  ever  now ; 
Grief,  in  an  overwhelming  tide, 

Has  taught  my  haughty  heart  to  bow. 
Poor  heart !  distracted,  ah,  so  long, — 

And  still  its  aching  throb  to  bear  ; — 
How  broken,  that  was  once  so  strong ; 

How  heavy,  once  so  free  from  care. 

No  more  for  me  life's  fitful  dream ; — 

Bright  vision,  vanishing  away  ! 
My  bark  requires  a  deeper  stream; 

My  sinking  soul  a  surer  stay. 
By  Death,  stern  sheriff!  all  bereft, 

I  weep,  yet  humbly  kiss  the  rod , 
The  best  of  all  I  still  have  left,— 

My  Faith,  my  Bible,  and  my  God. 
I 


SNOW. 

THE  blessed  morn  is  come  again ; 

The  early  gray 
Taps  at  the  slumberer's  window-pane, 

And  seems  to  say 
"  Break,  break  from  the  enchanter's  chain, 

Away, — away  !" 

'Tis  winter,  yet  there  is  no  sound 

Along  the  air, 
Of  winds  upon  their  battle-ground, 

But  gently  there, 
The  snow  is  falling, — all  around 

How  fair — how  fair  ! 

The  jocund  fields  would  masquerade ; 

Fantastic  scene ! 
Tree,  shrub,  and  lawn,  and  lonely  glade 

Have  cast  their  green, 
And  join'd  the  revel,  all  array'd 

So  white  and  clean. 

E'en  the  old  posts,  that  hold  the  bars 

And  the  old  gate, 
Forgetful  of  their  wintry  wars 

And  age  sedate, 
High-capp'd,  and  plumed,  like  white  hussars, 

Stand  there  in  state. 

The  drifts  are  hanging  by  the  sill, 

The  eaves,  the  door ; 
The  hay-stack  has  become  a  hill ; 

All  cover'd  o'er 
The  wagon,  loaded  for  the  mill 

The  eve  before. 

Maria  brings  the  water-pail, — 

But  where's  the  well ! 
Like  magic  of  a  fairy  tale, 

Most  strange  to  tell, 
All  vanish'd, — curb,  and  crank,  and  rail ; — 

How  deep  it  fell ! 


1 


RALPH    HOYT. 


413 


The  wood-pile  too  is  playing  hide ; 

The  axe — the  log — 
The  kennel  of  that  friend  so  tried — 

(The  old  watch-dog,) 
The  grindstone  standing  by  its  side, 

All  now  incog. 

The  bustling  cock  looks  out  aghast 

From  his  high  shed ; 
No  spot  to  scratch  him  a  repast, 

Up  curves  his  head, 
Starts  the  dull  hamlet  with  a  blast, 

And  back  to  bed. 

The  barn-yard  gentry,  musing,  chime 
Their  morning  moan ; 

Like  Memnon's  music  of  old  time—- 
That voice  of  stone ! 

So  marbled  they — and  so  sublime 
Their  solemn  tone. 

Good  Ruth  has  called  the  younker  folk 

To  dress  below ; 
Full  welcome  was  the  word  she  spoke, 

Down,  down  they  go, 
The  cottage  quietude  is  broke, — 

The  snow ! — the  snow  ! 

Now  rises  from  around  the  fire 

A  pleasant  strain ; 
Ye  giddy  sons  of  mirth,  retire  ! 

And  ye  profane  ! — 
A  hymn  to  the  Eternal  Sire 

Goes  up  again. 

The  patriarchal  Book  divine, 

Upon  the  knee, 
Opes  where  the  gems  of  Judah  shine, — 

(Sweet  minstrelsie !) 
How  soars  each  heart  with  each  fair  line, 

0  God !  to  Thee  ! 

Around  the  altar  low  they  bend, 

Devout  in  prayer ; 
As  snows  upon  the  roof  descend, 

So  angels  there 
Guard  o'er  that  household,  to  defend 

With  gentle  care. 

Now  sings  the  kettle  o'er  the  blaze ; 

The  buckwheat  heaps ; 
Rare  Mocha,  worth  an  Arab's  praise, 

Sweet  Susan  steeps ; 
The  old  round  stand  her  nod  obeys, 

And  out  it  leaps. 

Unerring  presages  declare 
The  banquet  near; 
Soon,  busy  appetites  are  there  ; 


And  disappear 

The  glories  of  the  ample  fare, 
With  thanks  sincere. 

Now  let  the  busy  day  begin  : — 

Out  rolls  the  churn ; 
Forth  hastes  the  farm-boy,  and  brings  in 

The  brush  to  burn ; — 
Sweep,  shovel,  scour,  sew,  knit,  and  spin, 

Till  night's  return. 

To  delve  his  threshing  John  must  hie ; 

His  sturdy  shoe 
Can  all  the  subtle  damp  defy : 

How  wades  he  through ! 
While  dainty  milkmaids,  slow  and  shy, 

His  track  pursue. 

Each  to  the  hour's  allotted  care : 

To  shell  the  corn ; 
The  broken  harness  to  repair ; 

The  sleigh  t' adorn  : 
So  cheerful — tranquil — snowy — fair, 

The  WIXTER  MOHK. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  CHAUNT  OF 
LIFE. 

GIVE  me  to  love  my  fellow,  and  in  love, 

If  with  none  other  grace  to  chaunt  my  strain, 
Sweet  key-note  of  soft  cadences  above, 

Sole  star  of  solace  in  life's  night  of  pain. 
Chief  gem  of  Eden,  fractured  in  that  fall 

That  ruin'd  two  fond  hearts,  and  tarnish'd  all ! 
Redeemer !  be  thy  kindly  spirit  mine ; 

That  pearl  of  Paradise  to  me  restore, 
Pure,  fervent,  fearless,  lasting,  love  divine, 

Profound  as  ocean,  broad  as  sea  and  shore. 
While  Man  I  sing,  free,  subject,  and  supreme, 

0 !  for  a  soul,  as  ample  as  the  theme ! 

Sad  prelude  I  have  sung,  by  Sorrow  led 

Along  the  mournful  shades  that  own  her  sway, 
Where,  by  a  stream  that  weeping  eyes  have  shed, 

Low  chaunted  I  my  melancholy  lay, 
In  pensive  concord  with  the  sootheless  wail 

Of  sighing  wanderers  in  that  lonely  vale. 
Ah,  chide  not  those  whose  wo  seems  hard  to  bear, 

The  heart  must  hover  where  its  treasures  sleep ; 
I  saw  the  great,  the  wise,  the  gifted  there, 

With  humbler  multitudes  compell'd  to  weep ; 
No  penury,  no  wealth  commands  relief! 

No  serf,  no  sovereign  hi  the  realms  of  grief! 


2M2 


WILLIS   GAYLORD   CLARK. 


[Born,  1810.    Died,  1S41.] 


WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK  was  born  at  Otisco, 
an  agricultural  town  in  central  New  York,  in  the 
year  1310.  His  father  had  been  a  soldier  in  the 
revolutionary  army,  and  his  services  had  won  for 
him  tributes  of  acknowledgment  from  the  govern- 
ment. He  had  read  much,  and  was  fond  of  philo- 
sophical speculations;  and  in  his  son  he  found  an 
earnest  and  ready  pupil.  The  teachings  of  the 
father,  and  the  classical  inculcations  of  the  Re- 
verend  GEORGE  COLTON,  a  maternal  relative,  laid 
a  firm  foundation  for  the  acquirements  which  after- 
ward gave  grace  and  vigour  to  his  writings. 

At  an  early  age,  stimulated  by  the  splendid  scenery 
outspread  on  every  side  around  him,  CLARK  began 
to  feel  the  poetic  impulse.  He  painted  the  beauties 
of  Nature  with  singular  fidelity,  and  in  numbers 
most  musical ;  and  as  he  grew  older,  a  solemnity 
and  gentle  sadness  of  thought  pervaded  his  verse, 
and  evidenced  his  desire  to  gather  from  the  scenes 
and  images  it  reflected,  lessons  of  morality. 

When  he  was  about  twenty  years  of  age  he 
repaired  to  Philadelphia,  where  his  reputation  as 
a  poet  had  already  preceded  him,  and  under  the 
auspices  of  his  friend,  the  Reverend  Doctor  ELT, 
commenced  a  weekly  miscellany  similar  in  design 
to  the  «  Mirror,"  then  and  now  published  in  New 
York.  This  work  was  abandoned  after  a  brief 
period,  and  CLARK  assumed,  with  the  Reverend 
Doctor  BRAXTLEY,  an  eminent  Baptist  clergyman, 
now  President  of  the  College  of  South  Carolina, 
the  charge  of  the  "  Columbian  Star,"  a  religious 
and  literary  periodical,  of  high  character,  in  which 
he  printed  many  brief  poems  of  considerable  merit, 
a  few  of  which  were  afterward  included  in  a  small 
volume  with  a  more  elaborate  work  entitled  "  The 
Spirit  of  Life,"  originally  prepared  as  an  exercise 
at  a  collegiate  exhibition,  and  distinguished  for  the 
melody  of  its  versification  and  the  rare  felicity  of 
its  illustrations. 

After  a  long  association  with  the  reverend  editor 
of  the  "Columbian  Star,"  CLARK  was  solicited  to 
take  charge  of  the  "  Philadelphia  Gazette,"  one  of 
the  oldest  and  most  respectable  journals  in  Penn- 
sylvania. He  ultimately  became  its  proprietor,  and 
from  that  time  until  his  death  continued  to  conduct 
it.  In  1836  he  was  married  to  AXXE  POYXTELL 
CALDCLEUOII,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  wealthiest 
citizens  of  Philadelphia,  and  a  woman  of  great  per- 
sonal beauty,  rare  accomplishments,  and  an  affec- 
tionate disposition,  who  fell  a  victim  to  that  most 
terrible  disease  of  our  climate,  consumption,  in 
the  meridian  of  her  youth  and  happiness,  leaving 
her  husband  a  prey  to  the  deepest  melancholy. 
In  the  following  verses,  written  soon  after  this 
bereavement,  his  emotions  are  depicted  with  unaf- 
fected feeling: 

'T  is  an  autumnal  eve— the  low  winds,  sighing 
To  wet  leaves,  rustling  as  they  hasten  by  ; 


The  eddying  gusts  to  tossing  boughs  replying, 

And  ebon  darkness  filling  all  the  sky, — 
The  moon,  pale  mistress,  pall'd  in  solemn  vapour, 

The  rack,  swift-wandering  through  the  void  above, 
As  I,  a  mourner  by  my  lonely  taper, 

Send  back  to  faded  hours  the  plaint  of  love. 

Blossoms  of  peace,  once  in  my  pathway  springing, 

Where  have  your  brightness  and  your  splendour  gone? 
And  thou,  whose  voice  to  me  came  sweet  as  singing, 

What  region  holds  thee,  in  the  vast  unknown  ? 
What  star  far  brighter  than  the  rest  contains  thee, 

Beloved,  departed — empress  of  my  heart  ? 
What  bond  of  full  beatitude  enchains  thee, — 

In  realms  unveil'd  by  pen,  or  prophet's  art  1 

Ah  !  loved  and  lost !  in  these  autumnal  hours, 

When  fairy  colours  deck  the  painted  tree, 
When  the  vast  woodlands  seem  a  sea  of  flowers, 

O !  then  my  soul,  exulting,  bounds  to  thee ! 
Springs,  as  to  clasp  thee  yet  in  this  existence, 

Yet  to  behold  thee  at  my  lonely  side ; 
But  the  fond  vision  melts  at  once  to  distance, 

And  my  sad  heart  gives  echo — she  has  died! 

Yes  '.  when  the  morning  of  her  years  was  brightest, 

That  angel-presence  into  dust  went  down, — 
While  yet  with  rosy  dreams  her  rest  was  lightest, 

Death  for  the  olive  wove  the  cypress-crown, — 
Sleep,  which  no  waking  knows,  o'ercame  her  bosom, 

O'ercame  her  large,  bright,  spiritual  eyes; 
Spared  in  her  bower  connubial  one  fair  blossom — 

Then  bore  her  spirit  to  the  upper  skies. 

There  let  me  meet  her,  when,  life's  struggles  over, 

The  pure  in  love  and  thought  their  faith  renew, — 
Where  man's  forgiving  and  redeeming  Lover 

Spreads  out  his  paradise  to  every  view. 
Let  the  dim  Autumn,  with  its  leaves  descending, 

Howl  on  the  winter's  verge ! — yet  spring  will  come : 
So  my  freed  soul,  no  more  'gainst  fate  contending, 

With  all  it  loveth  shall  regain  its  home  ! 

From  this  time  his  health  gradually  declined, 
and  his  friends  perceived  that  the  same  disease 
which  had  robbed  him  of  the  "light  of  his  exist- 
ence," would  soon  deprive  them  also  of  his  fellow- 
ship. Though  his  illness  was  of  long  duration,  he 
was  himself  unaware  of  its  character,  and  when  I 
last  saw  him,  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  he  was 
rejoicing  at  the  return  of  spring,  and  confident  that 
he  would  soon  be  well  enough  to  walk  about  the 
town  or  to  go  into  the  country.  He  continued  to 
write  for  his  paper  until  the  last  day  of  his  life, 
the  twelfth  of  June,  1841. 

His  metrical  writings  are  all  distinguished  for  a 
graceful  and  elegant  diction,  thoughts  morally 
and  poetically  beautiful,  and  chaste  and  appropri- 
ate imagery.  The  sadness  which  pervades  them 
is  not  the  gloom  of  misanthropy,  but  a  gentle  re- 
ligious melancholy;  and  while  they  portray  the 
changes  of  life  and  nature,  they  point  to  another 
and  a  purer  world,  for  which  our  affections  are 
chastened,  and  our  desires  made  perfect  by  suffer- 
ing in  this. 

The  qualities  of  his  prose  are  essentially  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  his  poetry.  Occasionally  he 

414 


WILLIS   G.    CLARK. 


415 


poured  forth  grave  thoughts  in  eloquent  and  fervent 
language,  but  far  more  often  delighted  his  readers 
by  passages  of  irresistible  humour  and  wit.  His 
perception  of  the  ludicrous  was  acute,  and  his  jests 
and  "  cranks  and  wanton  wiles"  evinced  the  fulness 
of  his  powers  and  the  benevolence  of  his  feelings. 
The  talcs  and  essays  which  he  found  leisure  to  write 
for  the  New  York  "Knickerbocker  Magazine," — a 
monthly  miscellany  of  high  reputation  edited  by 
his  only  and  twin  brother,  Mr.  LEWIS  GAYLORD 
CLARK. — and  especially  a  series  of  amusing  papers 


under  the  quaint  title  of  "Ollapodiana,"  will  long 
be  remembered  as  affording  abundant  evidence  of 
the  qualities  I  have  enumerated. 

In  person  Mr.  CLARK  was  of  the  middle  height, 
his  form  was  erect  and  manly,  and  his  counte- 
nance pleasing  and  expressive.  In  ordinary  in- 
tercourse he  was  cheerful  and  animated,  and  he 
was  studious  to  conform  to  the  conventional  usages 
of  society.  Warm-hearted,  confiding,  and  gene- 
rous, he  was  a  true  friend,  and  by  those  who  knew 
him  intimately  he  was  much  loved. 


A  LAMENT. 

THERE  is  a  voice  I  shall  hear  no  more — 
There  are  tones  whose  music  for  me  is  o'er, 
Sweet  as  the  odours  of  spring  were  they, — 
Precious  and  rich — but  they  died  away  ; 
They  came  like  peace  to  my  heart  and  ear — 
Never  again  will  they  murmur  here ; 
They  have  gone  like  the  blush  of  a  summer  mom, 
Like  a  crimson  cloud  through  the  sunset  borne. 

There  were  eyes,  that  late  were  lit  up  for  me, 
Whose  kindly  glance  was  a  joy  to  see ; 
They  reveal'd  the  thoughts  of  a  trusting  heart, 
Untouch'd  by  sorrow,  untaught  by  art ; 
Whose  affections  were  fresh  as  a  stream  of  spring, 
When  birds  in  the  vernal  branches  sing ; 
They  were  fill'd  with  love  that  hath  pass'd  with  them, 
And  my  lyre  is  breathing  their  requiem. 

I  remember  a  brow,  whose  serene  repose 
Seem'd  to  lend  a  beauty  to  cheeks  of  rose ; 
And  lips,  I  remember,  whose  dewy  smile, 
As  I  mused  on  their  eloquent  power  the  while, 
Sent  a  thrill  to  my  bosom,  and  bless'd  my  brain 
With  raptures  that  never  may  dawn  again ; 
Amidst  musical  accents,  those  smiles  were  shed — 
Alas !  for  the  doom  of  the  early  dead ! 

Alas !  for  the  clod  that  is  resting  now 

On  those  slumbering  eyes — on  that  fated  brow, 

Wo  for  the  cheek  that  hath  ceased  to  bloom — 

F.or  the  lips  that  are  dumb,  in  the  noisome  tomb ; 

Their  melody  broken,  their  fragrance  gone, 

Their  aspect  cold  as  the  Parian  stone ; 

Alas,  for  the  hopes  that  with  thee  have  died — 

0,  loved  one ! — would  I  were  by  thy  side ! 

Yet  the  joy  of  grief  it  is  mine  to  bear ; 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  twilight  air ; 

Thy  smile,  of  sweetness  untold,  I  see 

When  the  visions  of  evening  are  borne  to  me ; 

Thy  kiss  on  my  dreaming  lip  is  warm — 

My  arm  embraceth  thy  graceful  form ; 

I  wake  in  a  world  that  is  sad  and  drear, 

To  feel  in  my  bosom — thou  art  not  here. 

0 !  once  the  summer  with  thee  was  bright ; 
The  day,  like  thine  eyes,  wore  a  holy  light. 
There  was  bliss  in  existence  when  thou  wert  nigh, 
There  was  balm  in  the  evening's  rosy  sigh  ; 
Then  earth  was  an  Eden,  and  thou  its  guest — 
A  Sabbath  of  blessings  was  in  my  breast ; 
My  heart  was  full  of  a  sense  of  love, 
Likest  of  all  things  to  heaven  above. 


Now,  thou  art  gone  to  that  voiceless  hall, 
Where  my  budding  raptures  have  perish'd  all ; 
To  that  tranquil  and  solemn  place  of  rest, 
Where  the  earth  lies  damp  on  the  sinless  breast : 
Thy  bright  locks  all  in  the  vault  are  hid — 
Thy  brow  is  conceal'd  by  the  coffin  lid ; — 
All  that  was  lovely  to  me  is  there — 
Mournful  is  life,  and  a  load  to  bear ! 


MEMORY. 

'T  is  sweet  to  remember !     I  would  not  forego 
The  charm  which  the  past  o'er  the  present  can  throw, 
For  all  the  gay  visions  that  Fancy  may  weave 
In  her  web  of  illusion,  that  shines  to  deceive. 
We  know  not  the  future — the  past  we  have  felt — 
Its  cherish'd  enjoyments  the  bosom  can  melt ; 
Its  raptures  anew  o'er  our  pulses  may  roll, 
When  thoughts  of  the  morrow  fall  cold  on  the  soul. 

'T  is  sweet  to  remember !  when  storms  are  abroad, 
To  see  in  the  rainbow  the  promise  of  GOD  : 
The  day  may  be  darken'd,  but  far  in  the  west, 
In  vermilion  and  gold,  sinks  the  sun  to  his  rest ; 
With  smiles  like  the  morning  he  passeth  away : 
Thus  the  beams  of  delight  on  the  spirit  can  play. 
When  in  calm  reminiscence  we  gather  the  flowers 
Which  love  scatter'd  round  us  in  happier  hours. 

'T  is  sweet  to  remember !  When  friends  are  unkind, 
When  their  coldness  and  carelessness  shadow  the 

mind : 

Then,  to  draw  back  the  veil  which  envelopes  a  land 
Where  delectable  prospects  in  beauty  expand ; 
To  smell  the  green  fields,  the  fresh  waters  to  hear 
Whose  once  fairy  music  enchanted  the  ear; 
To  drink  in  the  smiles  that  delighted  us  then, 
To  list  the  fond  voices  of  childhood  again, — 
O,  this  the  sad  heart,  like  a  reed  that  is  bruised, 
Binds  up,  when  the  banquet  of  hope  is  refused. 

'T  is  sweet  to  remember !  And  naught  can  destroy 
The  balm-breathing  comfort,  the  glory,  the  joy, 
Which  spring  from  that  fountain,  to  gladden  our 

way, 

When  the  changeful  and  faithless  desert  or  betray. 
I  would  not  forget ! — though  my  thoughts  should 

be  dark, 

O'er  the  ocean  of  life  I  look  back  from  my  bark, 
And  I  see  the  lost  Eden,  where  once  I  was  blest, 
A  type  and  a  promise  of  heavenly  rest. 


416 


WILLIS   G.   CLARK. 


SONG  OF  MAY. 

THE  spring's  scented  buds  all  around  me  are  swell- 
ing: 
There  are  songs  in  the  stream — there  is  health 

in  the  gale ; 

A  sense  of  delight  in  each  bosom  is  dwelling, 
As  float  the  pure  daybeams  o'er  mountain  and 

vale; 
The  desolate  reign  of  old  winter  is  broken — 

The  verdure  is  fresh  upon  every  tree ; 
Of  Nature's  revival  the  charm,  and  a  token 
Of  love,  O  thou  Spirit  of  Beauty,  to  thee ! 

The  sun  looketh  forth  from  the  halls  of  the  morning, 

And  flushes  the  clouds  that  begirt  his  career ; 
He  welcomes  the  gladness  and  glory,  returning 

To  rest  on  the  promise  and  hope  of  the  year  : 
He  fills  with  delight  all  the  balm-breathing  flowers ; 

He  mounts  to  the  zenith  and  laughs  on  the  wave ; 
He  wakes  into  music  the  green  forest-bowers, 

And  gilds  the  gay  plains  which  the  broad  rivers 
lave. 

The  young  bird  is  out  on  his  delicate  pinion — 

He  timidly  sails  in  the  infinite  sky ; 
A  greeting  to  May,  and  her  fairy  dominion, 

He  pours  on  the  west-winds  that  fragrantly  sigh ; 
Around  and  above,  there  are  quiet  and  pleasure — 

The  woodlands  are  singing,  the  heaven  is  bright; 
The  fields  are  unfolding  their  emerald  treasure, 

And  man's  genial  spirit  is  soaring  in  light 

Alas !  for  my  weary  and  care-haunted  bosom ! 

The  spells  of  the  spring-time  arouse  it  no  more ; 
The  song  inthewildwood,the  sheen  in  the  blossom, 

The  fresh-swelling  fountain — their  magic  is  o'er ! 
When  I  list  to  the  stream,  when  I  look  on  the  flowers, 

They  tell  of  the  Past  with  so  mournful  a  tone, 
That  I  call  up  the  throngs  of  my  long  vanish'd  hours. 

And  sigh  that  their  transports  are  over  and  gone. 

From  thefar-spreading  earth  and  the  limitless  heaven 

There  have  vanish'd  an  eloquent  glory  and  gleam ; 
To  my  sad  mind  no  more  is  the  influence  given, 

Which  coloureth  life  with  the  hues  of  a  dream ; 
The  bloom-purpled  landscape  its  loveliness  keepeth; 

I  deem  that  a  light  as  of  old  gilds  the  wave ; 
But  the  eye  of  my  spirit  in  weariness  sleepeth, 

Or  sees  but  my  youth,  and  the  visions  it  gave. 

Yet  it  is  not  that  age  on  my  years  hath  descended — 

'T  is  not  that  its  snow-wreaths  encircle  my  brow ; 

But  the  newness  and  sweetness  of  being  are  ended : 

I  feel  not  their  love-kindling  witchery  now ; 
The  shadows  of  death  o'er  my  path  have  been 

sweeping — 
There  are  those  who  have  loved  me  debarr'd 

from  the  day ; 
The  green  turf  is  bright  where  in  peace  they  are 

sleeping, 
And  on  wings  of  remembrance  my  soul  is  away. 

It  is  shut  to  the  glow  of  this  present  existence — 
It  hears,  from  the  Past,  a  funereal  strain  ; 

And  it  eagerly  turns  to  the  high-seeming  distance, 
Where  the  last  blooms  of  earth  will  be  garncr'd 
again : 


Where  no  mildew  the  soft  damask-rose  cheek  shall 
nourish, 

Where  grief  bears  no  longer  the  poisonous  sting ; 
Where  pitiless  Death  no  dark  sceptre  can  flourish, 

Or  stain  with  his  blight  the  luxuriant  spring. 

It  is  thus  that  the  hopes  which  to  others  are  given 

Fall  cold  on  my  heart  in  this  rich  month  of  May ; 
I  hear  the  clear  anthems  that  ring  through  the 
heaven — 

I  drink  the  bland  airs  that  enliven  the  day ; 
And  if  gentle  Nature,  her  festival  keeping, 

Delights  not  my  bosom,  ah !  do  not  condemn ; 
O'er  the  lost  and  the  lovely  my  spirit  is  weeping-, 

For  my  heart's  fondest  raptures  are  buried  with 
them. 


DEATH  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN. 

YOUNG  mother,  he  is  gone  ! 
His  dimpled  cheek  no  more  will  touch  thy  breast; 

No  more  the  music-tone 
Float  from  his  lips,  to  thine  all  fondly  press'd ; 
His  smile  and  happy  laugh  are  lost  to  thee: 
Earth  must  his  mother  and  his  pillow  be. 

His  was  the  morning  hour, 
And  he  hath  pass'd  in  beauty  from  the  day, 

A  bud,  not  yet  a  flower, 

Torn,  in  its  sweetness,  from  the  parent  spray; 
The  death-wind  swept  him  to  his  soft  repose, 
As  frost,  in  spring-time,  blights  the  early  rose. 

Never  on  earth  again 
Will  his  rich  accents  charm  thy  listening  ear, 

Like  some  Julian  strain, 
Breathing  at  eventide  serene  and  clear; 
His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies. 

And  from  thy  yearning  heart, 
Whose  inmost  core  was  warm  with  love  for  him, 

A  gladness  must  depart, 
And  those  kind  eyes  with  many  tears  be  dim ; 
While  lonely  memories,  an  unceasing  train, 
Will  turn  the  raptures  of  the  past  to  pain. 

Yet,  mourner,  while  the  dny 
Rolls  like  the  darkness  of  a  funeral  by, 

And  hope  forbids  one  ray 
To  stream  athwart  the  grief-discolour'd  sky ; 
There  breaks  upon  thy  sorrow's  evening  gloom 
A  trembling  lustre  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

'T  is  from  the  better  land  ! 
There,  bathed  in  radiance  that  around  them  springs, 

Thy  loved  one's  wings  expand ; 
As  with  the  choiring  cherubim  he  sings, 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  GOD  can  see, 
Who  said,  on  earth,  to  children,  "  Come  to  me." 

Mother,  thy  child  is  blrss'd  : 
And  though  his  presence  may  be  lost  to  thee, 

And  vacant  leave  thy  breast, 
And  miss'd,  a  sweet  load  from  thy  parent  knee ; 
Though  tones  familiar  from  thine  ear  have  pass'd, 
Thou  'It  meet  thy  first-born  with  his  Lord  at  last 


WILLIS    G.    CLARK. 


417 


SUMMER. 

THE  Spring's  gay  promise  melted  into  thee, 
Fair  Summer !  and  thy  gentle  reign  is  here  ; 

The  emerald  robes  are  on  each  leafy  tree ; 
In  the  blue  sky  thy  voice  is  rich  and  clear ; 

And  the  free  brooks  have  songs  to  bless  thy  reign — 

They  leap  in  music  midst  thy  bright  domain. 

The  gales,  that  wander  from  the  unclouded  west, 
Are  burden'd  with  the  breath  of  countless  fields; 

They  teem  with  incense  from  the  green  earth's  breast 
That  up  to  heaven  its  grateful  odour  yields ; 

Bearing  sweet  hymns  of  praise  from  many  a  bird, 

By  nature's  aspect  into  rapture  stirr'd. 

In  such  a  scene  the  sun-illumined  heart 
Bounds  like  a  prisoner  in  his  narrow  cell, 

When  through  its  bars  the  morning  glories  dart, 
And  forest-anthems  in  his  hearing  swell — 

And,  like  the  heaving  of  the  voiceful  sea, 

His  panting  bosom  labours  to  be  free. 

Thus,  gazing  on  thy  void  and  sapphire  sky, 
O,  Summer!  in  my  inmost  soul  arise 

Uplifted  thoughts,  to  which  the  woods  reply, 
And  the  bland  air  with  its  soft  melodies ; — 

Till  basking  in  some  vision's  glorious  ray, 

I  long  for  eagle's  plumes  to  flee  away. 

I  long  to  cast  this  cumbrous  clay  aside, 

And  the  impure,  unholy  thoughts  that  cling 

To  the  sad  bosom,  torn  with  care  and  pride : 
I  would  soar  upward,  on  unfetter'd  wing, 

Far  through  the  chambers  of  the  peaceful  skies, 

Where  the  high  fount  of  Summer's  brightness  lies ! 


THE  EARLY  DEAD. 

IF  it  be  sad  to  mark  the  bow'd  with  age 
Sink  in  the  halls  of  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Closing  the  changes  of  life's  pilgrimage 

In  the  still  darkness  of  its  mouldering  gloom : 

O  !  what  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart  is  flung, 

When  peals  the  requiem  of  the  loved  and  young! 

They  to  whose  bosoms,  like  the  dawn  of  spring 

To  the  unfolding  bud  and  scented  rose, 
Conies  the  pure  freshness  age  can  never  bring, 

And  fills  the  spirit  with  a  rich  repose, 
How  shall  we  lay  them  in  their  final  rest, 
How  pile  the  clods  upon  their  wasting  breast] 
Life  openeth  brightly  to  their  ardent  gaze; 

A  glorious  pomp  sits  on  the  gorgeous  sky ; 
O'er  the  broad  world  hope's  smile  incessant  plays, 

And  scenes  of  beauty  win  the  enchanted  eye: 
How  sad  to  break  the  vision,  and  to  fold 
Each  lifeless  form  in  earth's  embracing  mould  ! 

Yet  this  is  life  !     To  mark  from  day  to  day, 
Youth,  in  the  freshness  of  its  morning  prime, 

Pass,  like  the  anthem  of  a  breeze  away, 

Sinking  in  waves  of  death  ere  chill'd  by  time ! 

Ere  yet  dark  years  on  the  warm  cheek  had  shed 

Autumnal  mildew  o'er  the  rose-like  red ! 

And  yet  what  mourner,  though  the  pensive  eye 
Be  dimly  thoughtful  in  its  burning  tears, 
53 


But  should  with  rapture  gaze  upon  the  sky,  [reersl 
Through  whose  far  depths  the  spirit's  wing  ca- 
There  gleams  eternal  o'er  their  ways  are  flung, 
Who  fade  from  earth  while  yet  their  years  are  young! 


THE  SIGNS  OF  GOD. 

I  MAHK'D  the  Spring  as  she  pass'd  along, 
With  her  eye  of  light,  and  her  lip  of  song; 
While  she  stole  in  peace  o'er  the  green  earth's  breast, 
While  the  streams  sprang  out  from  their  icy  rest: 
The  buds  bent  low  to  the  breeze's  sigh, 
And  their  breath  went  forth  in  the  scented  sky ; 
When  the  fields  look'd  fresh  in  their  sweet  repose, 
And  the  young  dews  slept  on  the  new-born  rose. 
The  scene  was  changed.     It  was  Autumn's  hour: 
A  frost  had  discolour'd  the  summer  bower; 
The  blast  wail'd  sad  mid  the  wither'd  leaves, 
The  reaper  stood  musing  by  gather'd  sheaves ; 
The  mellow  pomp  of  the  rainbow  woods 
Was  stirr'd  by  the  sound  of  the  rising  floods ; 
And  I  knew  by  the  cloud — by  the  wild  wind's  strain 
That  Winter  drew  near  with  his  storms  again  ! 
I  stood  by  the  ocean ;  its  waters  roll'd 
In  their  changeful  beauty  of  sapphire  and  gold ; 
And  day  look'd  down  with  its  radiant  smiles, 
Where  the  blue  waves  danced  round  a  thousand 
The  ships  went  forth  on  the  trackless  seas,    [isles : 
Their  white  wings  play'd  in  the  joyous  breeze ; 
Their  prows  rushed  on  mid  the  parted  foam, 
While  the  wanderer  was  wrapp'd  i  n  a  dream  of  home ! 
The  mountain  arose  with  its  lofty  brow, 
While  its  shadow  was  sleeping  in  vales  below; 
The  mist  like  a  garland  of  glory  lay, 
Where  its  proud  heights  soar'd  in  the  air  away ; 
The  eagle  was  there  on  his  tireless  wing, 
And  his  shriek  went  up  like  an  offering: 
And  he  seem'd,  in  his  sunward  flight,  to  raise 
A  chant  of  thanksgiving — a  hymn  of  praise ! 
I  look'd  on  the  arch  of  the  midnight  skies, 
With  its  deep  and  unsearchable  mysteries: 
The  moon,  mid  an  eloquent  multitude 
Of  unnumber'd  stars,  her  career  pursued: 
A  charm  of  sleep  on  the  city  fell, 
All  sounds  lay  hush'd  in  that  brooding  spell ; 
By  babbling  brooks  were  the  buds  at  rest, 
And  the  wild-bird  dream'd  on  his  downy  nest. 
I  stood  where  the  deepening  tempest  pass'd, 
The  strong  trees  groan'd  in  the  sounding  blast , 
The  murmuring  deep  with  its  wrecks  roll'd  on ; 
The  clouds  o'ershadow'd  the  mighty  sun ; 
The  low  reeds  bent  by  the  streamlet's  side, 
And  hills  to  the  thunder-peal  replied  ; 
The  lightning  burst  forth  on  its  fearful  way, 
While  the  heavens  were  lit  in  its  red  array ! 
And  hath  man  the  power,  with  his  pride  and  his  skill, 
To  arouse  all  nature  with  storms  at  will  1 
Hath  he  power  to  colour  the  summer-cloud — 
To  allay  the  tempest  when  the  hills  are  bow'd  7 
Can  he  waken  the  spring  with  her  festal  wreath  T 
Can  the  sun  grow  dim  by  his  lightest  breath] 
Will  he  come  again  when  death's  vale  is  trod  ] 
Who  then  shall  dare  murmur  "There  is  no  God '" 


413 


WILLIS    G.   CLARK. 


EUTHANASIA. 

METHIWKS,  when  on  the  languid  eye 

Life's  autumn  scenes  grow  dim ; 
When  evening's  shadows  veil  the  sky, 

And  Pleasure's  syren  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  ear, 
Like  echoes  from  another  sphere, 

Or  dream  of  seraphim, 
It  were  not  sad  to  cast  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay. 

It  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold ; 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart 

That  cheer'd  the  good  of  old ; 
To  clasp  the  faith  which  looks  on  high, 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 

It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-wing'd  seraphs  led : 
Where  glories  earth  may  never  know 
O'er  "many  mansions"  lingering  glow, 

In  peerless  lustre  shed ; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar, 
Where  sir!  and  grief  can  sting  no  more. 

And,  though  the  way  to  such  a  goal 

Lies  through  the  clouded  tomb, 
If  on  the  free,  unfetter'd  soul 

There  rest  no  stains  of  gloom, 
How  should  its  aspirations  rise 
Far  through  the  blue,  unpillar'd  skies, 

Up,  to  its  final  home ! 
Beyond  the  journeyings  of  the  sun, 
Where  streams  of  living  waters  run. 


AN  INVITATION. 
"They  that  seek  me  early  shall  find  me." 

COIWE,  while  the  blossoms  of  thy  years  are  brightest, 
Thou  youthful  wanderer  in  a  flowery  maze, 

Come,  while  the  restless  heart  is  bounding  lightest, 
And  joy's  pure  sunbeams  tremble  in  thy  ways ; 

Come,  while  sweet  thoughts,  like  summer-buds  un- 
folding, 
Waken  rich  feelings  in  the  careless  breast, 

While  yet  thy  hand  the  ephemeral  wreath  is  hold- 
Come — and  secure  interminable  rest !          [ing, 

Soon  will  the  freshness  of  thy  days  be  over,    * 

And  thy  free  buoyancy  of  soul  be  flown ; 
Pleasure  will  fold  her  wing,  and  friend  and  lover 

Will  to  the  embraces  of  the  worm  have  gone ; 
Those  who  now  love  thee  will  have  pass'd  forever, 

Their  looks  of  kindness  will  be  lost  to  thee ; 
Thou  wilt  need  balm  to  heal  thy  spirit's  fever, 

As  thy  sick  heart  broods  over  years  to  be ! 

Come,  while  the  morning  of  thy  life  is  glowing, 
Ere  the  dim  phantoms  thou  art  chasing  die ; 

Ere  the  gay  spell  which  earth  is  round  thee  throw- 
Fades,  like  the  crimson  from  a  sunset  sky ;    [ing 


Life  hath  but  shadows,  save  a  promise  given, 
Which  lights  the  future  with  a  fadeless  ray ; 

O,  touch  the  sceptre  ! — win  a  hope  in  Heaven' 
Come,  turn  thy  spirit  from  the  world  away ! 

Then  will  the  crosses  of  this  brief  existence 

Seem  airy  nothings  to  thine  ardent  soul ; — 
And,  shining  brightly  in  the  forward  distance, 

Will  of  thy  patient  race  appear  the  goal : 
Home  of  the  weary ! — where,  in  peace  reposing, 

The  spirit  lingers  in  unclouded  bliss, 
Though  o'er  its  dust  the  curtain'd  grave  is  closing, 

Who  would  not,  early,  choose  a  lot  like  this  1 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE  AT  LAUREL  HILL* 

HERE  the  lamented  dead  in  dust  shall  lie, 

Life's  lingering  languors  o'er,  its  labours  done, 

Where  waving  boughs,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Admit  the  farewell  radiance  of  the  sun. 

Here  the  long  concourse  from  the  murmuring  town, 
With  funeral  pace  and  slow,  shall  enter  in, 

To  lay  the  loved  in  tranquil  silence  down, 
No  more  to  suffer,  and  no  more  to  sin. 

And  in  this  hallow'd  spot,  where  Nature  showers 
Her  summer  smiles  from  fair  and  stainless  skies, 

Affection's  hand  may  strew  her  dewy  flowers, 
Whose  fragrant  incense  from  the  grave  shall  rise. 

And  here  the  impressive  stone,  engraved  with  words 
Which  grief  sententious  gives  to  marble  pale, 

Shall  teach  the  heart ;  while  waters,  leaves,  and  birds 
Make  cheerful  music  in  the  passing  gale. 

Say,  wherefore  should  we  weep,  and  wherefore  pour 
On  scented  airs  the  unavailing  sigh — 

While  sun-bright  waves  are  quivering  to  the  shore, 
And  landscapes  blooming — that  the  loved  must 
die? 

There  is  an  emblem  in  this  peaceful  scene ; 

Soon  rainbow  colours  on  the  woods  will  fall, 
And  autumn  gusts  bereave  the  hills  of  green, 

As  sinks  the  year  to  meet  its  cloudy  pall. 

Then,  cold  and  pale,  in  distant  vistas  round, 
Disrobed  and  tuneless,  all  the  woods  will  stand. 

While  the  chain'd  streams  are  silent  as  the  ground, 
As  Death  had  numb'd  them  with  his  icy  hand. 

Yet,  when  the  warm,  soft  winds  shall  rise  in  spring, 
Like  struggling  daybeams  o'er  a  blasted  heath, 

The  bird  return'd  shall  poise  her  golden  wing, 
And  liberal  Nature  break  the  spell  of  Death. 

So,  when  the  tomb's  dull  silence  finds  an  end, 
The  blessed  dead  to  endless  youth  shall  rise, 

And  hear  the  archangel's  thrilling  summons  blend 
Its  tone  with  anthems  from  the  upper  skies. 

There  shall  the  good  of  earth  be  found  at  last, 
Where  dazzling  streams  and  verna^fields  expand ; 

Where  Love  her  crown  attains — her  trials  past — 
And,  fill'd  with  rapture,  hails  the  "better  land !" 

*  Near  the  city  of  Philadelphia. 


WILLIS   G.    CLARK. 


419 


A  CONTRAST. 


IT  was  the  morning  of  a  day  in  spring ; 
The  sun  look'd  gladness  from  the  eastern  sky ; 
Birds  were  upon  the  trees  and  on  the  wing, 
And  all  the  air  was  rich  with  melody ;         [high ; 
The  heaven — the  calm,  pure  heaven,  was  bright  on 
Earth  laugh'd  beneath  in  all  its  freshening  green, 
The  free  blue  streams  sang  as  they  wandered  by, 
And  many  a  sunny  glade  and  flowery  scene 
Gleam'd  our,  like  thoughts  of  youth,  life's  troubled 
years  between. 

The  rose's  breath  upon  the  south  wind  came, 
Oft  as  its  whisperings  the  young  branches  stirr'd, 
And  flowers  for  which  the  poet  hath  no  name ; 
While,  mid  the  blossoms  of  the  grove,  were  heard 
The  restless  murmurs  of  the  humming-bird  ; 
Waters  were  dancing  in  the  mellow  light ; 
And  joyous  notes  and  many  a  cheerful  word 
Stole  on  the  charmed  ear  with  such  delight 
As  waits  on  soft,  sweet  tones  of  music  heard  at  night. 

The  night-dews  lay  in  the  half-open'd  flower, 
Like  hopes  that  nestle  in  the  youthful  breast ; 
And  ruffled  by  the  light  airs  of  the  hour, 
Awoke  the  pure  lake  from  its  glassy  rest  : 
Slow  blending  with  the  blue  and  distant  west, 
Lay  the  dim  woodlands,  and  the  quiet  gleam 
Of  amber-clouds,  like  islands  of  the  blest — 
Glorious  and  bright,  and  changing  like  a  dream, 
And  lessening  fast  away  beneath  the  intenser  beam. 

Songs  were  amid  the  valleys  far  and  wide, 
And  on  the  green  slopes  and  the  mountains  high: 
While,  from  the  springing  flowers  on  every  side, 
Upon  his  painted  wings,  the  butterfly 
Roam'd,  a  gay  blossom  of  the  sunny  sky ; 
The  visible  smile  of  joy  was  on  the  scene ; 
'T  was  a  bright  vision,  but  too  soon  to  die  ! 
Spring  may  not  linger  in  her  robes  of  green — 
Autumn,  in  storm  and  shade  shall  quench  the  sum- 
mer sheen. 

I  came,  again.     'Twas  Autumn's  stormy  hour: 
The  voice  of  winds  was  in  the  faded  wood ; 
The  sere  leaves,  rustling  in  deserted  bower, 
Were  hurl'd  in  eddies  to  the  moaning  flood  : 
Dark  clouds  were  in  the  west — and  red  as  blood, 
The  sun  shone  through  the  hazy  atmosphere ; 
While  torrent  voices  broke  the  solitude, 
Where,  straying  lonely,  as  with  steps  of  fear, 
I  mark'd  the  deepening  gloom  which  shrouds  the 
dying  year. 

The  ruffled  lake  heaved  wildly ;  near  the  shore 
It  bore  the  red  leaves  of  the  shaken  tree, 
Shed  in  the  violent  north  wind's  restless  roar, 
Emblems  of  man  upon  life's  stormy  sea ! 
Pale  autumn  leaves !  once  to  the  breezes  free 
They  waved  in  spring  and  summer's  golden  prime ; 
Now,  even  as  clouds  or  dew  how  i'ast  they  flee ; 
Weak,  changing  like  the  flowers  in  autumn's  clime, 
As  man  sinks  down  in  death,  chill'd  by  the  touch 
of  time ! 

I  mark'd  the  picture — 't  was  the  changeful  scene 
Which  life  holds  up  to  the  observant  eye : 


Its  spring,  and  summer,  and  its  bowers  of  green, 
The  streaming  sunlight  of  its  morning  sky, 
And  the  dark  clouds  of  death,  which  linger  by; 
For  oft,  when  life  is  fresh  and  hope  is  strong, 
Shall  early  sorrow  breathe  the  unbidden  sigh, 
While  age  to  death  moves  peacefully  along, 
As  on  the  singer's  lip  expires  the  finish'd  song. 


THE  FADED  ONE. 


GONE  to  the  slumber  which  may  know  no  waking 

Till  the  loud  requiem  of  the  world  shall  swell ; 
Gone !  where  no  sound  thy  still  repose  is  breaking, 

In  a  lone  mansion  through  long  years  to  dwell; 
Where  the  sweet  gales  that  herald  bud  and  blossom 

Pour  not  their  music  nor  their  fragrant  breath : 
A  seal  is  set  upon  thy  budding  bosom, 

A  bond  of  loneliness — a  spell  of  death ! 

Yet  'twas  but  yesterday  that  all  before  thee 

Shone  in  the  freshness  of  life's  morning  hours; 
Joy's  radiant  smile  was  playing  briefly  o'er  thee, 

And  thy  light  feet  impress'd  but  vernal  flowers. 
The  restless  spirit  charm'd  thy  sweet  existence, 

Making  all  beauteous  in  youth's  pleasant  maze, 
While  gladsome  hope  illumed  the  onward  distance, 

And  lit  with  sunbeams  thy  expectant  days. 

How  have  the  garlands  of  thy  childhood  wither'd, 

And  hope's  false  anthem  died  upon  the  air ! 
Death's  cloudy  tempests  o'er  thy  way  have  gather'd, 

And  his  stern  bolts  have  burst  in  fury  there. 
On  thy  pale  forehead  sleeps  the  shade  of  even, 

Youth's  braided  wreath  lies  stain'd  in  sprinkled 
Yet  looking  upward  in  its  grief  to  Heaven,  [dust, 

Love  should  not  mourn  thee,  save  in  hope  and 
trust 


A  REMEMBRANCE. 

I  SEE  thee  still !  thou  art  not  dead, 

Though  dust  is  mingling  with  thy  form ; 
The  broken  sunbeam  hath  not  shed 

The  final  rainbow  on  the  storm: 
In  visions  of  the  midnight  deep, 

Thine  accents  through  my  bosom  thrill, 
Till  joy's  fond  impulse  bids  me  weep, — 

For,  wrapt  in  thought  I  see  thee  still ! 

I  see  thee  still, — that  cheek  of  rose, — 

Those  lips,  with  dewy  fragrance  wet, 
That  forehead  in  serene  repose, — 

Those  soul-lit  eyes — I  see  them  yet ! 
Sweet  seraph !  Sure  thou  art  not  dead, — 

Thou  gracest  still  this  earthly  sphere, 
An  influence  still  is  round  me  shed, 

Like  thine, — and  yet  thou  art  not  here ! 

Farewell,  beloved  !    To  mortal  sight, 

Thy  vermeil  cheek  no  more  may  bloom ; 
No  more  thy  smiles  inspire  delight, 

For  thou  art  garner'd  in  the  tomb. 
Rich  harvest  for  that  ruthless  power 

Which  hath  no  bound  to  mar  his  will : — 
Yet,  as  in  hope's  unclouded  hour, 

Throned  in  my  heart,  I  see  thee  still. 


WILLIAM   D.   GALLAGHER. 


[Bom,  1810.] 


MR.  GALLAGHER,  I  believe,  is  a  native  of  Ohio. 
He  now  resides  in  Cincinnati,  where  he  conducts 
a  daily  gazette.  He  has  been  engaged  in  literary 
pursuits  from  early  life,  and  has  edited,  in  succes- 
sion, "The  Cincinnati  Mirror,"  "The  Western 


Literary  Journal,"  "The  Hesperian."  and  other 
popular  miscellanies.  His  first  volume  of  poems 
appeared  in  1835,  and  he  has  since  published 
"Erato,"  in  three  volumes.  The  last-mentioned 
work  embraces  nearly  all  his  metrical  compositions. 


TO  THE  WEST. 

LAND  of  the  West ! — green  forest-land ! 

Clime  of  the  fair,  and  the  immense ! 
Favourite  of  Nature's  liberal  hand, 

And  child  of  her  munificence  ! 

Fill'd  with  a  rapture  warm,  intense, 
High  on  a  cloud-girt  hill  I  stand  ; 

And  with  clear  vision  gazing  thence, 
Thy  glories  round  me  far  expand : 

Rivers,  whose  likeness  earth  has  not, 
And  lakes,  that  elsewhere  seas  would  be, — 

Whose  shores  the  countless  wild  herds  dot, 
Fleet  as  the  winds,  and  all  as  free ; 

Mountains  that  pierce  the  bending  sky, 
And  with  the  storm-cloud  warfare  wage : 

Shooting  their  glittering  peaks  on  high, 
To  mock  the  fierce,  red  lightning's  rage ; 

Arcadian  vales,  with  vine-hung  bowers, 
And  grassy  nooks,  'neath  beechen  shade, 

Where  dance  the  never-resting  Hours, 
To  music  of  the  bright  cascade ; 

Skies  softly  beautiful,  and  blue 
As  Italy's,  with  stars  as  bright ; 

Flowers  rich  as  morning's  sunrise  hue, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  gemm'd  midnight. 

Land  of  the  West !  green  forest-land  ! 

Thus  hath  Creation's  bounteous  hand 
Upon  thine  ample  bosom  flung 
Charms  such  as  were  her  gift  when  the  gray  world 
was  young ! 

Land  of  the  West ! — where  naught  is  old 
Or  fading,  but  tradition  hoary, — 

Thy  yet  unwritten  annals  hold 
Of  many  a  daring  deed  the  story ! 

Man's  might  of  arm  hath  here  been  tried, 
And  woman's  glorious  strength  of  soul, — 

When  war's  fierce  shout  rang  far  and  wide, 
When  vengeful  foes  at  midnight  stole 

On  slumbering  innocence,  and  gave 
Nor  onset-shout,  nor  warning  word, 
Nor  nature's  strong  appealings  heard 

From  woman's  lips,  to  "spare  and  save 
Her  unsuspecting  little  one, 
Her  only  child — her  son  !  her  son !" 

Unheard  the  supplicating  tone, 
Which  ends  in  now  a  shriek,  and  now  a  deep 
death-groan ! 


Land  of  the  West ! — green  forest-land  ! 

Thine  early  day  for  deeds  is  famed 
Which  in  historic  page  shall  stand 

Till  bravery  is  no  longer  named. 
Thine  early  day ! — it  nursed  a  band 

Of  men  who  ne'er  their  lineage  shamed : 
The  iron-nerved,  the  bravely  good, 
Who  neither  spared  nor  lavish'd  blood — 

Aye  ready,  morn,  or  night,  or  noon ; 
Fleet  in  the  race,  firm  in  the  field, 
Their  sinewy  arms  their  only  shield — 
Courage  to  Death  alone  to  yield  ; 

The  men  of  DAJTIEL  BOON  ! 
Their  dwelling-place — the  "  good  green-wood ;" 

Their  favourite  haunts — the  long  arcade, 
The  murmuring  and  majestic  flood, 

The  deep  and  solemn  shade : 
Where  to  them  came  the  word  of  GOD, 
When  storm  and  darkness  were  abroad, 

Breathed  in  the  thunder's  voice  aloud, 

And  writ  in  lightning  on  the  cloud. 
And  thus  they  lived  :  the  dead  leaves  oft, 

Heap'd  by  the  playful  winds,  their  bed; 
Nor  wish'd  they  couch  more  warm  or  soft 

Nor  pillow  for  the  head, 
Other  than  fitting  root,  or  stone, 
With  the  scant  wood-moss  overgrown. 
Heroic  band  !     But  they  have  pass'd, 

As  pass  the  stars  at  rise  of  sun  : 
Melting  into  the  ocean  vast 

Of  Time,  and  sinking,  one  by  one ; 
Yet  lingering  here  and  there  a  few, 
As  if  to  take  a  last,  long  view 
Of  the  domain  they  won  in  strife 
With  foes  who  battled  to  the  knife. 
Peace  unto  those  that  sleep  beneath  us ! 
All  honour  to  the  few  that  yet  do  linger  with  us ! 

Land  of  the  West ! — thine  early  prime 
Fades  in  the  flight  of  hurrying  Time ; 
Thy  noble  forests  fall,  as  sweep 
Europa's  myriads  o'er  the  deep; 
And  thy  broad  plains,  with  welcome  warm, 
Receive  the  onward-pressing  swarm  : 
On  mountain-height,  in  lowly  vale, 

By  quiet  lake,  or  gliding  river, — 
Wherever  sweeps  the  chainloss  gale, 

Onward  sweep  they,  and  forever. 
O,  may  they  come  with  hearts  that  ne'er 

Can  bend  a  tyrant's  chain  to  wear; 

420 


WILLIAM    D.   GALLAGHER. 


421 


With  souls  that  would  indignant  turn, 
And  proud  oppression's  minions  spurn ; 
With  nerves  of  steel,  and  words  of  flame, 
To  strike  and  sear  the  wretch  who'd  bring  OUT 
land  to  shame ! 

Land  of  the  West ! — beneath  the  Heaven 

There 's  not  a  fairer,  lovelier  clime  ; 
Nor  one  to  which  was  ever  given 

A  destiny  more  high,  sublime. 
From  Alleghany's  base,  to  where 

Our  Western  Andes  prop  the  sky — 
The  home  of  Freedom's  hearts  is  there, 

And  o'er  it  Freedom's  eagles  fly. 
And  here, — should  e'er  Columbia's  land 

Be  rent  with  fierce  intestine  feud  ; 
Shall  Freedom's  latest  cohorts  stand, 

Till  Freedom's  eagles  sink  in  blood, 
And  quench'd  are  all  the  stars  that  now  her  ban- 
ners stud ! 


AUGUST. 


DUST  on  thy  mantle  !  dust, 
Bright  Summer,  on  thy  livery  of  green ! 

A  tarnish,  as  of  rust, 

Dims  thy  late-brilliant  sheen: 
And  thy  young  glories — leaf,  and  bud,  and  flower — 
Change  cometh  over  them  with  every  hour. 

Thee  hath  the  August  sun 
Look'd  on  with  hot,  and  fierce,  and  brassy  face ; 
And  still  and  lazily  run, 
Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 
The  half-dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  gladness  up,  as  on  they  went. 

Flame-like,  the  long  midday, 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  hath  stirr'd 

The  down  upon  the  spray, 

Where  rests  the  panting  bird, 
Dozing  away  the  hot  and  tedious  noon, 
With  fitful  twitter,  sadly  out  of  tune. 

Seeds  in  the  sultry  air, 

And  gossamer  web-work  on  the  sleeping  trees ; 
E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 
Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  unfreshening  west, 
Partake  the  general  languor,  and  deep  rest. 

Happy,  as  man  may  be, 

Strctch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  bean-vine  bower, 
While  the  voluptuous  bee 
Robs  each  surrounding  flower, 
And  prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his  breast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noonday  rest. 

Against  the  hazy  sky 
The  thin  and  fleecy  clouds,  unmoving,  rest. 

Beneath  them  far,  yet  high 

In  the  dim,  distant  west, 
The  vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion-fare, 
Sails,  slowly  circling  in  the  sunny  air. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
Repose  the  patient  cow,  and  toil-worn  ox ; 
Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 
Shelter'd  by  jutting  rocks : 


The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourged  and  restless,  rush 
Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to  bush. 

Tediously  pass  the  hours, 
And  vegetation  wilts,  with  blister'd  root, 
And  droop  the  thirsting  flowers, 
Where  the  slant  sunbeams  shoot : 
But  of  each  tall,  old  tree,  the  lengthening  line, 
Slow-creeping  eastward,  marks  the  day's  decline. 

Faster,  along  the  plain, 
Moves  now  the  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's  edge : 

The  kine  are  forth  again, 

The  bird  flits  in  the  hedge. 
Now  in  the  molten  west  sinks  the  hot  sun. 
Welcome,  mild  eve ! — the  sultry  day  is  done. 

Pleasantly  comest  thou, 
Dew  of  the  evening,  to  the  crisp'd-up  grass ; 

And  the  curl'd  corn-blades  bow, 

As  the  light  breezes  pass, 

That  their  parch'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and  expand, 
Thou  sweet  reviver  of  the  fever'd  land. 

So,  to  the  thirsting  soul, 
Cometh  the  dew  of  the  Almighty's  love ; 

And  the  scathed  heart,  made  whole, 

Turneth  in  joy  above, 
To  where  the  spirit  freely  may  expand, 
Arid  rove,  untrammel'd,  in  that  "  better  land." 


SPRING  VERSES. 

How  with  the  song  of  every  bird, 
And  with  the  scent  of  every  flower, 

Some  recollection  dear  is  stirr'd 
Of  many  a  long-departed  hour, 

Whose  course,  though  shrouded  now  in  night, 

Was  traced  in  lines  of  golden  light ! 

I  know  not  if,  when  years  have  cast 
Their  shadows  on  life's  early  dreams, 

'T  is  wise  to  touch  the  hope  that 's  past, 
And  re-illume  its  fading  beams : 

But,  though  the  future  hath  its  star, 

That  olden  hope  is  dearer  far. 

Of  all  the  present,  much  is  bright ; 

And  in  the  coming  years,  I  see 
A  brilliant  and  a  cheering  light, 

Which  burns  before  me  constantly ; 
Guiding  my  steps,  through  haze  and  gloom, 
To  where  Fame's  turrets  proudly  loom. 

Yet  coldly  shines  it  on  my  brow ; 

And  in  my  breast  it  wakes  to  life 
None  of  the  holy  feelings  now, 

With  which  my  boyhood's  heart  was  rife : 
It  cannot  touch  that  secret  spring 
Which  erst  made  life  so  bless'd  a  thing. 

Give  me,  then  give  me  birds  and  flowers, 
Which  are  the  voice  and  breath  of  Spring! 

For  those  the  songs  of  life's  young  hours 
With  thrilling  touch  recall  and  sing : 

And  these,  with  their  sweet  breath,  impart 

Old  tales,  whose  memory  warms  the  heart. 
2N 


422 


WILLIAM   D.   GALLAGHER. 


MAY. 


WOULD  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  ever-merry  May ! 

Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade,  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers ; 

Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet-slipper'd,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine  : 

Merry,  ever-merry  May, 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye ! 

Out  beneath  thy  morning  sky 
Dian's  bow  still  hangs  on  high ; 
And  in  the  blue  depths  afar 
Glimmers,  here  and  there,  a  star. 
Diamonds  robe  the  bending  grass, 

Glistening,  early  flowers  among — 
Monad's  world,  and  fairy's  glass, — 
Bathing-fount  for  wandering  sprite — 

By  mysterious  fingers  hung, 
In  the  lone  and  quiet  night. 
Now  the  freshening  breezes  pass — 
Gathering,  as  they  steal  along, 
Rich  perfume,  and  matin-song ; 
And  quickly  to  destruction  hurl'd 
Is  fairy's  diamond  glass,  and  monad's  dew-drop 
Lo!  yon  cloud,  which  hung  but  now          [world. 
Black  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Threatening  the  green  earth  with  storm ; 
See !  it  heaves  its  giant  form, 
And,  ever  changing  shape  and  hue, 
Each  time  presenting  something  new, 
Moves  slowly  up,  and  spreading  rolls  away 
Towards  the  rich  purple  streaks  that  usher  in  the 
Brightening,  as  it  onward  goes,  [day ; 

Until  its  very  centre  glows 

With  the  warm,  cheering  light,  the  coming  sun 
As  the  passing  Christian's  soul,  [bestows : 

Nearing  the  celestial  goal, 

Brighter  and  brighter  grows,  till  GOD  illumes  the 
whole. 

Out  beneath  thy  noontide  sky, 
On  a  shady  slope  I  lie, 

Giving  fancy  ample  play ; 
And  there 's  not  more  blest  than  I, 

One  of  ADAM'S  race  to-day. 
Out  beneath  thy  noontide  sky  ! 
Earth,  how  beautiful !  how  clear 
Of  cloud  or  mist  the  atmosphere ! 
What  a  glory  greets  the  eye ! 
What  a  calm,  or  quiet  stir, 
Steals  o'er  Nature's  worshipper — 
Silent,  yet  so  eloquent, 
That  we  feel  't  is  heaven-sent ! 
Waking  thoughts,  that  long  have  slumber'd, 
Passion-dimm'd  and  earth-encumber'd — 
Bearing  soul  and  sense  away, 
To  revel  in  the  perfect  day 

Which  'waits  us,  when  we  shall  for  aye       [clay ! 
Discard  this  darksome  dust — this  prison-house  of 

Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky, 
Not  a  breeze^that  wanders  by 


But  hath  swept  the  green  earth's  bosom ; 
Rifling  the  rich  grape-vine  blossom, 
Dallying  with  the  simplest  flower 
In  mossy  nook  and  rosy  bower; 
To  the  perfumed  green-house  straying, 
And  with  rich  exotics  playing ; 
Then,  unsated,  sweeping  over 
Banks  of  thyme,  and  fields  of  clover ! 
Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky, 
Groups  of  children  caper  by, 
Crown'd  with  flowers,  and  rush  along 
With  joyous  laugh,  and  shout,  and  song. 
Flashing  eye,  and  radiant  cheek, 
Spirits  all  unsunn'd  bespeak. 
They  are  in  life's  May-month  hours, 
And  those  wild  bursts  of  joy,  what  are  they  but 
life's  flowers '.' 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  ever-merry  May ! 

Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade,  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers ; 

Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet-slipper'd,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine : 

Merry,  ever-merry  May, 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye ! 


OUR  EARLY  DAYS. 

OUR  early  days ! — How  often  back 
We  turn  on  life's  bewildering  track, 
To  where,  o'er  hill  and  valley,  plays 
The  sunlight  of  our  early  days ! 

A  boy — my  truant  steps  were  seen 

Where  streams  were  bright,  and  meadows  green ; 

Where  flowers,  in  beauty  and  perfume, 

Breathed  ever  of  the  Eden-bloom; 

And  birds,  abroad  in  the  free  wind, 

Sang,  as  they  left  the  earth  behind 

And  wing'd  their  joyous  way  above, 

Of  Eden-peace,  and  Eden-love. 

That  life  was  of  the  soul,  as  well 

As  of  the  outward  visible ; 

And  now,  its  streams  are  dry ;  and  sere 

And  brown  its  meadows  all  appear ; 

Gone  are  its  flowers ;  its  bird's  glad  voice 

But  seldom  bids  my  heart  rejoice ; 

And,  like  the  mist  as  comes  the  day, 

Its  Eden-glories  roll  away. 

A  youth — the  mountain-torrent  made 
The  music  which  my  soul  obey'd. 
To  shun  the  crowded  ways  of  men, 
And  seek  the  old  tradition 'd  glen, 
Where,  through  the  dim,  uncertain  light, 
Moved  many  an  ever-changing  sprite, 
Alone  the  splinter'd  crag  to  dare, 
While  trooping  shadows  fill'd  the  air, 
And  quicken'd  fancy  many  a  form 
Traced  vaguely  in  the  gathering  storm, 
To  tread  the  forest's  lone  arcades, 
And  dream  of  Sherwood's  peopled  shades, 


WILLIAM    D.   GALLAGHER. 


423 


And  Windsor's  haunted  "  alleys  green" 
"  Dingle"  and  "  bosky  bourn"  between, 
Till  burst  upon  my  raptured  glance 
The  whole  wide  realm  of  Old  Romance : 
Such  was  the  life  I  lived — a  youth  ! 
But  vanish'd,  at  the  touch  of  Truth, 
And  never  to  be  known  agen, 
Is  all  that  made  my  being  then. 

A  man — the  thirst  for  fame  was  mine, 

And  bow'd  me  at  Ambition's  shrine, 

Among  the  votaries  who  have  given 

Time,  health,  hope,  peace — and  madly  striven, 

Ay,  madly !  for  that  which,  when  found, 

Is  oftenest  but  an  empty  sound. 

And  I  have  worshipp'd ! — even  yet 

Mine  eye  is  on  the  idol  set ; 

But  it  hath  found  so  much  to  be 

But  hollowness  and  mockery, 

That  from  its  worship  oft  it  turns 

To  where  a  light  intenser  burns, 

Before  whose  radiance,  pure  and  warm, 

Ambition's  star  must  cease  to  charm. 

Our  early  days ! — They  haunt  us  ever- 
Bright  star-gleams  on  life's  silent  river, 
Which  pierce  the  shadows,  deep  and  dun, 
That  bar  e'en  manhood's  noonday  sun. 


THE  LABOURER. 

STAND  up — erect !     Thou  hast  the  form, 
And  likeness  of  thy  GOD  ! — who  more  1 

A  soul  as  dauntless  mid  the  storm 

Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 

And  pure,  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then  ? — Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among ; 

As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan 

That  with  Creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ?  the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief! 

The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 

With  proud  step  and  averted  eye] 
Nay  !  nurse  not  such  belief. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  thee'? 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No  : — uncurb'd  passions,  low  desires, 

Absence  of  noble  self-respect, 
Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 

Forever,  till  thus  check'd ; 

These  are  thine  enemies — thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot : 
Thy  labour  and  thy  life  accursed. 
O,  stand  erect !  and  from  them  burst ! 

And  longer  suffer  not ! 


Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy ! 

The  great ! — what  better  they  than  thou  1 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free  1 
Has  GOD  with  equal  favours  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not — 'tis  but  dust! 

Nor  place — uncertain  as  the  wind  ! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both — a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 
True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  GOD, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then  :  that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod ! 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  THE  WEST. 

THE  mothers  of  our  forest-land ! 

Stout-hearted  dames  were  they; 
With  nerve  to  wield  the  battle-brand, 

And  join  the  border-fray. 
Our  rough  land  had  no  braver, 

In  its  days  of  blood  and  strife- 
Aye  ready  for  severest  toil, 

Aye  free  to  peril  life. 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land ! 

On  old  Kentucky's  soil 
How  shared  they,  with  each  dauntless  band, 

War's  tempest  and  life's  toil ! 
They  shrank  not  from  the  foeman — 

They  quail'd  not  in  the  fight — 
But  cheer'd  their  husbands  through  the  day, 

And  soothed  them  through  the  night. 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land ! 

Their  bosoms  pillow'd  men ! 
And  proud  were  they  by  such  to  stand, 

In  hammock,  fort,  or  glen, 
To  load  the  sure,  old  rifle — 

To  run  the  leaden  ball — 
To  watch  a  battling  husband's  place, 

And  fill  it,  should  he  fall : 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 

Such  were  their  daily  deeds. 
Their  monument! — where  does  it  stand  1 

Their  epitaph ! — who  reads '! 
No  braver  dames  had  Sparta, 

No  nobler  matrons  Rome — 
Yet  who  or  lauds  or  honours  them, 

E'en  in  their  own  green  home  1 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 

They  sleep  in  unknown  graves  : 
And  had  they  borne  and  nursed  a  band 

Of  ingrates,  or  of  slaves, 
They  had  not  been  more  neglected  ! 

But  their  graves  shall  yet  be  found, 
And  their  monuments  dot  here  and  there 

"The  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground." 


JAMES   FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


[Born  about  1810.] 


Ma.  CLARKE  is  a  native  of  Boston.  He  is  a 
grandson  of  the  Reverend  JAMES  FREEMAN,  D.  D., 
for  many  years  minister  of  King's  Chapel,  in  that 
city,  and  was  from  his  childhood  designed  for  the 
church.  He  was  educated  in  the  university  and 
in  the  divinity -school  at  Cambridge,  and  on  being 


admitted  to  orders,  went  to  Louisville,  Kentucky, 
where  he  resided  several  years,  and  conducted 
with  much  ability  a  monthly  miscellany  of  reli- 
gion and  letters,  entitled  "  The  Western  Messen- 
ger." In  1846  he  published  a  poem  delivered  be- 
fore the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 


HYMN  AND  PRAYER. 

INFINITE  Spirit !  who  art  round  us  ever, 
In  whom  we  float,  as  motes  in  summer-sky, 

May  neither  life  nor  death  the  sweet  bond  sever, 
Which  joins  us  to  our  unseen  Friend  on  high. 

Unseen — yet  not  unfelt — if  any  thought 

Has  raised  our  mind  from  earth,  or  pure  desire, 

A  generous  act,  or  noble  purpose  brought, 
It  is  thy  breath,  O  LORD,  which  fans  the  fire. 

To  me,  the  meanest  of  thy  creatures,  kneeling, 
Conscious  of  weakness,  ignorance,  sin,  and  shame, 

Give  such  a  force  of  holy  thought  and  feeling, 
That  I  may  live  to  glorify  thy  name ; 

That  I  may  conquer  base  desire  and  passion, 
That  I  may  rise  o'er  selfish  thought  and  will, 

O'ercome  theworld's  allurement, threat,  and  fashion, 
Walk  humbly,  softly,  leaning  on  thee  still. 

I  am  unworthy.  Yet,  for  their  dear  sake 
I  ask,  whose  roots  planted  in  me  are  found ; 

For  precious  vines  are  propp'd  by  rudest  stake, 
And  heavenly  roses  fed  in  darkest  ground. 

Beneath  my  leaves,  though  early  fallen  and  faded, 
Young   plants   are   warm'd, — they    drink   my 
branches'  dew: 

Let  them  not,  LORD,  by  me  be  Upas-shaded ; 
Make  me,  for  their  sake,  firm,  and  pure,  and  true. 

For  their  sake,  too,  the  faithful,  wise,  and  bold, 
Whose  generous  love  has  been  my  pride  and  stay, 

Those  who  have  found  in  me  some  trace  of  gold, 
For  their  sake  purify  my  lead  and  clay. 

And  let  not  all  the  pains  and  toil  be  wasted, 
Spent  on  my  youth  by  saints  now  gone  to  rest ; 

Nor  that  deep  sorrow  my  Redeemer  tasted, 

When  on  his  soul  the  guilt  of  man  was  press'd. 

Tender  and  sensitive,  he  braved  the  storm, 
That  we  might  fly  a  well-deserved  fate, 

Pour'd  out  his  soul  in  supplication  warm, 
Look'd  with  his  eyes  of  love  on  eyes  of  hate. 

Let  all  this  goodness  by  my  mind  be  seen, 
Let  all  this  mercy  on  my  heart  be  seal'd ! 

Lord,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  power  can  make  me  clean : 
O,  speak  the  word — thy  servant  shall  be  heal'd. 


THE  POET. 

HE  touch'd  the  earth,  a  soul  of  flame, 
His  bearing  proud,  his  spirit  high  ; 

Fill'd  with  the  heavens  from  whence  he  came, 
He  smiled  upon  man's  destiny. 

Yet  smiled  as  one  who  knows  no  fear, 

And  felt  a  secret  strength  within, 
Who  wonder'd  at  the  pitying  tear 

Shed  over  human  loss  and  sin. 

Lit  by  an  inward,  brighter  light 

Than  aught  that  round  about  him  shone, 

He  walk'd  erect  through  shades  of  night ; 
Clear  was  his  pathway — but  how  lone ! 

Men  gaze  in  wonder  and  in  awe 

Upon  a  form  so  like  to  theirs, 
Worship  the  presence,  yet  withdraw 

And  carry  elsewhere  warmer  prayers. 

Yet  when  the  glorious  pilgrim-guest, 

Forgetting  once  his  strange  estate, 
Unloosed  the  lyre  from  off  his  breast, 

And  strung  its  chords  to  human  fate ; 

And,  gayly  snatching  some  rude  air, 

Caroll'd  by  idle,  passing  tongue, 
Gave  back  the  notes  that  linger'd  there, 

And  in  Heaven's  tones  earth's  low  lay  sung ; 

Then  warmly  grasp'd  the  hand  that  sought 
To  thank  him  with  a  brother's  soul, 

And  when  the  generous  wine  was  brought, 
Shared  in  the  feast  and  quaff'd  the  bowl ; 

Men  laid  their  hearts  low  at  his  feet, 
And  sunn'd  their  being  in  his  light, 

Press'd  on  his  way  his  steps  to  greet, 
And  in  his  love  forgot  his  might. 

And  when,  a  wanderer  long  on  earth, 

On  him  its  shadow  also  fell, 
And  dimm'd  the  lustre  of  a  birth 

Whose  day-spring  was  from  Heaven's  own  well; 

They  cherish'd  e'en  the  tears  he  shed, 
Their  woes  were  hallow'd  by  his  wo, 

Humanity,  half  cold  and  dead, 
Had  been  revived  in  genius'  glow. 

424 


JAMES   F.   CLARKE. 


425 


JACOB'S  WELL.* 


HEHE,  after  JACOB  parted  from  his  brother, 
His  daughters  linger'd  round  this  well,  new-made ; 

Here,  seventeen  centuries  after,  came  another, 
And  talk'd  with  JESUS,  wondering  and  afraid. 

Here,  other  centuries  past,  the  emperor's  mother 
Shelter'd  its  waters  with  a  temple's  shade. 

Here,  mid  the  fallen  fragments,  as  of  old, 

The  girl  her  pitcher  dips  within  its  waters  cold. 

And  JACOB'S  race  grew  strong  for  many  an  hour, 
Then  torn  beneath  the  Roman  eagle  lay ; 

The  Roman's  vast  and  earth-controlling  power 
Has  crumbled  like  these  shafts  and  stones  away ; 

But  still  the  waters,  fed  by  dew  and  shower, 
Come  up,  as  ever,  to  the  light  of  day, 

And  still  the  maid  bends  downward  with  her  urn, 

Well  pleased  to  see  its  glass  her  lovely  face  return. 

And  those  few  words  of  truth,  first  utter'd  here, 
Have  sunk  into  the  human  soul  and  heart ; 

A  spiritual  faith  dawns  bright  and  clear, 
Dark  creeds  and  ancient  mysteries  depart ; 

The  hour  for  GOD'S  true  worshippers  draws  near; 
Then  mourn  not  o'er  the  wrecks  of  earthly  art: 

Kingdoms  may  fall,  and  human  works  decay, 

Nature  moves  on  unchanged — Truths  never  pass 
away. 


THE  VIOLET.t 


April's  warmth  unlocks  the  clod, 

Soften'd  by  gentle  showers, 
The  violet  pierces  through  the  sod, 

And  blossoms,  first  of  flowers ; 
So  may  I  give  my  heart  to  GOD 

In  childhood's  early  hours. 

Some  plants,  in  gardens  only  found, 

Are  raised  with  pains  and  care : 
Gon  scatters  violets  all  around, 

They  blossom  everywhere; 
Thus  may  my  love  to  all  abound, 

And  all  my  fragrance  share. 

Some  scentless  flowers  stand  straight  and  high, 

With  pride  and  haughtiness : 
But  violets  perfume  land  and  sky, 

Although  they  promise  less. 
Let  me,  with  all  humility, 

Do  more  than  I  profess. 

Sweet  flower,  be  thou  a  type  to  me 

Of  blameless  joy  and  mirth, 
Of  widely-scatter'd  sympathy, 

Embracing  all  Gon's  earth — 
Of  early-blooming  piety, 

And  unpretending  worth. 

*  Suggested  by  a  sketch  of  Jacob's  Well,  and  Mount 
Gerizim. 

t  Written  for  a  little  girl  to  speak  on  May-day,  in  the 
character  of  the  Violet. 


TO  A  BUNCH  OF  FLOWERS. 


LITTLE  firstlings  of  the  year ! 

Have  you  come  my  room  to  cheer  1 

You  are  dry  and  parch'd,  I  think ; 

Stand  within  this  glass  and  drink ; 

Stand  beside  me  on  the  table, 

'Mong  my  books — if  I  am  able, 

I  will  find  a  vacant  space 

For  your  bashfulness  and  grace ; 

Learned  tasks  and  serious  duty 

Shall  be  lighten'd  by  your  beauty. 

Pure  affection's  sweetest  token, 

Choicest  hint  of  love  unspoken, 

Friendship  in  your  help  rejoices, 

Uttering  her  mysterious  voices. 

You  are  gifts  the  poor  may  offer — 

Wealth  can  find  no  better  proffer: 

For  you  tell  of  tastes  refined, 

Thoughtful  heart  and  spirit  kind. 

Gift  of  gold  or  jewel-dresses 

Ostentatious  thought  confesses ; 

Simplest  mind  this  boon  may  give, 

Modesty  herself  receive. 

For  lovely  woman  you  were  meant 

The  just  and  natural  ornament, 

Sleeping  on  her  bosom  fair, 

Hiding  in  her  raven  hair, 

Or,  peeping  out  mid  golden  curls, 

You  outshine  barbaric  pearls ; 

Yet  you  lead  no  thought  astray, 

Feed  not  pride  nor  vain  display, 

Nor  disturb  her  sisters'  rest, 

Waking  envy  in  their  breast 

Let  the  rich,  with  heart  elate, 

Pile  their  board  with  costly  plate ; 

Richer  ornaments  are  ours, 

We  will  dress  our  homes  with  flowers ; 

Yet  no  terror  need  we  feel 

Lest  the  thief  break  through  to  steal. 

Ye  are  playthings  for  the  child, 

Gifts  of  love  for  maiden  mild, 

Comfort  for  the  aged  eye, 

For  the  poor,  cheap  luxury. 

Though  your  life  is  but  a  day, 

Precious  things,  dear  flowers,  you  say, 

Telling  that  the  Being  good 

Who  supplies  our  daily  food, 

Deems  it  needful  to  supply 

Daily  food  for  heart  and  eye. 

So,  though  your  life  is  but  a  day, 

We  grieve  not  at  your  swift  decay ; 

He,  who  smiles  in  your  bright  faces, 

Sends  us  more  to  take  your  places ; 

'Tis  for  this  ye  fade  so  soon, 

That  He  may  renew  the  boon ; 

That  kindness  often  may  repeat 

These  mute  messages  so  sweet : 

That  Love  to  plainer  speech  may  get, 

Conning  oft  his  alphabet ; 

That  beauty  may  be  rain'd  from  heaven, 

New  with  every  morn  and  even, 

With  freshest  fragrance  sunrise  greeting: 

Therefore  are  ye,  flowers,  so  fleeting. 


54 


ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES. 


[Born  about  1S10.] 


MHS.  DINITIES  is  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Justice 
SHACKLEFOHD,  of  South  Carolina.  She  was  edu- 
cated in  Charleston,  at  a  seminary  kept  by  the 
daughters  of  Doctor  RAMSAT,  the  historian  of  the 
Revolution.  In  1830  she  was  married  to  Mr. 
JOHN  C.  DIITXIES,  of  Saint  Louis,  and  has  since 
resided  in  that  city.  Mrs.  HALE,  in  her  "  Ladies' 
Wreath,"  states  that  she  became  engaged  in  a 
literary  correspondence  with  Mr.  DINNTES  more 
than  four  years  before  their  union,  and  that  they 


never  met  until  one  week  before  the  solemnization 
of  their  marriage.  "  The  contract  was  made  long 
before,  solely  from  sympathy  and  congeniality  of 
mind  and  taste ;  and  that  in  their  estimate  of  each 
other  they  were  not  disappointed,  may  be  inferred 
from  the  tone  of  her  songs."  Near  the  close  of 
1846  Mrs.  DIX>*IES  published  a  collection  of  her 
poems  under  the  title  of  "  The  Floral  Year."  Her 
pieces  illustrative  of  the  domestic  affections  are 
marked  by  unusual  grace  and  tenderness. 


WEDDED    LOVE. 


COME,  rouse  thee,  dearest ! — 't  is  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills, 
And  with  their  gloomy  shades  conceal 
The  land-marks  Hope  would  else  reveal. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  now — I  know  thy  mind, 
And  would  its  strength  awaken; 

Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind, — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  thus  shaken ! 

But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 

And  be  what  Heaven  intended  thee ; 

Throw  from  thy  thoughts  this  weary  ing  weight, 

And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great : 

I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 

The  angry  storms  of  earthly  wo. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 

Which  warms  thee  into  life, 
Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control, 

Familiar  to  thy  wife, — 
For  deem'st  thou  she  had  stoop'd  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind? 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed,  with  its  Promethean  flame, 
The  shrine — then  sunk  her  soul  to  shame. 

Then  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers : 
Shake  off  this  gloom — Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  which  lowers ; 
And  though  at  present  seems  so  far 
The  wish'd-for  goal — a  guiding  star, 


With  peaceful  ray,  would  light  thee  on, 
Until  its  utmost  bounds  be  won  : 
That  quenchless  ray  thou'lt  ever  prove 
In  fond,  undying  Wedded  Love. 


THE    WIFE. 

I  coum  have  stemm'd  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear. 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  «  alone." 

I  could — I  think  I  could  have  brook'd, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  look'd 

With  less  of  love  than  now ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  •"  alone." 

But  thus  to  see,  from  day  to  day, 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 

Unnumber'd,  slowly,  meek ; 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel,  I'll  be  "  alone ;" 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes'  grow  stronger, 
As,  fill'd  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say 

"Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer;" 
Nay,  dearest,  't  is  too  much — this  heart 

Must  break  when  thou  art  gone ; 
It  must  not  be;  we  may  not  part : 

I  could  not  live  «  alone  !" 


426 


JAMES  ALDRICH. 


[Born,  1810.] 


JAMES  ALDRICH  was  born  near  the  Hudson,  in 
the  county  of  Suffolk,  on  the  tenth  of  July,  1810. 
He  received  his  education  partly  in  Orange  county, 
and  partly  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where,  early 
in  life,  he  became  actively  engaged  in  mercantile 
business.  In  18J6  he  was  married  to  MATILDA, 


daughter  of  Mr.  JOHN  B.  LYON,  of  Newport,  Rhode 
Island,  and  in  the  same  year  relinquished  the  oc- 
cupation of  a  merchant.  He  has  since  devoted 
his  attention  entirely  to  literature ;  and  has  edited 
two  or  three  popular  periodicals.  He  resides  in 
New  York. 


MORN  AT  SEA. 

CLEARLY,  with  mental  eye, 
Where  the  first  slanted  ray  of  sunlight  springs, 
I  see  the  morn  with  golden-fringed  wings 

Up-pointed  to  the  sky. 

In  youth's  divinest  glow, 
She  stands  upon  a  wandering  cloud  of  dew, 
Whose  skirts  are  sun-illumed  with  every  hue 

Worn  by  GOD'S  covenant  bow ! 

The  child  of  light  and  air ! 
O'er  land  or  wave,  where'er  her  pinions  move, 
The  shapes  of  earth  are  clothed  in  hues  of  love 

And  truth,  divinely  fair. 

Athwart  this  wide  abyss, 
On  homeward  way  impatiently  I  drift ; 
O,  might  she  bear  me  now  where  sweet  flowers  lift 

Their  eyelids  to  her  kiss  ! 

Her  smile  hath  overspread 
The  heaven-reflecting  sea,  that  evermore 
Is  tolling  solemn  knells  from  shore  to  shore 

For  its  uncoffin'd  dead. 

Most  like  an  angel-friend, 

With  noiseless  footsteps,  which  no  impress  leave, 
She  comes  in  gentleness  to  those  who  grieve, 

Bidding  the  long  night  end. 

How  joyfully  will  hail, 
With  reenliven'd  hearts,  her  presence  fair, 
The  hapless  shipwreck'd,  patient  in  despair, 

Watching  a  far-off  sail. 

Vain  all  affection's  arts 

To  cheer  the  sick  man  through  the  night  have  been: 
She  to  his  casement  goes,  and,  looking  in, 

Death's  shadow  thence  departs. 

How  many,  far  from  home, 
Wearied,  like  me,  beneath  unfriendly  skies, 
And  mourning  o'er  affection's  broken  ties, 

Have  pray'd  for  her  to  come. 

Lone  voyager  on  time's  sea ! 
When  my  dull  night  of  being  shall  be  past, 
O,  may  I  waken  to  a  morn,  at  last, 

Welcome  as  this  to  me  ! 


A  DEATH-BED. 


HER  suffering  ended  with  the  day, 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away, 

In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  pass'd  through  Glory's  morning-gate, 

And  walk'd  in  Paradise ! 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

Is  beauty  lingers  on  the  hills 

The  death-smile  of  the  dying  day ; 
And  twilight  in  my  heart  instils 

The  softness  of  its  rosy  ray. 
I  watch  the  river's  peaceful  flow, 

Here,  standing  by  my  mother's  grave, 
And  feel  my  dreams  of  glory  go, 

Like  weeds  upon  its  sluggish  wave. 

GOD  gives  us  ministers  of  love, 

Which  we  regard  not,  being  near ; 
Death  takes  them  from  us — then  we  feel 

That  angels  have  been  with  us  here ! 
As  mother,  sister,  friend,  or  wife, 

They  guide  us,  cheer  us,  soothe  our  pain ; 
And  when  the  grave  has  closed  between 

Our  hearts  and  theirs,  we  love — in  vain ! 

Would,  mother !  thou  couldst  hear  me  tell 

How  oft,  amid  my  brief  career. 
For  sins  and  follies  loved  too  well, 

Hath  fallen  the  free,  repentant  tear. 
And,  in  the  waywardness  of  youth, 

How  better  thoughts  have  given  to  me 
Contempt  for  error,  love  for  truth, 

Mid  sweet  remembrances  of  thee. 

The  harvest  of  my  youth  is  done, 

And  manhood,  come  with  all  its  cares,  - 
Finds,  garner'd  up  within  my  heart, 

For  every  flower  a  thousand  tares. 
Dear  mother !  couldst  thou  know  my  thoughts, 

Whilst  bending  o'er  this  holy  shrine, 
The  depth  of  feeling  in  my  breast, 

Thou  wouldst  not  blush  to  call  me  thine ! 

427 


428 


JAMES   ALDRICH. 


A  SPRING-DAY  WALK. 

ADIEU,  the  city's  ceaseless  hum, 

The  haunts  of  sensual  life,  adieu  ! 
Green  fields,  and  silent  glens !  we  come, 

To  spend  this  bright  spring-day  with  you. 
Whether  the  hills  and  vales  shall  gleam 

With  beauty,  is  for  us  to  choose ; 
For  leaf  and  blossom,  rock  and  stream, 

Are  colour'd  with  the  spirit's  hues. 
Here,  to  the  seeking  soul,  is  brought 

A  nobler  view  of  human  fate, 
And  higher  feeling,  higher  thought, 

And  glimpses  of  a  higher  state. 
Through  change  of  time,  on  sea  and  shore, 

Serenely  nature  smiles  away; 
Yon  infinite  blue  sky  bends  o'er 

Our  world,  as  at  the  primal  day. 

The  self-renewing  earth  is  moved 

With  youthful  life  each  circling  year ; 
And  flowers  that  CERES'  daughter  loved 

At  Enna,  now  are  blooming  here. 
Glad  nature  will  this  truth  reveal, 

That  GOD  is  ours  and  we  are  His ; 
O,  friends,  my  friends !  what  joy  to  feel 

That  HE  our  loving  father  is ! 

TO  ONE  FAR  AWAY. 

SWIFTER  far  than  swallow's  flight, 

Homeward  o'er  the  twilight  lea ; 
Swifter  than  the  morning  light, 

Flashing  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 
Dearest !  in  the  lonely  night 

Memory  flies  away  to  thee ! 
Stronger  far  than  is  desire ; 

Firm  as  truth  itself  can  be ; 
Deeper  than  earth's  central  fire ; 

Boundless  as  the  circling  sea; 
Yet  as  mute  as  broken  lyre, 

Is  my  love,  dear  wife,  for  thee ! 
Sweeter  far  than  miser's  gain, 

Or  than  note  of  fame  can  be 
Unto  one  who  long  in  vain 

Treads  the  paths  of  chivalry — 
Are  my  dreams,  in  which  again 

My  fond  arms  encircle  thee ! 

BEATRICE. 

UNTOUCH'D  by  mortal  passion, 

Thou  seem'st  of  heavenly  birth, 
Pure  as  the  effluence  of  a  star 

Just  reach'd  our  distant  earth ! 
Gave  Fancy's  pencil  never 

To  an  ideal  fair 
Such  spiritual  expression 

As  thy  sweet  features  wear. 
An  inward  light  to  guide  thee 

Unto  thy  soul  is  given, 
Pure  and  serene  as  its  divine 

Original  in  heaven. 
Type  of  the  ransom'd  PSYCHE  ! 

How  gladly,  hand  in  hand, 
To  some  new  world  I  'd  fly  with  thee 

From  off  this  mortal  strand. 


LINES.  **  0~ 

UNDERNEATH  this  marble  cold, 

Lies  a  fair  girl  turn'd  to  mould ; 

One  whose  life  was  like  a  star, 

Without  toil  or  rest  to  mar 

Its  divinest  harmony, 

Its  GoD-given  serenity. 

One,  whose  form  of  youthful  grace, 

One,  whose  eloquence  of  face 

Match'd  the  rarest  gem  of  thought 

By  the  antique  sculptors  wrought  : 

Yet  her  outward  charms  were  less 

Than  her  winning  gentleness, 

Her  maiden  jUrity  of  heart, 

Which,  without  the  aid  of  art, 

Did  in  coldest  hearts  inspire 

Love,  that  was  not  all  desire. 

Spirit  forms  with  starry  eyes, 

That  seem  to  come  from  Paradise, 

Beings  of  ethereal  birth, 

Near  us  glide  sometimes  on  earth, 

Like  glimmering  moonbeams  dimly  seen 

Glancing  down  through  alleys  green ; 

Of  such  was  she  who  lies  beneath 

This  silent  effigy  of  grief. 

Wo  is  me  !  when  I  recall 

One  sweet  word  by  her  let  fall — 

One  sweet  word  but  half-express'd — 

Downcast  eyes  told  all  the  rest, 

To  think  beneath  this  marble  cold, 

Lies  that  fair  girl  turn'd  to  mould. 

THE  DREAMING  GIRL. 

SHE  floats  upon  a  sea  of  mist, 

In  fancy's  boat  of  amethyst ! 

A  dreaming  girl,  with  her  fair  cheek 

Supported  by  a  snow-white  arm, 
In  the  calm  joy  of  innocence, 

Subdued  by  some  unearthly  charm. 
The  clusters  of  her  dusky  hair 
Are  floating  on  her  bosom  fair, 
Like  early  darkness  stealing  o'er 

The  amber  tints  that  daylight  gave, 
Or,  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 

Upon  a  fainting  summer-wave. 
Is  it  a  spirit  of  joy  or  pain 
Sails  on  the  river  of  her  brain  1 
For,  lo !  the  crimson  on  her  cheek 

Faints  and  glows  like  a  dying  flame; 
Her  heart  is  beating  loud  and  quick — 

Is  not  love  that  spirit's  name  1 
Up-waking  from  her  blissful  sleep, 
She  starts  with  fear  too  wild  to  weep; 
Through  the  trailing  honeysuckle, 

All  night  breathing  odorous  sighs, 
Which  her  lattice  dimly  curtains, 

The  morn  peeps  in  with  his  bright  eyes. 
Perfume  loved  when  it  is  vanish'd, 
Pleasure  hardly  felt  ere  banish'd, 
Is  the  happy  maiden's  vision, 

That  doth  on  her  memory  gleam, 
And  her  heart  leaps  up  with  gladness — 

That  bliss  was  nothing  but  a  dream ! 


_-, 

428                                                        JAMES   ALDRICH. 

A  SPRING-DAY  WALK. 

ADIEU,  the  city's  ceaseless  hum, 
The  haunts  of  sensual  life,  adieu  ! 
Green  fields,  and  silent  plp.na?  WA  ppma  

LINES. 

UNDEHSEATH  this  marble  cold, 
Lies  a  fair  girl  turn'd  to  mould  ; 

01           i*  r              i  'i             •                                     -*•* 
np  M'h/^rt  tit- 

t>*'l 

EDGAR  A.   POE. 


[Born, 

THE  family  of  Mr.  POE  is  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  respectable  in  Baltimore.  DAVID  POE,  his 
paternal  grandfather,  was  a  quartermaster-general 
in  the  Maryland  line  during  the  Revolution,  and 
the  intimate  friend  of  LAFAYETTE,  who,  during  his 
last  visit  to  the  United  States,  called  personally 
upon  the  general's  widow,  and  tendered  her  his 
acknowledgments  for  the  services  rendered  to  him 
by  her  husband.  His  great-grandfather,  JOHN 
POE,  married,  in  England,  JANE,  a  daughter  of 
Admiral  JAMES  McBniDE,  noted  in  British  naval 
history,  and  claiming  kindred  with  some  of  the 
most  illustrious  English  families.  His  father  and 
mother  died  within  a  few  weeks  of  each  other,  of 
consumption,  leaving  him  an  orphan,  at  two  years 
of  age.  Mr.  JOHN  ALLAN,  a  wealthy  gentleman 
of  Richmond,  Virginia,  took  a  fancy  to  him,  and 
persuaded  General  POE,  his  grandfather,  to  suffer 
him  to  adopt  him.  He  was  brought  up  in  Mr. 
ALLAN'S  family;  and  as  that  gentleman  had  no 
other  children,  he  was  regarded  as  his  son  and 
heir.  In  1 8 1 6  he  accompanied  Mr.  and  Mrs.  ALLAN 
to  Great  Britain,  visited  every  portion  of  it,  and 
afterward  passed  four  or  five  years  in  a  school 
kept  at  Stoke  Newington,  near  London,  by  the 
Reverend  Doctor  BRANSBY.  He  returned  to  Ame- 
rica in  1822,  and  in  1825  went  to  the  Jefferson 
University,  at  Charlottesville,  in  Virginia,  where 
he  led  a  very  dissipated  life,  the  manners  of  the 
college  being  at  that  time  extremely  dissolute.  He 
took  the  first  honours,  however,  and  went  home 
greatly  in  debt.  Mr.  ALLAN  refused  to  pay  some 
of  his  debts  of  honour,  and  he  hastily  quitted  the 
country  on  a  Quixotic  expedition  to  join  the  Greeks, 


COLISEUM. 

TYPE  of  the  antique  Rome !  rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation,  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 
At  length,  at  length — after  so  many  days 
Of  weary  pilgrimage,  and  burning  thirst, 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie,) 
I  kneel,  an  alter'd  and  an  humble  man, 
Within  thy  shadows — and  so  drink,  within 
My  very  soul,  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory. 

Vastness,  and  age,  and  memories  of  eld  ! 
|   Silence,  and  desolation,  and  dim  night ! 
I  feel  ye  now — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength. 
0,  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judsean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane ! 
0,  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 

Here,'  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls ! 
Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 
A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 


then  struggling  for  liberty.  He  did  not  reach  his 
original  destination,  however,  but  made  his  way  to 
St.  Petersburg,  in  Russia,  where  he  became  involved 
in  difficulties,  from  which  he  was  extricated  by  Mr. 
MIDDLE-TON,  the  American  consul  at  that  place. 
He  returned  home  in  1829,  and  immediately  after- 
ward entered  the  military  academy  at  West  Point. 
In  about  eighteen  months  from  that  time,  Mr. 
ALLAN,  who  had  lost  his  first  wife  while  POE  was 
in  Russia,  married  again.  He  was  sixty-five  years 
of  age,  and  the  lady  was  young;  POE  quarrelled 
with  her,  and  the  veteran  husband,  taking  the  part 
of  his  wife,  addressed  him  an  angry  letter,  which  was 
answered  in  the  same  spirit.  He  died  soon  after, 
leaving  an  infant  son  the  heir  to  his  property,  and 
bequeathed  POE  nothing. 

The  army,  in  the  opinion  of  the  young  cadet, 
was  not  a  place  for  a  poor  man,  so  he  left  West 
Point  abruptly,  and  determined  to  maintain  himself 
by  authorship.  The  proprietor  of  a  weekly  literary 
gazette  in  Baltimore  offered  two  premiums,  one  foi 
the  best  prose  story,  and  the  other  for  the  best 
poem.  In  due  time  POE  sent  in  two  articles,  both 
of  which  were  successful  with  the  examining  com- 
mittee, and  popular  on  their  publication.  He  has 
since  been  a  constant  writer  for  the  magazines,  and 
has  published  in  volumes  "  Tales  of  the  Grotesque 
and  the  Arabesque,"  "The  Adventures  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym,"  "Tales,"  and  "  The  Raven  and  other 
Poems."  His  poems,  like  his  prose  writings,  are 
highly  imaginative,  and  are  eminently  distinguish- 
ed for  their  spirituality ,  and  skilful  versification.  Mr. 
POE  is  now  (near  the  close  of  1845)  editor  of  "The 
Broadway  Journal,"  published  in  New  York. 


Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 
Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle ! 
Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  C;ESAR  sate, 
On  bed  of  moss  lies  gloating  the  foul  adder ! 
Here,  where  on  ivory  couch  the  monarch  loll'd, 
Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 
Tat  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 
The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones ! 

But  hold  ! — these  dark,  these  perishing  arcades, 
These  mouldering  plinths,  these  sad  and  blacken'd 

shafts, 

These  vague  entablatures,  this  broken  frieze, 
These  shatter'd  cornices,  this  wreck,  this  ruin, 
These  stones — alas !  these  gray  stones,  are  they  all, 
All  of  the  proud  and  tha  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  hours,  to  fate  and  me  ? 

"Not  all,"  the  echoes  answer  me,  "not  all, 
Prophetic  sounds,  and  loud,  arise  forever 
From  us,  and  from  all  ruin,  to  the  wise, 
As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  sun. 
We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men ;  we  rule, 

431 


EDGAR  A.  POE. 


With  a  despotic  sway,  all  giant  minds. 
We  are  not  impotent,  we  pallid  stones; 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone,  not  all  our  fame, 
Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown, 
Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us, 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie, 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upqn 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 


THE  RAVEN. 

Oxen  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  ponder'd,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 

Volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 

Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
« 'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  mutter'd, 

"  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,   ' 

It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember 
Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wish'd  the  morrow ; 

Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow- 
Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrill'd  me — fill'd  me  with  fantastic 

Terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  • 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; — 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ; 

Hesitating  then  no  longer, 

«  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping, 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you," — 

Here  I  open'd  wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering, 
Long  I  stood  thore  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 


And  the  darkness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whisper'd  word,  «  Lenore  !" 
This  /  whisper'd,  and  an  echo 

Murmur'd  back  the  word,  "  Lenore  !" 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  into  the  chamber  turning, 
All  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping 

Somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment, 

And  this  mystery  explore ; — 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more !" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 
When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepp'd  a  stately  raven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ; 
Not  an  instant  stopp'd  or  stay'd  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perch'd  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perch 'd  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perch'd,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 

My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  raven, 

Wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore !" 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvell'd  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — 

Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  bless'd  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely 
On  die  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  utter 'd — 
Not  a  leather  then  he  fluttrr'd — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  mutter'd 

"  Other  friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me, 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then"  the  bird  said  "  Nevermore." 


EDGAR   A.   POE. 


433 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 

By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters 

Is  its  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Follow'd  fast  and  follow'd  faster, 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  the 

Melancholy  burden  bore 

Of '  Nevermore,' — of '  Nevermore.' " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheel'd  a  cushion'd  seat  in 

Front  of  bird,  and  bust  and  door ; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 

Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  liery  eyes  now 

Burn'd  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining, 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er; 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more  ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfum'd  from  an  unseen  censer, 
Swung  by  angels  whose  faint  foot-falls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore  !" 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — 
PPophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  toss'd  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted, 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  1 

Tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  !" 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

«  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil — 

Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 

By  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 
55 


Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore— 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

«  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting, 
Bird  or  fiend  !"  I  shriek'd,  upstarting — 
«  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 

And  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  I 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart, 

And  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door !" 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting, 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  q'er  him  streaming 

Throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


THE   CONQUEROR  WORM. 

Lo  !  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewing'd,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drown'd  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high,    ' 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Wo ! 

That  motley  drama ! — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Honor  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout, 

A  crawling  shape  intrude  ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude! 
It  writ  lies  ! — it  writhes ! — with  mortal  pangs, 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 
2O 


434 


EDGAR  A.   POE. 


Out— out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  «  Man," 

Its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 


THE  HAUNTED   PALAQE. 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace 

(Snow-white  palace)  rear'd  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners,  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow ; 
(This,  all  this,  was  in  the  olden 

Time,  long  ago.) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odour  went  away.  ,, 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law ; 
Round  about  a  throne,  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In  state  his  glory  well-befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace-door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore,    • 
A  troop  of  echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assail'd  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah  !  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blush'd  and  bloom'd, 
Is  but  a  dim-remember'd  story 

Of  the  old  time  entomb'd. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  rapid,  ghastly  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever, 

And  laugh — buUstoile  no  more. 


THE  SLEEPER. 

AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapour,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon' the  quiet  mountain-top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave ; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave ;    • 
Wrapping  the  mist  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see,  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not  for  the  world  awake. 
All  beauty  sleeps ! — and,  lo !  where  lies, 
With  casement  open  to  the  skies, 
Irene  and  her  destinies  ! 

O,  lady  bright,  can  it  be  right, 

This  lattice  open  to  the  night  T 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber,  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain-canopy 

So  fitfully,  so  fearfully, 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 

'Neath  which  thy  slumbering  soul  lies  hid, 

That  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall,  • 

Like  ghosts,  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

O,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  1 

Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 

A  wonder  to  our  garden-trees ! 

Strange  is  thy  pallor — strange  thy  dress — 

Stranger  thy  glorious  length  of  tress, 

And  this  all-solemn  silentness ! 

The  lady  sleeps.    O,  may  her  sleep, 

Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 

Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  ! 

This  bed,  being  changed  for  one  more  holy, 

This  room  for  one  more  melancholy, 

I  pray  to  GOD  that  she  may  lie 

Forever  with  unclosed  eye ! 

My  love  she  sleeps.    O,  may  her  sleep, 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep ! 

Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep ! 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may  some  tall  tomb  unfold — 

Some  tomb  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 

And  wing-like  pannels,  fluttering  back, 

Triumphant  o'er  the  crested  palls 

Of  her  grand  family  funerals, — 

Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone,  » 

Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 

In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone, — 

Some  vault  from  out  whose  sounding  door 

She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 

Nor  thrill  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin, 

It  was  the  dead  who  groan'd  within. 


ISAAC   McLELLAN,   JR. 

[Bora  about  1810.] 


MR.  McLEtLAK  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  Port- 
land. He  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College,  in 
Maine,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1826.  He 
subsequently  studied  the  law,  and  for  a  few  years 
practised  his  profession  in  Boston.  He  "lias  re- 
cently resided  in  the  country,  and  devoted  his 


attention  principally  to  agricultural  pursuits.  In 
the  spring  of  1830  he  published  «  The  Fall  of  the 
Indian;"  in  1832,  "The  Year,  and  other  Poems;" 
and  in  1844  a  third  volume,  comprising  his  later 
miscellaneous  pieces  in  verse.  His  best  composi- 
tions are  lyrical. 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  DEAD. . 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  DEAD  !  New  England's  dead1! 

On  every  hill  they  lie ; 
On  every  field  of  strife,  made  red 

By  bloody  victory. 
Each  valley,  where  the  battle  pou/d 

Its  red  and  awful  tide, 
Beheld  the  brave  New  England  sword 

With  slaughter  deeply  dyed. 
Their  bones  are  on  the  northern  hill, 

And  on  the  southern  plain, 
By  brook  and  river,  lake  and  rill, 

And  by  the  roaring  main. 

The  land  is  holy  where  they  fought, 

And  holy  where  they  fell ; 
For  by  their  blood  that  land  was  bought, 

The  land  they  loved  so  well. 
Then  glory  to  that  valiant  band, 
The  honour'd  saviours  of  the  land ! 
O,  few  and  weak  their  numbers  were— 

A  handful  of  brave  men ; 
But  to  their  GOD  they  gave  their  prayer, 

And  rush'd  to  battle  then. 
The  GOD  of  battles  heard  their  cry, 
And  sent  to  them  the  victory. 

They  left  the  ploughshare  in  the  mould, 

Their  flocks  and  herds  without  a  fold, 

The  sickle  in  the  unshorn  grain, 

The  corn,  half-garner'd,  on  the  plain, 

And  muster'd,  in  their  simple  dress, 

For  wrongs  to  seek  a  stern  redress, 

To  right  those  wrongs,  come  weal,  come  wo, 

To  perish,  or  o'ercome  their  foe. 

And  where  are  ye,  O  fearless  men  1 

And  where  are  ye  to-day  1 
I  call : — the  hills  reply  again 

That  ye  have  pass'd  away; 
That  on  old  Bunker's  lonely  height, 

In  Trenton,  and  in  Monmouth  ground, 
The  grass  grows  green,  the  harvest  bright 

Above  each  soldier's  mound. 
The  bugle's  wild  and  warlike  blast 

Shall  muster  them  no  more ; 
An  army  now  might  thunder  past, 

And  they  heed  not  its  roar. 
The  starry  flag,  'neath  which  they  fought, 

In  many  a  bloody  day, 
From  their  old  graves  shall  rouse  them  not, 

For  they  have  pass'd  away. 


THE  DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON.* 

WILD  was  the  night;  yet  a  wilder  night 

Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 

Than  the  fight  on  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  by, 
The  few  that  his  stern  heart  cherish'd ; 

They  knew,  by  his  glazed  and  unearthly  eye, 
That  life  had  nearly  perish'd. 

They  knew  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look, 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dream'd  of  days  when  the  nations  shook, 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken. 

He  dream'd  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew, 
And  triumph'd  the  Frenchman's  "  eagle ;" 

And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew, 
Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again, 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed, 
And  again,  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain, 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 

Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows, 

At  the  pyramids,  at  the  mountain, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  flows, 

And  by  the  Italian  fountain, 

On  the  snowy  clifFs,  where  mountain-streams 

Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 
He  led  again,  in  his  dying  dreams, 

His  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 

Again  Marengo's  field  was  won, 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle ; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun, 

Made  pale  at  his  cannons'  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day, 

A  day  that  shall  live  in  story : 
In  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 

"And  left  him  alone  with  his  glory." 

*  "  The  5th  of  May  came  amid  wind  and  rain.  NA- 
POLEON'S passing  spirit  was  deliriously  engaged  in  a 
strife  more  terrible  than  The  elements  around.  The 
words  '•ttie  ffarmie'  (headW  tnl  army,)  the  last  \vhich 
escaped  from  his  lips,  intimated  that  his  thoughts  were 
watching  the  current  of  a  heady  fight.  About  eleven 
minutes  before  six  in  the  evening,  NAPOLEON  expired." 
—SCOTT'S  Life  of  Napoleon. 

435 


436 


ISAAC    McLELLAN,   JR. 


THE  NOTES  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

WELI,  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gayly  in  spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  summer-time, 
And  in  red  autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pain'd  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weigh'd  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far  distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike ; — 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  "thrilling  music  of  the  forest-birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir !    The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wreji 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps  half-hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dogwood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree, 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  spring,  the  robin  comes ; 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  wither'd  nest.    But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red-stemm'd  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest-field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves, — then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  corn-field  edge. 

Lone  whip-poor-will, 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Ofttimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still: 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds,  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 
To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 
No  eye,  save  thine,  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 
I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  thrush 
And  the  green,  roving  linnet  are  at  rest, 
And  the  blithe,  twittering  swallows  have  long  ceased 
Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current 

mines 
The  forest's   blacken'd   roots,  and  whose   green 

marge 

Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 
The  lonely  heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath-silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 


Or  brooding  gloomily  on  the  time-stain'd  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom, 
Gray  watcher  of  the  waters !     Thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake ;  and  all  the  winged  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye  !     Thou  lookest  down 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide ; 
And,  poising  thy  gray  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Ofttimes  I  see  thee,  through  the  curling  mist, 
Dart,  like  a  spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now,  wouldst  thou,  O  man,  deligbt  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  I     Then  pass  forth, 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-colour'd  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  Beauty's  ruby  lip. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  BY  WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

THE  tender  Twilight  with  a  crimson  cheek 
Leans  on  the  breast  of  Eve.     The  wayward  Wind 
Hath  folded  her  fleet  pinions,  and  gone  down 
Tot  slumber  by  the  darken'd  woods — the  herds 
Have  left  their  pastures,  where  the  sward  grows 

green 

And  lofty  by  the  river's  sedgy  brink, 
And  slow  are  winding  home.     Hark,  from  afar 
Their  tinkling  bells  sound  through  the  dusky  glade 
And  forest-openings,  with  a  pleasant  sound; 
While  answering  Echo,  from  the  distant  hill, 
Sends  back  the  music  of  the  herdsman's  horn. 
How  tenderly  the  trembling  light  yet  plays 
O'er  the  far-waving  foliage  !     Day's  last  blush 
Still  lingers  on  the  billowy  waste  of  leaves, 
With  a  strange  beauty — like  the  yellow  flush 
That  haunts  the  ocean,  when  the  day  goes  by. 
Methinks,  whene'er  earth's  wearying  troubles  pass 
Like  winter  shadows  o'er  the  peaceful  mind, 
'Twere  sweet  to  turn  from  life,  and  pass  abroad, 
With  solemn  footsteps,  into  Nature's  vast 
And  happy  palaces,  and  lead  a  life 
Of  peace  in  some  green  paradise  like  tlus. 

The  brazen  trumpet  and  the  loud  war-drum 
Ne'er   startled   these   green  woods: — the  raging 

sword 

Hath  never  gather'd  its  red  harvest  here  ! 
The  peaceful  summer-day  hath  never  closed 
Around  this  quiet  spot,  and  caught  the  gleam 
Of  War's  rude  pomp: — the  humble  dweller  heie 
Hath  never  left  his  sickle  in  the  field, 
To  slay  his  fellow  with  unholy  hand ; 
The  maddening  voice  of  battle,  the  wild  groan, 
The  thrilling  murmuring  of  the  dying  man, 
And  the  shrill  shriek  of  mortal  a^ony, 
Have  never  broke  its  Sabbath-solitude. 


JONES  VERY. 


[Born  about  1810.] 


JOXES  VERT  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  Salem. 
In  his  youth  he  accompanied  his  father,  who  was 
a  sea-captain,  on  several  voyages  to  Europe;  and 
he  wrote  his  «  Essay  on  Hamlet"  with  the  more 
interest  from  having  twice  seen  Elsineur.  After 
his  father's  death,  he  prepared  himself  to  enter 
college,  and  in  1832  became  a  student  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  graduated  in  1836,  and  in  the 
same  year  was  appointed  Greek  tutor  in  the  uni- 
versity. While  he  held  this  office,  a  religious  en- 
thusiasm took  possession  of  his  mind,  which  gra- 
dually produced  so  great  a  change  in  him,  that  his 


TO  THE  PAINTED  COLUMBINE. 

BRIGHT  image  of  the  early  years 

When  glow'd  my  cheek  as  red  as  thou, 
And  life's  dark  throng  of  cares  and  fears 
Were  swift-wing' d  shadows  o'er  my  sunny  brow! 

Thou  blushest  from  the  painter's  page, 

Robed  in  the  mimic  tints  of  art ; 
But  Nature's  hand  in  youth's  green  age 
With  fairer  hues  first  traced  thee  on  my  heart. 

The  morning's  blush,  she  made  it  thine, 

The  morn's  sweet  breath,  she  gave  it  thee ; 
And  in  thy  look,  my  Columbine ! 
Each  fond-remember'd  spot  she  bade  me  see. 

I  see  the  hill's  far-gazing  head, 

Where  gay  thou  noddest  in  the  gale ; 
I  hear  light-bounding  footsteps  tread 
The  grassy  path  that  winds  along  the  vale. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  woodland  song 

Break  from  each  bush  and  well-known  tree, 
And,  on  light  pinions  borne  along, 
Comes  back  the  laugh  from  childhood's  heart  of  glee. 

O'er  the  dark  rock  the  clashing  brook, 

With  look  of  anger,  leaps  again, 
And,  hastening  to  each  flowery  nook, 
Its  distant  voice  is  heard  far  down  the  glen. 

Fair  child  of  art!  thy  charms  decay, 

Touch'd  by  the  wither'd  hand  of  Time ; 
And  hush'd  the  music  of  that  day, 
When  my  voice  mingled  with  the  streamlet's  chime ; 

But  on  my  heart  thy  cheek  of  bloom 

Shall  live  when  Nature's  smile  has  fled ; 
And,  rich  with  memory's  sweet  perfume, 
Shall  o'er  her  grave  thy  tribute  incense  shed. 

There  shalt  thou  live  and  wake  the  glee 

That  echoed  on  thy  native  hill ; 
And  when,  loved  flower  !  I  think  of  thee, 
My  infant  feet  will  seem  to  seek  thee  still. 


friends  withdrew  him  from  Cambridge,  and  he 
returned  to  Salem,  where  he  wrote  most  of  the 
poems  in  the  small  collection  of  his  writings  pub- 
lished in  1839.  His  essays  entitled  "Epic  Poet- 
ry," «  Shakspeare,"  and  "  Hamlet,"  are  tine  spe- 
cimens of  learned  and  sympathetic  criticism ;'  and 
his  sonnets,  and  other  pieces  of  verse,  are  chaste, 
simple,  and  poetical,  though  they  have  little  range 
of  subjects  and  illustration.  They  are  religious, 
and  some  of  them  are  mystical,  but  they  will  be 
recognised  by  the  true  poet  as  the  overflowings 
of  a  brother's  soul. 


LINES  TO  A  WITHERED  LEAF  SEEN 
ON  A  POET'S  TABLE. 

POET'S  hand  has  placed  thee  there, 
Autumn's  brown  and  wither'd  scroll ! 
Though  to  outward  eye  not  fair, 
Thou  hast  beauty  for  the  soul ; 

Though  no  human  pen  has  traced 
On  that  leaf  its  learned  lore, 
Love  divine  the  page  has  graced, — 
What  can  words  discover  more  1 

Not  alone  dim  autumn's  blast 
Echoes  from  yon  tablet  sear, — 
Distant  music  of  the  past 
Steals  upon  the  poet's  ear. 

Voices  sweet  of  summer-hours, 
Spring's  soft  whispers  murmur  by ; 
Feather'd  songs  from  leafy  bowers 
Draw  his  listening  soul  on  high. 


THE  HEART. 

THEJIE  is  a  cup  of  sweet  or  bitter  drink, 
Whose  waters  ever  o'er  the  brim  must  well, 
Whence  flow  pure  thoughts  of  love  as  angels 

think, 

Or  of  its  demon  depths  the  tongue  will  tell ; 
That  cup  can  ne'er  be  cleansed  from  outward 

stains 

While  from  within  the  tide  forever  flows ; 
And  soon  it  wearies  out  the  fruitless  pains 
The  treacherous  hand  on  such  a  task  bestows ; 
But  ever  bright  its  crystal  sides  appear, 
While  runs  the  current  from  its  outlet  pure; 
And  pilgrims  hail  its  sparkling  waters  near, 
And  stoop  to  drink  the  healing  fountain  sure, 
And  bless  the  cup  that  cheers  their  fainting  soul 
While  through  this  parching  waste  they  seek  their 

heavenly  goal. 

2o2  437 


438 


JONES  VERY. 


TO  THE  CANARY-BIRD. 


hear  thy  voice  with  others'  ears, 
Who  make  of  thy  lost  liberty  a  gain  ; 
And  in  thy  tale  of  blighted  hopes  and  fears 
Feel  not  that  every  note  is  born  with  pain. 
'    Alas  !  that  with  thy  music's  gentle  swell    [throng, 
Past  days  of  joy  should  through  thy  memory 
And  each  to  thee  their  words  of  sorrow  tell, 
While  ravish'  d  sense  forgets  thee  in  thy  song. 
The  heart  that  on  the  past  and  future  feeds, 
And  pours  in  human  words  its  thoughts  divine, 
Though  at  each  birth  the  spirit  inly  bleeds, 
Its  song  may  charm  the  listening  ear  like  thine,  . 
And  men  with  gilded  cage  and  praise  will  try 
To  make  the  bard,  like  thee,  forget  his  native  sky. 

THY  BEAUTY  FADES. 

THY  beauty  fades,  and  with  it  too  my  love, 
For  'twas  the  selfsame  stalk  that  bore'its  flower; 
Soft  fell  the  rain,  and  breaking  from  above 
The  sun  look'd  out  upon  our  nuptial  hour  ; 
And  I  had  thought  forever  by  thy  side 
With  bursting  buds  of  hope  in  youth  to  dwell; 
But  one  by  one  Time  strew'd  thy  petals  wide, 
And  every  hope's  wan  look  a  grief  can  tell  : 
For  I  had  thoughtless  lived  beneath  his  sway, 
Who  like  a  tyrant  dealeth  with  us  all, 
Crowning  each  rose,  though  rooted  on  decay, 
With  charms  that  shall  the  spirit's  love  enthrall, 
And  for  a  season  turn  the  soul's  pure  eyes  [defies. 
From  virtue's  changeless  bloom,  that  time  and  death 

THE  WIND-FLOWER. 

THOU  lookest  up  with  meek,  confiding  eye 
Upon  the  clouded  smile  of  April's  face, 
Unharm'd  though  Winter  stands  uncertain  by, 
Eyeing  with  jealous  glance  each  opening  grace. 
Thou  trustest  wisely  !  in  thy  faith  array'd, 
More  glorious  thou  than  Israel's  wisest  king  ; 
Such  faith  was  His  whom  men  to  death  betray'd, 
As  thine  who  hearest  the  timid  voice  of  Spring, 
While  other  flowers  still  hide  them  from  her  call 
Along  the  river's  brink  and  meadow  bare. 
Thee  will  I  seek  beside  the  stony  wall, 
And  in  thy  trust  with  childlike  heart  would  share, 
O'erjoy'd  that  in  thy  early  leaves  I  find 
A  lesson  taught  by  Him  who  loved  all  human  kind. 

ENOCH. 

I  LOOK'D  to  find  a  man  who  walk'd  with  GOD, 
Like  the  translated  patriarch  of  old  ;  — 
Though  gladden'd  millions  on  his  footstool  trod, 
Yet  none  with  him  did  such  sweet  converse  hold; 
I  heard  the  wind  in  low  complaint  go  by, 
That  none  its  melodies  like  him  could  hear  ; 
Day  unto  day  spoke  wisdom  from  on  high, 
Yet  none  like  DAVID  turn'd  a  willing  ear; 
GOD  walk'd  alone  unhonour'd  through  the  earth; 
For  him  no  heart-built  temple  open  stood, 
The  soul,  forgetful  of  her  nobler  birth, 
Had  hewn  him  lofty  shrines  of  stone  and  wood, 
And  left  unfinished  and  in  ruins  still 
The  only  temple  he  delights  to  fill. 


MORNING.      f»^ 

THE  light  will  never  open  sightless  eyes, 
It  comes  to  those  who  willingly  would  see ; 
And  every  object, — hill,  and  stream,  and  skies, 
Rejoice  within  the  encircling  line  to  be ; 
'Tis  day, — the  field  is  fill'd  with  busy  hands, 
The  shop  resounds  with  noisy  workmen's  din, 
The  traveller  with  his  staff  already  stands 
His  yet  unmeasured  journey  to  begin  ; 
The  light  breaks  gently  too  within  the  breast, — 
Yet  there  no  eye  awaits  the  crimson  morn, 
The  forge  and  noisy  anvil  are  at  rest, 
Nor  men  nor  oxen  tread  the  fields  of  corn, 
Nor  pilgrim  lifts  his  staff^ — it  is  no  day 
To  those  who  find  on  earth  their  place  to  stay. 

NIGHT. 

I  THAXK  thee,  Father,  that  the  night  is  near 
When  I  this  conscious  being  may  resign ; 
Whose  only  task  thy  words  of  love  to  hear, 
And  in  thy  acts  to  find  each  act  of  mine ; 
A  task  too  great  to  give  a  child  like  me, 
The  myriad-handed  labours  of  the  day, 
Too  many  for  my  closing  eyes  to  see, 
Thy  words  too  frequent  for  my  tongue  to  say; 
Yet  when  thou  seest  me  burden'd  by  thy  love, 
Each  other  gift  more  lovely  then  appears, 
For  dark-robed  night  comes  hovering  from  above, 
And  all  thine  other  gifts  to  me  endears ; 
And  while  within  her  darken'd  couch  I  sleep, 
Thine  eyes  untired  above  will  constant  vigils  keep. 

THE  SPIRIT-LAND. 

FATHER  !  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand, 
Nor  far  removed  where  feet  havo  seldom  stray'd ; 
Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land, 
In  marvels  rich  to  thine  own  sons  clisplay'd ; 
In  finding  thee  are  all  things  round  us  found ; 
In  losing  thee  are  all  things  lost  beside ; 
Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  strange  voices  sound, 
And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied  ; 
We  wander  in  the  country  far  remote, 
Mid  tombs  and  ruin'd  piles  in  death  to  dwell ; 
Or  on  the  records  of  past  greatness  dote, 
And  for  a  buried  soul  the  living  sell ; 
While  on  our  path  bewilder'd  falls  the  night 
That  ne'er  returns  us  to  the  fields  of  light. 

THE  TREES  OF  LIFE. 

FOR  those  who  worship  THEE  there  is  no  death, 
For  all  they  do  is  but  with  THEE  to  dwell ; 
Now,  while  I  take  from  THEE  this  passing  breath, 
It  is  but  of  THY  glorious  name  to  tell ; 
Nor  words  nor  measured  sounds  have  I  to  find, 
But  in  them  both  my  soul  doth  ever  flow ; 
They  come  as  viewless  as  the  unseen  wind, 
And  tell  thy  noiseless  steps  where'er  I  go ; 
The  trees  that  grow  along  thy  living  stream, 
And  from  its  springs  refreshment  ever  drink, 
Forever  glittering  in  thy  morning  beam, 
They  bend  them  o'er  the  river's  srrnssy  brink; 
And  as  more  high  and  wide  their  branches  grow, 
They  look  more  fair  within  the  depths  below. 


JONES  VERY. 


439 


THE  ARK. 

THKHE  is  no  change  of  time  and  place  with  THEE  ; 
Where'er  I  go,  with  me  'tis  still  the  same; 
Within  thy  presence  I  rejoice  to  be, 
And  always  hallow  thy  most  holy  name ; 
The  world  doth  ever  change ;  there  is  no  peace 
Among  the  shadows  of  its  storm-vex'd  breast ; 
With  every  breath  the  frothy  waves  increase, 
They  toss  up  mire  and  dirt,  they  cannot  rest ; 
I  thank  THEE  that  within  thy  strong-built  ark 
My  soul  across  the  uncertain  sea  can  sail, 
And,  though  the  night  of  death  be  long  and  dark, 
My  hopes  in  CHRIST  shall  reach  within  the  veil; 
And  to  the  promised  haven  steady  steer, 
Whose  rest  to  those  who  love  is  ever  near. 


NATURE. 


THE  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by, 
Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call ; 
The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh, 
For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  and  small ; 
The  flower  that  on  the  lovely  hill-side  grows 
Expects  me  there  when  spring  its  bloom  has  given ; 
And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wanderings  knows, 
And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven ; 
For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright, 
Shall  be  their  lord  as  ADAM  was  before ; 
His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  delight, 
Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore ; 
And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood, 
Hear  from  his  Father's  lips  that  all  is  good. 


THE  TREE. 


I  LOVE  thee  when  thy  swelling  buds  appear, 
And  one  by  one  their  tender  leaves  unfold, 
As  if  they  knew  that  warmer  suns  were  near, 
Nor  longer  sought  to  hide  from  winter's  cold ; 
And  when  with  darker  growth  thy  leaves  are  seen 
To  veil  from  view  the  early  robin's  nest, 
I  love  to  lie  beneath  thy  waving  screen, 
With  limbs  by  summer's  heat  and  toil  oppress'd; 
And  when  the  autumn  winds  have  stript  thee  bare, 
And  round  thee  lies  the  smooth,  untrodden  snow, 
When  naught  is  thine  that  made  thee  once  so  fair, 
I  love  to  watch  thy  shadowy  form  below, 
And  through  thy  leafless  arms  to  look  above 
On  stars  that  brighter  beam  when  most  we  need 
their  love. 


THE  SON. 

FATITEII,  I  wait  thy  word.     The  sun  doth  stand 
Beneath  the  mingling  line  of  night  and  day, 
A  listening  servant,  waiting  thy  command 
To  roll  rejoicing  on  its  silent  way ; 
The  tongue  of  time  abides  the  appointed  hour, 
Till  on  our  ear  its  solemn  warnings  fall ; 


The  heavy  cloud  withholds  the  pelting  shower, 
Then  every  drop  speeds  onward  at  thy  call ; 
The  bird  reposes  on  the  yielding  bough, 
With  breast  unswollen  by  the  tide  of  song; 
So  does  my  spirit  wait  thy  presence  now 
To  pour  thy  praise  in  quickening  life  along, 
Chiding  with  voice  divine  man's  lengthen'd  sleep, 
While  round  the  unutter'd  word  and  love  their 
vigils  keep. 


THE  ROBIN. 


Tnotr  need'st  not  flutter  from  thy  half-built  nest, 
Whene'er  thou  hear'st  man's  hurrying  feet  go  by, 
Fearing  his  eye  for  harm  may  on  thee  rest, 
Or  he  thy  young  unfinished  cottage  spy ; 
All  will  not  heed  thee  on  that  swinging  bough, 
Nor  care  that  round  thy  shelter  spring  the  leaves, 
Nor  watch  thee  on  the  pool's  wet  margin  now, 
For  clay  to  plaster  straws  thy  cunning  weaves; 
All  will  not  hear  thy  sweet  out-pouring  joy, 
That  with  morn's  stillness  blends  the  voice  of  song, 
For  over-anxious  cares  their  souls  employ, 
That  else  upon  thy  music  borne  along 
And  the  light  wings  of  heart-ascending  prayer 
Had  learn'd  that  Heaven  is  pleased  thy  simple  joys 
to  share. 


THE  RAIL-ROAD. 


THOU  great  proclaimer  to  the  outward  eye 
Of  what  the  spirit  too  would  seek  to  tell, 
Onward  thou  goest,  appointed  from  on  high 
The  other  warnings  of  the  Lord  to  swell ; 
Thou  art  the  voice  of  one  that  through  the  world 
Proclaims  in  startling  tones,  "Prepare  the  way ;" 
The  lofty  mountain  from  its  seat  is  hurl'd, 
The  flinty  rocks  thine  onward  march  obey ; 
The  valleys,  lifted  from  their  lowly  bed, 
O'ertop  the  hills  that  on  them  frown'd  before, 
Thou  passest  where  the  living  seldom  tread, 
Through  forests  dark,where  tides  beneath  thee  roar, 
And  bidd'st  man's  dwelling  from  thy  track  remove, 
And  would  with  warning  voice  his  crooked  paths 
reprove. 


THE  LATTER  RAIN. 

THE  latter  rain, — it  falls  in  anxious  haste, 
Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare, 
Loosening  with  searching  drops  the  rigid  waste, 
As  if  it  would  each  root's  lost  strength  repair ; 
But  not  a  blade  grows  green  as  iu  the  spring, 
No  swelling  twig  puts  forth  its  thickening  leaves; 
The  robins  only  mid  the  harvests  sing, 
Pecking  the  grain  that  scatters  from  the  sheaves' 
The  rain  falls  still, — the  fruit  all  ripcn'd  drops, 
It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut-shell, 
The  furrow'd  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops, 
Each  bursting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell, 
And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 
Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 


ALFRED    B.    STREET. 


[Born,  1811.] 


Mn.  STHEET  was  born  in  Poughkeepsie,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  many  large  towns 
upon  the  Hudson,  on  the  eighteenth  of  December 
1811.  General  RANDALL  S.  STREET,  his  father 
was  an  officer  in  active  service  during  our  secont 
war  with  England,  and  subsequently  several  years 
a  representative  in  Congress ;  and  his  paternal 
grandfather  was  a  direct  and  lineal  descendant  oi 
the  Reverend  NICHOLAS  STREET,  who  came  to 
this  country  soon  after  the  landing  of  JOHN  CAR- 
VER, and  was  ordained  minister  of  the  first  church 
in  New  Haven,  in  1659.  His  mother's  father 
was  Major  ANDREW  BILLINGS,  of  the  revolution- 
ary army,  who  was  connected  by  marriage  with 
the  influential  and  wealthy  family  of  the  LIV- 
INGSTONS, which  has  furnished  for  some  two 
centuries  so  many  eminent  citizens  of  the  State 
of  New  York. 

When  the  poet  was  about  fourteen  years  of  age 
his  father  removed  to  Monticello,  in  the  county  of 
Sullivan.  Up  to  this  period  he  had  been  in  an 
academy  at  Poughkeepsie,  and  had  already  writ- 
ten verses  in  which  is  exhibited  some  of  that  pe- 
culiar taste,  and  talent  for  description,  for  which 
his  later  works  are  so  much  distinguished.  Sulli- 
van is  what  is  called  a  "  wild  county,"  though  it  is 
extremely  fertile  where  well  cultivated.  Its  scenery 
is  magnificent,  and  its  deep  forests,  streams  as  clear 
as  dew-drops,  gorges  of  piled  rock  and  black  shade, 
mountains  and  valleys,  could  hardly  fail  to  waken 
into  life  all  the  faculties  that  slumbered  in  the  brain 
of  a  youthful  poet 

Mr.  STREET  studied  law  in  the  office  of  his 
father,  and,  in  the  first  years  after  his  admission 
to  the  bar,  attended  the  courts  of  Sullivan  county ; 
but  in  the  winter  of  1839  he  removed  to  Albany, 
and  has  since  successfully  practised  his  profession 
in  that  city. 

His  "  Nature,"  a  poem  read  before  the  literary 
societies  of  the  college  at  Geneva,  appeared  in 
1840;  "The  Burning  of  Schenectady  and  other 
Poems,"  in  1843,  and  "Drawings  and  Tintings." 
a  collection  of  pieces  chiefly  descriptive,  in  1844. 
The  last  and  most  complete  edition  of  his  poems 
was  published  by  Clark  and  Austin,  of  New  York, 
in  1845. 

Mr.  STREET,  as  has  been  intimated  above,  is  a 
descriptive  poet,  and  in  his  particular  department 
he  has,  perhaps,  no  superior  in  this  country.  He 
has  a  hearty  love  of  rural  sports  and  pastimes,  a 
quick  perception  of  the  grand  and  beautiful,  and 
he  writes  with  apparent  ease  and  freedom,  from 
the  impulses  of  his  own  heart,  and  from  actual 
observations  of  life  and  nature. 

The  greatest  merits  of  any  style  of  writing  are 
clearness,  directness  and  condensation.  DuTuse- 


ness  is  even  more  objectionable  in  verse  than  in 
prose,  and  in  either  is  avoided  by  men  of  taste.  A 
needless  word  is  worse  than  one  ill  chosen,  and 
scarcely  any  thing  is  more  offensive  than  a  line, 
though  never  was  other  one  so  musical,  which 
could  be  omitted  without  affecting  the  transpa- 
rency or  force  of  the  attempted  expression.  The 
beauty  of  Mr.  STREET'S  poems  would  sometimes 
be  greater  but  for  the  use  of  epithets  which  serve 
no  other  purpose  than  to  fill  his  lines,  and  his  sin- 
gular minuteness,  though  the  most  extreme  par- 
ticularity is  a  fault  in  description  only  when  it 
lessens  the  distinctness  and  fidelity  of  the  general 
impression.  Occasionally  his  pictures  of  still  na- 
ture remind  us  of  the  daguerreotype,  and  quite  as 
often  of  the  masterly  landscapes  of  our  COLE  and 
DOUGHTY.  Some  of  his  exhibitions  of  the  ordi- 
nary phenomena  of  the  seasons  have  rarely  been 
equalled.  What,  for  example,  could  be  finer  than 
these  lines  on  a  rain  in  June? — 

Wafted  tip, 

The  stealing  cloud  with  soft  gray  blinds  the  sky, 
And,  in  its  vapoury  mantle,  onward  steps 
The  summer  shower ;  over  the  shivering  grass 
It  merrily  dances,  rings  its  tinkling  bells 
Upon  the  dimpling  stream,  and  moving  on, 
It  treads  upon  the  leaves  with  pattering  feet 
And  softly  nmrimir'd  music.    Off  it  glides, 
And  as  its  misty  robe  lifts  up,  and  melts, 
The  sunshine,  darting,  with  a  sudden  burst, 
Strikes  o'er  the  scene  a  magic  brilliancy. 

His  works  are  full  of  passages  not  less  picturesque 
and  truthful.  The  remarkable  fidelity  of  Mr. 
STREET'S  description  and  narrative  is  best  appre- 
ciated by  persons  who  are  familiar  with  new  set- 
tlements in  our  northern  latitudes.  To  others  he 
may  seem  always  lashing  himself  into  excitement, 
to  be  extravagant,  and  to  exaggerate  beyond  the 
requirements  of  art.  But  within  a  rifle-shot  of  the 
little  village  where  nearly  all  his  life  has  been 
passed,  are  centurial  woods,  from  which  the  howl- 
ings  of  wolves  have  disturbed  his  sleep,  and  in 
which  he  has  tracked  the  bear  and  the  deer,  and 
roused  from  their  nests  their  winged  inhabitants. 
In  the  spring  time  he  has  looked  from  his  window 
upon  fallow  fires,  and  in  the  summer  upon  fields 
of  waving  grain,  spotted  by  undecayed  stumps  of 
forest  giants,  and  on  trees  that  stand,  charred  and 
black,  in  mournful  observation  of  the  settler's  inva- 
sion. Scenes  and  incidents  which  the  inhabitant 
of  t'.ie  city  might  regard  as  extraordinary  have  been 
:o  him  common  and  familiar,  and  his  writings  are 
valuable  as  the  fruits  of  a  genuine  American  ex- 
perience, to  which  the  repose,  of  which  it  is  com- 
>Iiiined  that  they  are  deficient,  dors  not  belong. 
The}'  are  on  some  accounts  among  the  most  pecu- 
iarly  national  works  in  our  literature. 

440 


ALFRED   B.   STREET. 


441 


THE   GRAY  FOREST-EAGLE. 

WITH  storm-daring  pinion  and  sun-gazing  eye, 
The  gray  forest-eagle  is  king  of  the  sky ! 
O,  little  he  loves  the  green  valley  of  flowers, 
Where  sunshine  and  song  cheer  the  bright  sum- 
mer hours, 

For  he  hears  in  those  haunts  only  music,  and  sees 
Only  rippling  of  waters  and  waving  of  trees  ;     •( 
There  the  red  robin  warbles,  the  honey-bee  hums, 
The  timid  quail  whistles,  the  sly  partridge  drums; 
And  if  those  proud  pinions,  perchance,  sweep  along, 
There 's  a  shrouding  of  plumage,  a  hushing  of  song ; 
The  sunlight  falls  stilly  on  leaf  and  on  moss, 
And  there's  naught  but  his  shadow  black  gliding 

across ; 
But  the  dark,  gloomy  gorge,  where  down  plunges 

the  foam 
Of  the  fierce,  rock-lash'd  torrent,  he  claims  as  his 

home: 
There  he  blends  his  keen  shriek  with  the  roar  of 

the  flood, 
And  the  many-voiced  sounds  of  the  blast-smitten 

wood ; 
From  the  crag-grasping  fir-top,  where  morn  hangs 

its  wreath, 

He  views  the  mad  waters  white  writhing  beneath: 
On  a  limb  of  that  moss-bearded  hemlock  far  down, 
With  bright  azure  mantle  and  gay  mottled  crown, 
The  kingfisher  watches,  where  o'er  him  his  foe, 
The  fierce  hawk,  sails  circling,  each  moment  more 

low: 

Now  poised  are  those  pinions  and  pointed  that  beak, 
His  dread  swoop  is  ready,  when,  hark !  with  a  shriek, 
His  eye-balls  red-blazing,  high  bristling  his  crest, 
His  snake-like  neck  arch'd,  talons  drawn  to  his 

breast, 

With  the  rush  of  the  wind-gust,  the  glancing  of  light, 
The  gray  forest-eagle  shoots  down  in  his  flight ; 
One  blow  of  those  talons,  one  plunge  of  that  neck, 
The  strong  hawk  hangs  lifeless,  a  blood-dripping 

wreck ; 

And  as  dives  the  free  kingfisher,  dart-like  on  high 
With  his  prey  soars  the  eagle,  and  melts  in  the  sky. 

A  fitful  red  glaring,  a  low,  rumbling  jar, 
Proclaim  the  storm  demon  yet  raging  afar :  [red, 
Tho  black  cloud  strides  upward,  the  lightning  more 
And  the  roll  of  the  thunder  more  deep  and  more 
A  thick  pall  of  darkness  is  cast  o'er  the  air,  [dread; 
And  on  bounds  the  blast  with  a  howl  from  its  lair: 
The  lightning  darts  zig-zag  and  fork'd  through  the 

gloom, 
And  the  bolt  launches  o'er  with  crash,  rattle,  and 

boom  ; 

The  gray  forest-eagle,  where,  where  has  he  sped  ? 
Does  he  shrink  to  his  eyrie,  and  shiver  with  dread  ? 
Does  the  glare  blind  bis  eye  ?     Has  the  terrible  blast 
On  the  wing  of  the  sky-king  a  fear-fetter  cast'? 
No,  no,  the  brave  eagle!  he  thinks  not  of  fright; 
The  wrath  of  the  tempest  but  rousos  delight ; 
To  the  flash  of  the  lightning  his  eye  casts  a  gleam, 
To  the  shriek  of  the  wild  blast  he  echoes  his  scream, 
And  with  front  like  a  warrior  that  speeds  to  the  fray, 
And  a  clapping  of  pinions,  he 's  up  and  away  ! 
56 


Away,  O,  away,  soars  the  fearless  and  free ! 
What  recks  he  the  sky's  strife  1 — its  monarch  is  he ! 
The  lightning  darts  round  him,  undaunted  his  sight ; 
The  blast  sweeps  against  him,  unwaver'd  his  flight; 
High  upward,  still  upward,  he  wheels,  till  his  form 
Is  lost  in  the  black,  scowling  gloom  of  the  storm. 

The  tempest  sweeps  o'er  with  its  terrible  train, 
And  the  splendour  of  sunshine  is  glowing  again ; 
Again  smiles  the  soft,  tender  blue  of  the  sky, 
Waked  bird-voices  warble,  fann'd  leaf-voices  sigh ; 
On  the  green  grass  dance  shadows,  streams  sparkle 

and  run, 

The  breeze  bears  the  odour  its  flower-kiss  has  won, 
And  full  on  the  form  of  the  demon  in  flight 
The  rainbow's  magnificence  gladdens  the  sight ! 
The  gray  forest-eagle !  O,  where  is  he  now, 
While  the  sky  wears  the  smile  of  its  GOD  on  its 

brow] 
There's   a  dark,   floating   spot  by   yon   cloud's 

pearly  wreath, 

With  the  speed  of  the  arrow 't  is  shooting  beneath ! 
Down,  nearer  and  nearer  it  draws  to  the  gaze, 
Now  over  the  rainbow,  now  blent  with  its  blaze, 
To  a  shape  it  expands,  still  it  plunges  through  air, 
A  proud  crest,  a  fierce  eye,  a  broad  wing  are  there ; 
'Tis  the  eagle — the  gray  forest-eagle — once  more 
He  sweeps  to  his  eyrie :  his  journey  is  o'er ! 

Time  whirls  round  his  circle,  his  years  roll  away, 
But  the  gray  forest-eagle  minds  little  his  sway ; 
The  child  spurns  its  buds  for  youth's  thorn-hid- 
den bloom, 
Seeks  manhood's  bright  phantoms,  finds  age  and 

a  tomb ; 

But  the  eagle's  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbow'd, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud ! 
The  green,  tiny  pine-shrub  points  up  from  the  moss, 
The  wren's  foot  would  cover  it,  tripping  across ; 
The  beech-nut  down  dropping  would*  crush  it  be- 
neath, 
But  'tis  warm'd   with    heaven's   sunshine,  and 

fann'd  by  its  breath  ; 

The  seasons  fly  past  it,  its  head  is  on  high, 
Its  thick  branches  challenge  each  mood  of  the  sky ; 
On  its  rough  bark  the  moss  a  green  mantle  creates, 
And  the  deer  from  his  antlers  the  velvet-down  grates ; 
Time  withers  its  roots,  it  lifts  sadly  in  air 
A  trunk  dry  and  wasted,  a  top  jagg'd  and  bare, 
Till  it  rocks  in  the  soft  breeze,  and  crashes  to  earth, 
Its  blown  fragments  strewing  the  place  of  its  birth. 
The  eagle  has  seen  it  up-struggling  to  sight, 
He  has  seen  it  defying  the  storm  in  its  might, 
Then  prostrate,  soil-blended,  with  plants  sprouting 
But  the  gray  forest-eagle  is  still  as  of  yore,    [o'er, 
His  flaming  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbow'd, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud ! 
He  has  seen  from  his  eyrie  the  forest  below 
In  bud  and  in  leaf,  robed  with  crimson  and  snow. 
The  thickets.deep  wolf-Iairs,the  high  crag  his  throne, 
And  the  shriek  of  the  panther  has  answrr'd  his  own. 
He  has  seen  the  wild  red  man  the  lord  of  the  shades, 
And  the  smoke  of  his  wigwams  curl  thick  in  tho 

glades ; 

He  has  seen  the  proud  forest  melt  breath-like  away, 
And  the  breast  of  the  earth  lying  bare  to  the  day ; 


442 


ALFRED    B.  STREET. 


He  sees  the  green  meadow-grass  hiding  the  lair, 
And  his  crag-throne  spread  naked  to  sun  and  to  air ; 
And  his  shriek  is  now  answer'd,  while  sweeping 

along, 

By  the  low  of  the  herd  and  the  husbandman's  song ; 
He  has  seen  the  wild  red  man  off-swept  by  his  foes, 
And  he  sees  dome  and  roof  where  those  smokes 

once  arose ; 

But  his  flaming  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbow'd, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud ! 

An  emblem  of  Freedom,  stern,  haughty,  and  high, 
Is  the  gray  forest-eagle,  that  king  of  the  sky  ! 
It  scorns  the  bright  scenes,  the  gay  places  of  earth — 
By  the  mountain  and  torrent  it  springs  into  birth; 
There  rock'd  by  the  wild  wind,  baptized  in  the  foam, 
It  is  guarded  and  cherish'd,  and  there  is  its  home  ! 
When  its  shadow  steals  black  o'er  the  empires  of 

kings, 

Deep  terror,  deep  heart-shaking  terror  it  brings ; 
Where  wicked  Oppression  is  arm'd  for  the  weak, 
Then  rustles  its  pinion,  then  echoes  its  shriek ; 
Its  eye  flames  with  vengeance,  it  sweeps  on  its  way, 
And  its  talons  are  bathed  in  the  blood  of  its  prey. 
O,  that  eagle  of  Freedom !  when  cloud  upon  cloud 
Swathed  the  sky  of  my  own  native  land  with  a 

shroud, 

When  lightnings  gleam'd  fiercely,  and  thunder- 
bolts rung, 

How  proud  to  the  tempest  those  pinions  were  flung! 
Though  the  wild  blast  of  battle  swept  fierce 

through  the  air 

With  darkness  and  dread,  still  the  eagle  was  there ; 
Unquailing,  still  speeding,  his  swift  flight  was  on, 
Till  the  rainbow  of  Peace  crown'd  the  victory  won. 
O,  that  eagle  of  Freedom !  age  dims  not  his  eye, 
He  has  seen  Earth's  mortality  spring,  bloom,and  die! 
He  has  seen  the  strong  nations  rise,  flourish,  and  fall, 
He  mocks  at  Time's  changes,  he  triumphs  o'er  all : 
He  has  seen  our  own  land  with  wild  forests  o'er- 

spread, 

He  sees  it  with  sunshine  and  joy  on  its  head ; 
And  his  presence  will  bless  this,  his  own,  chosen 
Till  the  archangel's  fiat  is  set  upon  time,     [clime, 


FOWLING. 

A  MORN  in  September,  the  east  is  yet  gray ; 
Come,  Carlo !  come,  Jupe !  we  '11  try  fowling  to-day: 
The  fresh  sky  is  bright  as  the  bright  face  of  one, 
A  sweeter  than  whom  the  sun  shines  not  upon ; 
And  those  wreathed  clouds  that  melt  to  the  breath 

of  the  south, 

Are  white  as  the  pearls  of  her  beautiful  mouth : 
My  hunting-piece  glitters,  and  quick  is  my  task 
In  slinging  around  me  my  pouch  and  my  flask ; 
Cease,  dogs,  your  loud  yelpings,  you  '11  deafen  my 

brain ! 
Desist  from  your  rambles,  and  follow  my  train. 

Here,  leave  the  geese,  Carlo,  to  nibble  their  grass, 
Though  they  do  stretch  their  long  necks,  and  hiss 

as  we  pass ; 

And  the  fierce  little  bantam,  that  flies  your  attack, 
Then  struts,  flaps,  and  crows,  with  such  airs,  at 

your  back ; 


And  the  turkey,  too,  smoothing  his  plumes  in  your 

face, 

Then  ruffling  so  proud,  as  you  bound  from  the  place ; 
Ha !  ha !  that  old  hen,  bristling  up  mid  her  brood, 
Has  taught  you  a  lesson,  I  hope,  for  your  good ; 
By  the  wink  of  your  eye,  and  the  droop  of  y  our  crest, 
I  see  your  maraudings  are  now  put  at  rest. 

The  rail-fence  is  leap'd,  and  the  wood-boughs  are 

round, 

And  a  moss-couch  isspreadformy  footon  the  ground: 
A  shadow  has  dimm'd  the  leaves'  amethyst  glow, 
The  first  glance  of  Autumn,  his  presence  to  show: 
The  beech-nut  is  ripening  above  in  its  sheath, 
Which  will  burst  with  the  black  frost,  and  drop  it 

beneath. 

The  hickory  hardens,  snow-white,  in  its  burr,  [fir ; 
And  the  cones  are  full  grown  on  the  hemlock  and 
The  hopple's  red  berries  are  tinging  with  brown, 
And  the  tips  of  the  sumach  havedarken'd  theirdown; 
fhe  white,  brittle  Indian-pipe  lifts  up  its  bowl, 
And  the  wild  turnip's  leaf  curls  out  broad  like  a 

scroll ; 

The  cohosh  displays  its  white  balls  and  red  stems, 
And  the  braid  of  the  mullen  is  yellow  with  gems; 
While  its  rich,  spangled  plumage  the  golden-rod 

shows, 
And  the  thistle  yields  stars  to  each  air-breath  that 

blows. 

A  quick,  startling  whirr  now  bursts  loud  on  my  ear, 
The  partridge !  the  partridge !  swift  pinion'd  by  fear, 
Low  onward  he  whizzes,  Jupe  yelps  as  he  sees, 
And  we  dash   through  the   brushwood,  to   note 

where  he  trees ; 

I  see  him !  his  brown,  speckled  breast  is  display'd 
On  the  branch  of  yon  maple,  that  edges  the  glade ; 
My  fowling-piece  rings,  Jupe  darts  forward  so  fleet, 
While  loading,  he  drops  the  dead  bird  at  my  feet : 
I  pass  by  the  scaurberries'  drops  of  deep  red, 
In  their  green,  creeping  leaves,  where  he  daintily  fed, 
And  his  couch  near  the  root,  in  the  warm  forest- 
mould, 

Where  he  wallow'd,  till  sounds  his  close  danger 
foretold. 

On  yon  spray,  the  bright  oriole  dances  and  sings, 
With  his  rich,  crimson  bosom,  and  glossy  black 

wings ; 

And  the  robin  comes  warbling,  then  flutters  away, 
For  I  harm  not  GOD'S  creatures  so  tiny  as  they ; 
But  the  quail,  whose  quick  whistle  has  lured  me 

along, 

No  more  will  recall  his  stray'd  mate  with  his  song, 
And  the  hawk  that  is  circling  so  proud  in  the  blue, 
Let  him  keep  a  look-out,  or  he  '11  tumble  down  too ! 
He  stoops — the  gun  echoes — he  flutters  beneath, 
His  yellow  claws  curl'd,  and  fierce  eyes  glazed  in 

death : 

Lie  there,  cruel  Arab !  the  mocking-bird  now 
Can  rear  her  young  brood,  without  fear  of  thy  blow; 
And  the  brown  wren  can  warble  his  sweet  little  lay, 
Nor  dread  more  thy  talons  to  rend  find  to  slay  ; 
And,  with  luck,  an  example  I  '11  make  of  that  crow, 
For  my  green, sprouting  wheat  knew  no  hungrier  foe; 
But  the  rascal  seems  down  from  his  summit  to  scoff, 
And  as  I  creep  near  him,  he  croaks,  and  is  off. 


ALFRED   B.   STREET. 


443 


The  woods  shrink  away,  and  wide  spreads  the 

morass, 

With  junipers  cluster'd,  and  matted  with  grass ; 
Trees,  standing  like  ghosts,  their  arms  jagged  and 

bare, 

And  hung  with  gray  lichens,  like  age-whiten'd  hair. 
The  tamarack  here  and  there  rising  between, 
Its  boughs  clothed  with  rich,  star-like  fringes  of 

green, 
And  clumps  of  dense  laurels,  and  brown-headed 

flags, 

And  thick,  slimy  basins,  black  dotted  with  snags : 
Tread  softly  now,  Carlo  !  the  woodcock  is  here, 
He  rises — his  long  bill  thrust  out  like  a  spear ; 
The  gun  ranges  on  him — his  journey  is  sped ; 
Quick  scamper,  my  spaniel !  and  bring  in  the  dead ! 

We  plunge  in  the  swamp — the  tough  laurels  are 

round ; 

No  matter ;  our  shy  prey  not  lightly  is  found ; 
Another  up-darts,  but  unharm'd  is  his  flight; 
Confound  it !  the  sunshine  then  dazzled  my  sight; 
But  the  other  my  shot  overtakes  as  he  flies : 
Come,  Carlo!  come,  Carlo!  I  wait  for  my  prize; 
One  more — still  another — till,  proofs  of  my  sway, 
From  my  pouch  dangle  heads,  in  a  ghastly  array. 

From  this  scene  of  exploits,  now  made  birdless,  I 

pass; 

Pleasant  Pond  gleams  before  me,  a  mirror  of  glass  : 
The  boat's  by  the  marge,  with  green  branches 

supplied, 
From   the  keen-sighted  duck  my  approaches  to 

hide; 

A  flock  spots  the  lake ;  now  crouch,  Carlo,  below ! 
And  I  move  with  light  paddle,  on  softly  and  slow, 
By  that  wide  lily-island,  its  meshes  that  weaves 
Of  rich  yellow  globules,  and  green  oval  leaves. 
I  watch  them ;  how  bright  and  superb  is  the  sheen 
Of  their  plumage,  gold  blended  with  purple  and 

green ; 
How  graceful   their  dipping — how  gliding  their 

way ! 

Are  they  not  all  too  lovely  to  mark  as  a  prey  1 
One  flutters,  enchain'd,  in  those  brown,  speckled 

stems, 

His  yellow  foot  striking  up  bubbles,  like  gems, 
While  another,  with  stretch'd  neck,  darts  swiftly 

across 

To  the  grass,  whose  green  points  dot  the  mirror- 
like  gloss. 

But  I  pause  in  my  toil ;  their  wise  leader,  the  drake, 
Eyes  keen  the  queer  thicket  afloat  on  the  lake ; 
Now  they  group  close  together — both  barrels  ! — 

O,  dear ! 
What  a  diving,  and  screaming,  and  splashing  are 

here ! 

The  smoke-curls  melt  off,  as  the  echoes  rebound, 
Hurrah  !  five  dead  victims  are  floating  around  ! 

But  "cloud-land"  is  tinged  now  with  sunset,  and 

bright 
On  the  water's  smooth  polish  stretch  long  lines 

of  light ; 
The  headlands  their  masses  of  shade,  too,  have 

lain, 
And  I  pull  with  my  spoil  to  the  margin  again. 


A  FOREST  WALK. 

A  I.OVELT  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, 

A  wind  that  breathes  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
O'er  hill,  through  dale,  my  steps  have  won, 

To  the  cool  forest's  shadowy  bowers ; 
One  of  the  paths  all  round  that  wind, 

Traced  by  the  browsing  herds,  I  choose, 
And  sights  and  sounds  of  human  kind 

In  nature's  lone  recesses  lose ; 
The  beech  displays  its  marbled  bark, 

The  spruce  its  green  tent  stretches  wide, 
While  scowls  the  hemlock,  grim  and  dark, 

The  maple's  scallop'd  dome  beside : 
All  weave  on  high  a  verdant  roof, 
That  keeps  the  very  sup  aloof, 
Making  a  twilight  soft  and  green, 
Within  the  cohimn'd,  vaulted  scene. 

Sweet  forest-odours  have  their  birth 

From  the  clothed  boughs  and  teeming  earth ; 

Where  pine-cones  dropp'd,  leaves  piled  and  dead, 
Long  tufts  of  grass,  and  stars  of  fern, 
With  many  a  wild  flower's  fairy  urn, 

A  thick,  elastic  carpet  spread ; 
Here,  with  its  mossy  pall,  the  trunk, 
Resolving  into  soil,  is  sunk ; 
There,  wrench'd  but  lately  from  its  throne, 

By  some  fierce  whirlwind  circling  past, 
Its  huge  roots  mass'd  with  earth  and  stone, 

One  of  the  woodland  kings  is  cast. 

Above,  the  forest-tops  are  bright 
With  the  broad  blaze  of  sunny  light: 
But  now  a  fitful  air-gust  parts 

The  screening  branches,  and  a  glow 
Of  dazzling,  startling  radiance  darts 

Down  the  dark  stems,  and  breaks  below; 
The  mingled  shadows  off  are  roll'd, 
The  sylvan  floor  is  bathed  in  gold  : 
Low  sprouts  and  herbs,  before  unseen, 
Display  their  shades  of  brown  and  green : 
Tints  brighten  o'er  the  velvet  moss, 
Gleams  twinkle  on  the  laurel's  gloss ; 
The  robin,  brooding  in  her  nest, 
Chirps  as  the  quick  ray  strikes  her  breast; 
And,  as  my  shadow  prints  the  ground, 
I  see  the  rabbit  upward  bound, 
With  pointed  ears  an  instant  look, 
Then  scamper  to  the  darkest  nook, 
Where,  with  crouch'd  limb,  and  staring  eye, 
He  watches  while  I  saunter  by. 

A  narrow  vista,  carpeted 

With  rich  green  grass,  invites  my  tread ; 

Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots, 

There  sleeps  the  shade  in  ebon  spots, 

So  blended,  that  the  very  air 

Seems  network  as  I  enter  there. 

The  partridge,  whose  deep-rolling  drum 

Afar  has  sounded  on  my  ear, 
Ceasing  his  beatings  as  I  come, 

Whirrs  to  the  sheltering  branches  near ; 
The  little  milk-snake  glides  away, 
The  brindled  marmot  dives  from  day; 
And  now,  between  the  boughs,  a  space 
Of  the  blue,  laughing  sky  I  trace : 


444 


ALFRED    B.   STREET. 


On  each  side  shrinks  the  bowery  shade ; 
Before  me  spreads  an  emerald  glade ; 
The  sunshine  steeps  its  grass  and  moss, 
That  coucli  my  footsteps  as  I  cross ; 
Merrily  hums  the  tawny  bee, 
The  glittering  humming-bird  I  see ; 
Floats  the  bright  butterfly  along, 
The  insect  choir  is  loud  in  song : 
A  spot  of  light  and  life,  it  seems 
A  fairy  haunt  for  fancy  dreams. 

Here  stretch'd,  the  pleasant  turf  I  press, 
In  luxury  of  idleness  ; 
Sun-streaks,  and  glancing  wings,  and  sky, 
Spotted  with  cloud-shapes,  charm  my  eye ; 
While  murmuring  grass,  and  waving  trees, 
Their  leaf-harps  sounding  to  the  breeze, 
And  water-tones  that  tinkle  near, 
Blend  their  sweet  music  to  my  ear ; 
And  by  the  changing  shades  alone 
The  passage  of  the  hours  is  known. 

WINTER. 

A  SABLE  pall  of  sky — the  billowy  hills, 

Swathed  in  the  snowy  robe  that  winter  throws 

So  kindly  over  nature — skeleton  trees, 

Fringed  with  rich  silver  drapery,  and  the  stream 

Numb  in  its  frosty  chains.    Yon  rustic  bridge 

Bristles  with  icicles;  beneath  it  stand 

The  cattle-group,  long  pausing  while  they  drink 

From  the  ice-hollow'd  pools,  that  skim  in  sheets 

Of  delicate  glass,  and  shivering  as  the  air   [trunks, 

Cuts  with  keen,  stinging  edge ;  and  those  gaunt 

Bending  with  ragged  branches  o'er  the  bank, 

Seem,  with  their  mocking  scarfs  of  chilling  white, 

Mourning  for  the  green  grass  and  fragrant  flowers, 

That  summer  mirrors  in  the  rippling  flow 

Of  the  bright  stream  beneath  them.  Shrub  and  rock 

Are  carved  in  pearl,  and  the  dense  thicket  shows 

Clusters  of  purest  ivory.     Comfortless 

The  frozen  scene,  yet  not  all  desolate. 

Where  slopes,  by  tree  and  bush,  the  beaten  track, 

The  sleigh  glides  merrily  with  prancing  steeds, 

And  the  low  homestead,  nestling  by  its  grove, 

Clings  to  the  leaning  hill.     The  drenching  rain 

Had  fallen,  and  then  the  large,  loose  flakes  had 

shower'd, 

Quick  freezing  where  they  lit;  and  thus  the  scene, 
By  winter's  alchymy,  from  gleaming  steel 
Was  changed  to  sparkling  silver.  Yet,  though  bright 
And  rich,  the  landscape  smiles  with  lovelier  look 
When  summer  gladdens  it.     The  fresh,  blue  sky 
Bends  like  GOD'S  blessing  o'er;  the  scented  air 
Echoes  with  bird-songs,  and  the  emerald  grass 
Is  dappled  with  quick  shadows ;  the  light  wing 
Of  the  soft  west  makes  music  in  the  leaves ; 
The  ripples  murmur  as  they  dance  along ; 
The  thicket  by  the  road-side  casts  its  cool 
Black  breadth  of  shade  across  the  heated  dust. 
The  cattle  seek  the  pools  beneath  the  banks, 
Where  sport  the  gnat-swarms,  glancing  in  the  sun, 
Gray,  whirling  specks,  and  darts  the  dragon-fly, 
A  gold-green  arrow;  and  the  wandering  flock 
Nibble  the  short,  thick  sward  that  clothes  the  brink, 
Down  sloping  to  the  waters.     Kindly  tones 


And  happy  faces  make  the  homestead  walls 

A  paradise.     Upon  the  mossy  roof 

The  tame  dove  coos  and  bows ;  beneath  the  eaves 

The  swallow  frames  her  nest ;  the  social  wren 

Lights  on  the  flower-lined  paling,  and  trills  through 

Its  noisy  gamut;  the  humming-bird 

Shoots,  with  that  flying  harp,  the  honey-bee, 

Mid  the  trail'd  honeysuckle's  trumpet-bloom ; 

Sunset  wreathes  gorgeous  shapes  within  the  west, 

To  eyes  that  love  the  splendour ;  morning  wakes 

Light  hearts  to  joyous  tasks;  and  when  deep  night 

Breathes  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  solitude, 

With  stars  for  watchers,  or  the  holy  moon, 

A  sentinel  upon  the  steeps  of  heaven, 

Smooth  pillows  yield  their  balm  to  prayer  and  trust, 

And  slumber,  that  sweet  medicine  of  toil, 

Sheds  her  soft  dews  and  weaves  her  golden  dreams. 

THE  SETTLER. 

His  echoing  axe  the  settler  swung 

Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And,  rushing,  thundering,  down  wt.e  flung 

The  Titans  of  the  wood ; 
Loud  shriek'd  the  eagle,  as  he  dash'd 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crash'd 

With  its  supporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flash'd 

On  the  wolf's  haunt  below. 
Rude  was  the  garb,  and  strong  the  frame 

Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil: 
To  form  that  garb  the  wild-wood  game 

Contributed  their  spoil ; 
The  soul  that  warm'd  that  frame  disdain'd 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare,  that  reign'd 

Where  men  their  crowds  collect ; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimm'd,  unstain'd, 

This  forest-tamer  deck'd. 
The  paths  which  wound  mid  gorgeous  trees, 

The  stream  whose  bright  lips  kiss'd  their  flowers, 
The  winds  that  swell'd  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast,  the  green  arcade, 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave,  and  swampy  lair : 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic,  made 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 
His  roof  adorn'd  a  pleasant  spot, 

Mid  the  black  logs  green  glow'd  the  grain, 
And  herbs  and  plants  the  woods  knew  not, 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell, 
The  low,  the  bleat,  the  tinkling  bell, 

All  made  a  landscape  strange, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 
The  violet  sprung  at  spring's  first  tinge, 

The  rose  of  summer  spread  its  srlow, 
The  maize  hung  out  its  autumn  fringe, 

Rude  winter  brought,  his  snow  ; 
And  still  the  lone  one  labour' d  there, 
His  shout  and  whistle  broke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  srarden-spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 


ALFRED   B.   STREET. 


445 


He  mark'd  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  path, 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath; 
He  mark'd  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine  tree  with  its  foot, 

And  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  bough  and  sever'd  root, 

Hurl'd  whizzing  on  its  way. 
His  gaunt  hound  ycll'd,  his  rifle  flash'd, 

The  grim  bear  hush'd  his  savage  growl ; 
In  blood  and  foam  the  panther  gnash'd 

His  fangs,  with  dying  howl; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flying  bound, 
Its  snarling  wolf-foe  bit  the  ground, 

And,  with  its  moaning  cry, 
The  beaver  sank  beneath  the  wound 

Its  pond-built  Venice  by. 
Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

When  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry, 
Who  throng'd  in  conflict's  deadliest  place, 

To  fight— to  bleed — to  die  ! 
Who  cumber'd  Bunker's  height  of  red, 
By  hope  through  weary  years  were  led, 

And  witness'd  York  Town's  sun 
Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won. 

AN  AMERICAN  FOREST  IN  SPRING. 

Now  fluttering  breeze,  now  stormy  blast, 

Mild  rain,  then  blustering  snow: 
Winter's  stern,  fettering  cold  is  past, 

But,  sweet  Spring !  where  art  thou  1 
The  white  cloud  floats  mid  smiling  blue, 
The  broad,  bright  sunshine's  golden  hue 

Bathes  the  still  frozen  earth : 
'T  is  changed !  above,  black  vapours  roll : 
We  turn  from  our  expected  stroll, 

And  seek  the  blazing  hearth. 

Hark !  that  sweet  carol !  with  delight 

We  leave  the  stifling  room  ! 
The  little  blue-bird  greets  our  sight, 

Spring,  glorious  Spring,  has  come ! 
The  south  wind's  balm  is  in  the  air, 
The  melting  snow-wreaths  everywhere 

Are  leaping  off  in  showers  ; 
And  Nature,  in  her  brightening  looks, 
Tells  that  her  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  brooks, 

And  birds,  will  soon  be  ours. 
A  few  soft,  sunny  days  have  shone, 

The  air  has  lost  its  chill, 
A  bright-green  tinge  succeeds  the  brown, 

Upon  the  southern  hill. 
Off  to  the  woods !  a  pleasant  scene  ! 
Here  sprouts  the  fresh  young  wintergreen, 

There  swells  a  mossy  mound ; 
Though  in  the  hollows  drifts  are  piled, 
The  wandering  wind  is  sweet  and  mild, 

And  buds  are  bursting  round. 
Where  its  long  rings  uncurls  the  fern, 

The  violet,  nestling  low, 
Casts  back  tho  white  lid  of  its  urn, 

Its  purple  streaks  to  show : 


Beautiful  blossom  !  first  to  rise 

And  smile  beneath  Spring's  wakening  skies ; 

The  courier  of  the  band 
Of  coming  flowers,  what  feelings  sweet 
Gush,  as  the  silvery  gem  we  meet 

Upon  its  slender  wand. 

A  sudden  roar — a  shade  is  cast — 

We  look  up  with  a  start, 
And,  sounding  like  a  transient  blast, 

O'erhead  the  pigeons  dart ; 
Scarce  their  blue  glancing  shapes  the  eye 
Can  trace,  ere  dotted  on  the  sky, 

They  wheel  in  distant  flight. 
A  chirp !  and  swift  the  squirrel  scours 
Along  the  prostrate  trunk,  and  cowers 

Within  its  clefts  from  sight. 

Amid  the  creeping  pine,  which  spreads 

Its  thick  and  verdant  wreath, 
The  scaurberry's  downy  spangle  sheds 

Its  rich,  delicious  breath. 
The  bee-swarm  murmurs  by,  and  now 
It  clusters  bluck  on  yonder  bough: 

The  robin's  mottled  breast 
Glances  that  sunny  spot  across, 
As  round  it  seeks  the  twig  and  moss 

To  frame  its  summer  nest. 

Warmer  is  each  successive  sky, 

More  soft  the  breezes  pass, 
The  maple's  gems  of  crimson  lie 

Upon  the  thick,  green  grass. 
The  dogwood  sheds  its  clusters  white, 
The  birch  has  dropp'd  its  tassels  slight, 

Cowslips  are  by  the  rill ; 
The  thresher  whistles  in  the  glen, 
Flutters  around  the  warbling  wren, 

And  swamps  have  voices  shrill. 

A  simultaneous  burst  of  leaves 

Has  clothed  the  forest  now, 
A  single  day's  bright  sunshine  weaves 

This  vivid,  gorgeous  show. 
Masses  of  shade  are  cast  beneath, 
The  flowers  are  spread  in  varied  wreath, 

Night  brings  her  soft,  sweet  moon ; 
Morn  wakes  in  mist,  and  twilight  gray 
Weeps  its  bright  dew,  and  smiling  May 

Melts  blooming  into  June  ! 


THE  LOST  HUNTER. 

NUMB'D  by  the  piercing,  freezing  air, 

And  burden'd  by  his  game, 
The  hunter,  struggling  with  despair, 

Dragg'd  on  his  shivering  frame ; 
The  rifle  he  had  shoulder'd  late 
Was  trail'd  along,  a  weary  weight ; 

His  pouch  was  void  of  food ; 
The  hours  were  speeding  in  their  flight, 
And  soon  the  lony,  keen,  winter  night 

Would  wrap  the  solitude. 

Oft  did  he  stoop  a  listening  ear, 
Sweep  round  an  anxious  rye, — 

No  bark  or  axe-blow  could  he  hear, 
No  human  trace  descry. 
2P 


446 


ALFRED    B.   STREET. 


His  sinuous  path,  by  blazes,  wound 
Among  trunks  group'd  in  myriads  round ; 

Through  naked  boughs,  between 
Whose  tangled  architecture,  fraught 
With  many  a  shape  grotesquely  wrought, 

The  hemlock's  spire  was  seen. 

An  antler'd  dweller  of  the  wild 

Had  met  his  eager  gaze, 
And  far  his  wandering  steps  beguiled 

Within  an  unknown  maze ; 
Stream,  rock,  and  run-way  he  had  cross'd, 
Unheeding,  till  the  marks  were  lost 

By  which  he  used  to  roam ; 
And  now,  deep  swamp  and  wild  ravine 
And  rugged  mountain  were  between 

The  hunter  and  his  home. 

A  dusky  haze,  which  slow  had  crept 

On  high,  now  darken'd  there, 
And  a  few  snow-flakes  fluttering  swept 

Athwart  the  thick,  gray  air, 
Faster  and  faster,  till  between 
The  trunks  and  boughs,  a  mottled  screen 

Of  glimmering  motes  was  spread, 
That  tick'd  against  each  object  round 
With  gentle  and  continuous  sound, 

Like  brook  o'er  pebbled  bed. 

The  laurel  tufts,  that  drooping  hung 

Close  roll'd  around  their  stems, 
And  the  sear  beech-leaves  still  that  clung, 

Were  white  with  powdering  gems. 
But,  hark  !  afar  a  sullen  moan 
Swell'd  out  to  louder,  deeper  tone, 

As  surging  near  it  pass'd, 
And,  bursting  with  a  roar,  and  shock 
That  made  the  groaning  forest  rock, 

On  rush'd  the  winter  blast. 

As  o'er  it  whistled,  shriek'd,  and  hiss'd, 

Caught  by  its  swooping  wings, 
The  snow  was  whirl'd  to  eddying  mist, 

Barb'd,  as  it  seem'd,  with  stings ; 
And  now  'twas  swept  with  lightning  flight 
Above  the  loftiest  hemlock's  height, 

Like  drifting  smoke,  and  now 
It  hid  the  air  with  shooting  clouds, 
And  robed  the  trees  with  circling  shrouds, 

Then  dash'd  in  heaps  below. 

Here,  plunging  in  a  billowy  wreath, 

There,  clinging  to  a  limb, 
The  suffering  hunter  gasp'd  for  breath, 

Brain  reel'd,  and  eye  grew  dim ; 
As  though  to  whelm  him  in  despair, 
Rapidly  changed  the  blackening  air 

To  murkiest  gloom  of  night, 
Till  naught  was  seen  around,  below, 
But  falling  flakes  and  mantled  snow, 

That  gleam'd  in  ghastly  white. 
At  every  blast  an  icy  dart 

Seem'd  through  his  nerves  to  fly, 
The  blood  was  freezing  to  his  heart — 

Thought  whisper'd  he  must  die. 
The  thundering  tempest  echo'd  death, 
He  felt  it  in  his  tighten'd  breath ; 

Spoil,  rifle  dropp'd,  and  slow 


As  the  dread  torpor  crawling  came 
Along  his  staggering,  stiffening  frame, 
He  sunk  upon  the  snow. 

Reason  forsook  her  shatter'd  throne, — 

He  deem'd  that  summer-hours 
Again  around  him  brightly  shone 

In  sunshine,  leaves,  and  flowers ; 
Again  the  fresh,  green,  forest-sod, 
Rifle  in  hand,  he  lightly  trod, — 

He  heard  the  deer's  low  bleat ; 
Or,  couch'd  within  the  shadowy  nook, 
He  drank  the  crystal  of  the  brook 

That  murmur'd  at  his  feet. 

It  changed ; — his  cabin  roof  o'erspread, 

Rafter,  and  wall,  and  chair, 
Gleam'd  in  the  crackling  fire,  that  shed 

Its  warmth,  and  he  was  there  ; 
His  wife  had  clasp'd  his  hand,  and  now 
Her  gentle  kiss  was  on  his  brow, 

His  child  was  prattling  by, 
The  hound  crouch'd,  dozing,  near  the  blaze, 
And  through  the  pane's  frost-pictured  haze 

He  saw  the  white  drifts  fly. 

That  pass'd ; — before  his  swimming  sight 

Does  not  a  figure  bound, 
And  a  soft  voice,  with  wild  delight, 

Proclaim  the  lost  is  found  ? 
No,  hunter,  no !  'tis  but  the  streak 
Of  whirling  snow — the  tempest's  shriek — 

No  human  aid  is  near ! 
Never  again  that  form  will  meet 
Thy  clasp'd  embrace — those  accents  sweet 

Speak  music  to  thine  ear. 

Morn  broke ; — away  the  clouds  were  chased, 

The  sky  was  pure  and  bright, 

And  on  its  blue  the  branches  traced 

i      Their  webs  of  glittering  white. 

Its  ivory  roof  the  hemlock  stoop'd, 

The  pine  its  silvery  tassel  droop'd, 

Down  bent  the  burden'd  wood, 
And,  scatter'd  round,  low  points  of  green, 
Peering  above  the  snowy  scene, 

Told  where  the  thickets  stood. 

In  a  deep  hollow,  drifted  high, 

A  wave-like  heap  was  thrown, 
Dazzlingly  in  the  sunny  sky 

A  diamond  blaze  it  shone ; 
The  little  snow-bird,  chirping  sweet, 
Dotted  it  o'er  with  tripping  feet; 

Unsullied,  smooth,  and  fair, 
It  seem'd,  like  other  mounds,  where  trunk 
And  rock  amid  the  wreaths  were  sunk, 

But,  O  !  the  dead  was  there. 

Spring  came  with  wakening  breezes  bland, 

Soft  suns  and  melting  rains, 
And,  touch'd  by  her  Ithuriel  wand, 

Earth  bursts  its  winter-chains. 
In  a  deep  nook,  where  moss  and  grass 
And  fern-leaves  wove  a  verdant  mass, 

Some  scatter'd  bones  beside, 
A  mother,  kneeling  with  her  child, 
Told  by  her  tears  and  wailings  wild 

That  there  the  lost  had  died. 


WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH. 


[Born,  1812.] 


WILLIAM  H.  BUHLEIGH  was  born  in  the  town 
of  Woodstock,  in  Connecticut,  on  the  second  day 
of  February,  1812.  His  paternal  ancestors  came 
to  this  country  from  Wales ;  and  on  both  sides  he 
is  descended  from  the  stern  old  Puritan  stock, 
being  on  the  mother's  a  lineal  descendant  of  Go- 
vernor BRADFORD,  whose  name  appears  conspicu- 
ously and  honourably  in  the  early  annals  of  Mas- 
sachusetts. An  intermediate  descendant,  the  grand- 
father of  Mr.  BCRLEIGH,  served  with  credit  under 
WASHINGTON,  in  the  war  of  the  Revolution.  Such 
ancestral  recollections  are  treasured,  with  just 
pride,  in  many  an  humble  but  happy  home  in 
New  England. 

In  his  infancy,  Mr.  BURLEIGH'S  parents  removed 
to  Plainfield,  in  his  native  state,  where  his  father 
was  for  many  years  the  principal  of  a  popular 
academy,  until  the  loss  of  sight  induced  him  to 
abandon  his  charge,  before  his  son  had  attained  an 
age  to  derive  much  benefit  from  his  instructions. 
He  retired  to  a  farm,  and  the  boy's  time  was  mainly 
devoted  to  its  culture,  varied  by  the  customary  at- 
tendance in  a  district-school  through  the  winter- 
months,  until  he  was  sixteen,  when  he  proposed  to 
become  an  apprentice  to  a  neighbouring  clothier,  but 
abandoned  the  idea  after  two  weeks'  trial,  from  an 
inveterate  loathing  of  the  coarseness  and  brutality 
of  those  among  whom  he  was  set  to  labour.  Here, 
however,  while  engaged  in  the  repulsive  cares  of 
his  employment,  he  composed  his  first  sonnet, 
which  was  published  in  a  gazette  printed  in  the  vi- 
cinity. Returning  to  his  father's  house,  he  in  the 
following  summer  became  an  apprentice  to  a 


village  printer,  whom  he  left  after  eight  months' 
tedious  endurance,  leaving  in  his  "stick"  a  fare- 
well couplet  to  his  master,  which  is  probably  re- 
membered unforgivingly  to  this  day.  He  did  not, 
however,  desert  the  business,  of  which  he  had 
thus  obtained  some  slight  knowledge,  but  con- 
tinued to  labour  as  half-apprentice,  journeyman, 
sub-editor,  etc.,  through  the  next  seven  years, 
during  which  he  assisted  in  the  conduct  of  per- 
haps as  many  periodicals,  deriving  thereby  little 
fame  and  less  profit  In  December,  1834,  while 
editor  of  "The  Literary  Journal,"  in  the  city  of 
Schenectady,  he  married  an  estimable  woman, 
who  has  since  "divided  his  sorrows  and  doubled 
his  joys."  In  July,  1836,  abandoning  the  printing 
business  for  a  season,  he  commenced  a  new  career 
as  a  public  lecturer,  under  the  auspices  of  a  phi- 
lanthropic society,  and  ha  his  new  employment  he 
continued  for  two  years.  At  the  close  of  that  period 
he  assumed  the  editorship  of  "The  Christian  Wit- 
ness," at  Pittsburg,  Pennsylvania,  which  he  held 
two  years  and  a  half,  when  he  resigned  it,  to  take 
charge  of  "The  Washington  Banner,"  a  gazette 
published  at  Allegheny,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Ohio.  Between  this  duty,  and  the  study  of  the 
law,  his  time  is  now  divided. 

His  contributions  to  the  periodical  literature  of 
the  country  commenced  at  an  early  age,  and  have 
been  continued  at  intervals  to  the  present  day. 
"  The  New  Yorker"  was  for  years  his  favourite 
medium  of  communication  with  the  public.  A 
collection  of  his  poems  appeared  in  Philadelphia, 
early  in  1840. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

SHE  hath  gone  in  the  spring-time  of  life, 

Ere  her  sky  had  been  dimm'd  by  a  cloud, 
While  her  heart  with  the  rapture  of  love  was  yet  rife, 

And  the  hopes  of  her  youth  were  unbow'd — 
From  the  lovely,  who  loved  her  too  well ; 

From  the  heart  that  had  grown  to  her  own  ; 
From  the  sorrow  which  late  o'er  her  young  spirit  fell, 

Like  a  dream  of  the  night  she  hath  flown ; 
And  the  earth  hath  received  to  its  bosom  its  trust — 
Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  unto  dust. 

The  spring,  in  its  loveliness  dress'd, 

Will  return  with  its  music-wing'd  hours, 
And,  kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  the  sweet  south-west, 

The  buds  shall  burst  out  in  flowers ; 
And  the  flowers  her  grave-sod  above, 

Though  the  sleeper  beneath  recks  it  not, 
Shall  thickly  be  strown  by  the  hand  of  Love, 

To  cover  with  beauty  the  spot — 
Meet  emblems  are  they  of  the  pure  one  and  bright, 
Who  faded  and  fell  with  so  early  a  blight. 


Ay,  the  spring  will  return — but  the  blossom 

That  bloom'd  in  our  presence  the  sweetest, 
By  the  spoiler  is  borne  from  the  cherishing  bosom, 

The  loveliest  of  all  and  the  fleetest ! 
The  music  of  stream  and  of  bird 

Shall  come  back  when  the  winter  is  o'er ; 
But  the  voice  that  was  dearest  to  us  shall  be  heard 

In  our  desolate  chambers  no  more ! 
The  sunlight  of  May  on  the  waters  shall  quiver — 
The  light  of  her  eye  hath  departed  forever ! 

As  the  bird  to  its  sheltering  nest, 

When  the  storm  on  the  hills  is  abroad, 
So  her  spirit  hath  flown  from  this  world  of  unrest 

To  repose  on  the  bosom  of  GOD  ! 
Where  the  sorrows  of  earth  never  more 

May  fling  o'er  its  brightness  a  stain ; 
Where,  in  rapture  and  love,  it  shall  ever  adore, 

With  a  gladness  unmingled  with  pain ; 
And  its  thirst  shall  be  slaked  by  the  waters  which 

spring, 

Like  a  river  of  light,  from  the  throne  of  the  KIUG  ! 

447 


448 


WILLIAM   H.    BURLEIGH. 


There  is  weeping  on  earth  for  the  lost ! 

There  is  bowing  in  grief  to  the  ground  ! 
But  rejoicing  and  praise  mid  the  sanctified  host, 

For  a  spirit  in  Paradise  found  ! 
Though  brightness  hath  pass'd  from  the  earth, 

Yet  a  star  is  new-born  in  the  sky, 
And  a  soul  hath  gone  home  to  the  land  of  its  birth, 

Where  are  pleasures  and  fulness  of  joy ! 
And  a  new  harp  is  strung,  and  a  new  song  is  given 
To  the  breezes  that  float  o'er  the  gardens  of  heaven ! 


"LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT."  , 

NIGHT,  stern,  eternal,  and  alone, 

Girded  with  solemn  silence  round, 
Majestic  on  his  starless  throne, 

Sat  brooding  o'er  the  vast  profound — 
And  there  unbroken  darkness  lay, 

Deeper  than  that  which  veils  the  tomb, 
While  circling  ages  wheel'd  away 

Unnoted  mid  the  voiceless  gloom. 

Then  moved  upon  the  waveless  deep 

The  quickening  Spirit  of  the  LORD, 
And  broken  was  its  pulseless  sleep 

Before  the  Everlasting  Word ! 
"  Let  there  be  light !"  and  listening  earth, 

With  tree,  and  plant,  and  flowery  sod, 
« In  the  beginning"  sprang  to  birth, 

Obedient  to  the  voice  of  GOD. 

Then,  in  his  burning  track,  the  sun 

Trod  onward  to  his  joyous  noon, 
And  in  the  heavens,  one  by  one, 

Cluster'd  the  stars  around  the  moon- — 
In  glory  bathed,  the  radiant  day 

Wore  like  a  king  his  crown  of  light — 
And,  girdled  by  the  "  Milky  Way," 

How  queenly  look'd  the  star-gemm'd  night ! 

Bursting  from  choirs  celestial,  rang 

Triumphantly  the  notes  of  song ; 
The  morning-stars  together  sang 

In  concert  with  the  heavenly  throng ; 
And  earth,  enraptured,  caught  the  strain 

That  thrill'd  along  her  fields  of  air, 
Till  every  mountain-top  and  plain 

Flung  back  an  answering  echo  there ! 

Creator !  let  thy  Spirit  shine 

The  darkness  of  our  souls  within, 
And  lead  us  by  thy  grace  divine 

From  the  forbidden  paths  of  sin ; 
And  may  that  voice  which  bade  the  earth 

From  Chaos  and  the  realms  of  Night, 
From  doubt  and  darkness  call  us  forth 

To  GOD'S  own  liberty  and  light ! 

Thus,  made  partakers  of  THY  love, 

The  baptism  of  the  Spirit  ours, 
Otir  grateful  hearts  shall  rise  above, 

Renew'd  in  purposes  and  powers ; 
And  songs  of  joy  again  shall  ring 

Triumphant  through  the  arch  of  heaven — 
The  glorious  songs  which  angels  sing, 

Exulting  over  souls  forgiven ! 


JUNE. 

JUNE,  with  its  roses — June  ! 
The  gladdest  month  of  our  capricious  year, 
With  its  thick  foliage  and  its  sunlight  clear ; 

And  with  the  drowsy  tune 
Of  the  bright  leaping  waters,  as  they  pass 
Laughingly  on  amid  the  springing  grass ! 

Earth,  at  her  joyous  coming, 
Smiles  as  she  puts  her  gayest  mantle  on ; 
And  Nature  greets  her  with  a  benison ; 

While  myriad  voices,  humming 
Their  welcome  song,  breathe  dreamy  music  round, 
Till  seems  the  air  an  element  of  sound. 

The  overarching  sky 
Weareth  a  softer  tint,  a  lovelier  blue, 
As  if  the  light  of  heaven  were  melting  through 

Its  sapphire  home  on  high ; 
Hiding  the  sunshine  in  their  vapoury  breast, 
The  clouds  float  on  like  spirits  to  their  rest 

A  deeper  melody, 

Pour'd  by  the  birds,  as  o'er  their  callow  young 
Watchful  they  hover,  to  the  breeze  is  flung — 

Gladsome,  yet  not  of  glee — 
Music  heart-born,  like  that  which  mothers  sing 
Above  their  cradled  infants  slumbering. 

On  the  warm  hill-side,  where 
The  sunlight  lingers  latest,  through  the  grass 
Peepeth  the  luscious  strawberry !     As  they  pass, 

Young  children  gambol  there, 
Crushing  the  gather'd  fruit  in  playful  mood, 
And  staining  their  bright  faces  with  its  blood. 

A  deeper  blush  is  given 
To  the  half-ripen'd  cherry,  as  the  sun 
Day  after  day  pours  warmth  the  trees  upon, 

Till  the  rich  pulp  is  riven  ; 
The  truant  schoolboy  looks  with  longing  eyes, 
And  perils  limb  and  neck  to  win  the  prize. 

The  farmer,  in  his  field, 

Draws  the  rich  mould  around  the  tender  maize  ; 
While  Hope,  bright-pinion'd,  points  to  coming  days, 

When  all  his  toil  shall  yield 
An  ample  harvest,  and  around  his  hearth 
There  shall  be  laughing  eyes  and  tones  of  mirth. 

Poised  on  his  rainbow-wing, 
The  butterfly,  whose  life  is  but  an  hour, 
Hovers  coquettishly  from  flower  to  flower, 

A  gay  and  happy  thing ; 
Born  for  the  sunshine  and  the  summer-day, 
Soon  passing,  like  the  beautiful,  away ! 

These  are  thy  pictures,  June !  [ers! 

Brightest  of  summer-months — thou  month  of  flow- 
First-born  of  beauty,  whose  swift-footed  hours 

Dance  to  the  merry  tune 
Of  birds,  and  waters,  and  the  pleasant  shout 
Of  childhood  on  the  sunny  hills  peal'd  out. 

I  feel  it  were  not  wrong 
To  deem  thou  art  a  type  of  heaven's  clime, 
Only  that  there  the  clouds  and  storms  of  time 

Sweep  not  the  sky  along ; 

The  flowers — air — beauty — music — all  are  thine, 
But  brighter — purer— lovelier — more  divine  ! 


WILLIAM   H.   BURLEIGH. 


449 


SPRING. 

THE  sweet  south  wind,  so  long 
Sleeping  in  other  climes,  on  sunny  seas, 
Or  dallying  gayly  with  the  orange-trees 

In  the  bright  land  of  song, 
Wakes  unto  us,  and  laughingly  sweeps  by, 
Like  a  glad  spirit  of  the  sunlit  sky. 

The  labourer  at  his  toil 
Feels  on  his  cheek  its  dewy  kiss,  and  lifts 
His  open  brow  to  catch  its  fragrant  gifts — 

The  aromatic  spoil 

Borne  from  the  blossoming  gardens  of  the  south — 
While  its  faint  sweetness  lingers  round  his  mouth. 

The  bursting  buds  look  up 
To  greet  the  sunlight,  while  it  lingers  yet 
On  the  warm  hill-side, — and  the  violet 

Opens  its  azure  cup 

Meekly,  and  countless  wild  flowers  wake  to  fling 
Their  earliest  incense  on  the  gales  of  spring. 

The  reptile  that  hath  lain 
Torpid  so  long  within  his  wintry  tomb, 
Pierces  the  mould,  ascending  from  its  gloom 

Up  to  the  light  again — 

And  the  lithe  snake  crawls  forth  from  caverns  chill, 
To  bask  as  erst  upon  the  sunny  hill. 

Continual  songs  arise 
From  universal  nature — birds  and  streams 
Mingle  their  voices,  and  the  glad  earth  seems 

A  second  Paradise  ! 

Thrice  blessed  Spring! — thou  bearest  gifts  divine! 
Sunshine,  and  song,  and  fragrance — all  are  thine. 

Nor  unto  earth  alone — 
Thou  hast  a  blessing  for  the  human  heart, 
Balm  for  its  wounds  and  healing  for  its  smart, 

Telling  of  Winter  flown,        4, 
And  bringing  hope  upon  thy  rainbow  wing, 
Type  of  eternal  life — thrice-blessed  Spring ! 


REQUIEM. 

THE  strife  is  o'er — Death's  seal  is  set 

On  ashy  lip  and  marble  brow ; 
'Tis  o'er,  though  faintly  lingers  yet 

Upon  the  cheek  a  life-like  glow: 
The  feeble  pulse  hath  throbb'd  its  last, 

The  aching  head  is  laid  at  rest — 
Another  from  our  ranks  hath  pass'd, 

The  dearest  and  the  loveliest ! 

Press  down  the  eyelids — for  the  light, 

Ere  while  so  radiant  underneath, 
Is  gone  forever  from  our  sight, 

And  darken'd  by  the  spoiler,  Death  : 
Press  down  the  eyelids — who  can  bear 

To  look  beneath  their  fringed  fold  ] 
And  softly  part  the  silken  hair 

Upon  the  brow  so  deathly  cold. 

The  strife  is  o'er !     The  loved  of  years, 
To  whom  our  yearning  hearts  had  grown, 

Hath  left  us,  with  life's  gathering  fears 
To  struggle  darkly  and  alone  ; 
57 


Gone,  with  the  wealth  of  love  which  dwelt, 
Heart-kept,  with  holy  thoughts  and  high- 
Gone,  as  the  clouds  of  evening  melt 
Beyond  the  dark  and  solemn  sky. 

Yet  mourn  her  not — the  voice  of  wo 

Befits  not  this,  her  triumph-hour ; 
Let  Sorrow's  tears  no  longer  flow, 

For  life  eternal  is  her  dower ! 
Freed  from  the  earth's  corrupt  control, 

The  trials  of  a  world  like  this, 
Joy !  for  her  disembodied  soul 

Drinks  at  the  fount  of  perfect  bliss ! 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN   ON    VISITING  MY   BIRTH-PLACE. 


WE  are  scatter'd — we  are  scatter'd — 

Though  a  jolly  band  were  wej 
Some  sleep  beneath  the  grave-sod, 

And  some  are  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  Time  hath  wrought  his  changes 

On  the  few  who  yet  remain ; 
The  joyous  hand  that  once  we  were 

We  cannot  be  again  ! 

We  are  scatter'd — we  are  scatter'd! — 

Upon  the  village-green, 
Where  we  play'd  in  boyish  recklessness, 

How  few  of  us  are  seen  ! 
And  the  hearts  that  beat  so  lightly 

In  the  joyousness  of  youth — 
Some  are  crumbled  in  the  sepulchre, 

And  some  have  lost  their  truth. 

The  beautiful — the  beautiful 

Are  faded  from  our  track  ! 
We  miss  them  and  we  mourn  them, 

But  we  cannot  lure  them  back  ; 
For  an  iron  sleep  hath  bound  them 

In  its  passionless  embrace — 
We  may  weep — but  cannot  win  them 

From  their  dreary  resting-place. 

How  mournfully — how  mournfully 

The  memory  doth  come 
Of  the  thousand  scenes  of  happiness 

Around  our  childhood's  home ! 
A  salutary  sadness 

Is  brooding  o'er  the  heart, 
As  it  dwells  upon  remembrances 

From  which  it  will  not  part. 

In  memory — in  memory — 

How  fondly  do  we  gaze 
Upon  the  magic  loveliness 

Of  childhood's  fleeting  days ! 
The  sparkling  eye — the  thrilling  tone — 

The  smile  upon  its  lips : 
They  all  have  gone  ! — but  left  a  light 

Which  time  cannot  eclipse. 

The  happiness — the  happiness 

Of  boyhood  must  depart; 
Then  comes  the  sense  of  loneliness 

Upon  the  stricken  heart ! 
2p2 


450 


WILLIAM   H.  BURLEIGH. 


We  will  not,  or  we  cannot  fling 
Its  sadness  from  our  breast, 

We  cling  to  it  instinctively, 
We  pant  for  its  unrest ! 

We  are  scatter'd — we  are  scatter'd! 

Yet  may  we  meet  again 
In  a  brighter  and  a  purer  sphere, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  pain  ! 
Where  the  shadows  of  this  lower  world 

Can  never  cloud  the  eye — 
When  the  mortal  hath  put  brightly  on 

Its  immortality ! 


TO  H.  A.  B. 

DEEM  not,  beloved,  that  the  glow 

Of  love-  with  youth  will  know  decay ; 
For,  though  the  wing  of  Time  may  throw 

A  shadow  o'er  our  way ; 
The  sunshine  of  a  cloudless  faith, 

The  calmness  of  a  holy  trust, 
Shall  linger  in  our  hearts  till  death 

Consigns  our  "dust  to  dust!" 

The  fervid  passions  of  our  youth — 

The  fervour  of  affection's  kiss — 
Love,  born  of  purity  and  truth — 

All  memories  of  bliss — 
These  still  are  ours,  while  looking  back 

Upon  the  past  with  dewy  eyes ; 
O,  dearest !  on  life's  vanish'd  track 

How  much  of  sunshine  lies ! 

Men  call  us  poor — it  may  be  true 

Amid  the  gay  and  glittering  crowd ; 
We  feel  it,  though  our  wants  are  few, 

Yet  envy  not  the  proud. 
The  freshness  of  love's  early  flowers, 

Heart-shelter'd  through  long  years  of  want, 
Pure  hopes  and  quiet  joys  are  ours, 

That  wealth  could  never  grant. 

Something  of  beauty  from  thy  brow, 

Something  of  lightness  from  thy  tread, 
Hath  pass'd — yet  thou  art  dearer  now 

Than  when  our  vows  were  said  : 
A  softer  beauty  round  thee  gleams, 

Chasten'd  by  time,  yet  calmly  bright ; 
And  from  thine  eye  of  hazel  beams 

A  deeper,  tenderer  light : 

An  emblem  of  the  love  which  lives 

Through  every  change,  as  time  departs ; 
Which  binds  our  souls  in  one,  and  gives 

New  gladness  to  our  hearts  ! 
Flinging  a  halo  over  life 

Like  that  which  gilds  the  life  beyond ! 
Ah  !  well  I  know  thy  thoughts,  dear  wife ! 

To  thoughts  like  these  respond. 

The  mother,  with  her  dewy  eye, 
Is  dearer  than  the  blushing  bride 

Who  stood,  three  happy  years  gone  by, 
In  beauty  by  my  side ! 

Our  Father,  throned  in  light  above, 
Hath  bless'd  us  with  a  fairy  child — 


A  bright  link  in  the  chain  of  love — 
The  pure  and  undefiled : 

Rich  in  the  heart's  best  treasure,  still 

With  a  calm  trust  we  '11  journey  on, 
Link'd  heart  with  heart,  dear  wife !  until 

Life's  pilgrimage  be  done ! 
Youth — beauty — passion — these  will  pass 

Like  every  thing  of  earth  away — 
The  breath-stains  on  the  polish'd  glass 

Less  transient  are  than  they. 

But  love  dies  not — the  child  of  GOD — 

The  soother  of  life's  many  woes- 
She  scatters  fragrance  round  the  sod 

Where  buried  hopes  repose  ! 
She  leads  us  with  her  radiant  hand 

Earth's  pleasant  streams  and  pasture  by, 
Still  pointing  to  a  better  land 

Of  bliss  beyond  the  sky ! 


TO 


HOPE,  strewing  with  a  liberal  hand 

Thy  pathway  with  her  choicest  flowers, 
Making  the  earth  an  Eden-land, 

And  gilding  time's  departing  hours  ; 
Lifting  the  clouds  from  life's  blue  sky, 

And  pointing  to  that  sphere  divine 
Where  joy's  immortal  blossoms  lie 

In  the  rich  light  of  heaven — be  thine ! 

Love,  with  its  voice  of  silvery  tone, 

Whose  music  melts  upon  the  heart 
Like  whispers  from  the  world  unknown, 

When  shadows  from  the  soul  depart — 
Love,  with  its  sunlight  melting  through 

The  mists  that  over  earth  arc  driven, 
And  gi^g  earth  itself  the  hue 

And  brightness  of  the  upper-heaven — 

Peace,  hymning  with  her  seraph-tones 

Amid  the  stillness  of  thy  soul, 
Till  every  human  passion  owns 

Her  mighty  but  her  mild  control — 
Devotion,  with  her  lifted  eye, 

All  radiant  with  the  tears  of  bliss, 
Looking  beyond  the  bending  sky 

To  worlds  more  glorious  than  this — 

Duty,  untiring  in  her  toil 

Earth's  parch'd  and  sterile  wastes  among- 
Zeal,  delving  in  the  rocky  soil, 

With  words  of  cheer  upon  her  tongue — 
Faith,  with  a  strong  and  daring  hand 

Rending  aside  the  veil  of  heaven, 
And  claiming  as  her  own  the  land 

Whose  glories  to  her  view  are  given — 

These,  with  the  many  lights  that  shine 

Brightly  life's  pilgrim-path  upon, — 
These,  with  the  bliss  they  bring,  be  thine, 

Till  purer  bliss  in  heaven  be  won  ; 
Till,  gather'd  with  the  loved  of  time, 

Whose  feet  the  "  narrow  way"  have  trod, 
Thy  soul  shall  drink  of  joys  sublime, 

And  linger  in  the  smile  of  GOD  ! 


WILLIAM   H.   BURLEIGH. 


451 


SONG. 

BELIEVE  not  the  slander,  my  dearest  K  AT/HI  WE  ! 

For  the  ice  of  the  world  hath  not  frozen  my  heart; 
In  my  innermost  spirit  there  still  is  a  shrine 

Where  thou  art  remember'd,  all  pure  as  thou  art: 
The  dark  tide  of  years,  as  it  bears  us  along, 

Though  it  sweep  away  hope  in  its  turbulent  flow, 
Cannotdrown  the  low  voice  of  Love's  eloquent  song, 

Nor  chill  with  its  waters  my  faith's  early  glow. 

True,  the  world  hath  its  snares,,  and  the  soul  may 
grow  faint 

In  its  strifes  with  the  follies  and  falsehoods  of 

earth ; 
And  amidst  the  dark  whirl  of  corruption,  a  taint 

May  poison  the  thoughts  that  are  purest  at  birth. 
Temptations  and  trials,  without  and  within, 

From  the  pathway  of  virtue  the  spirit  may  lure ; 
But  the  soul  shall  growstrong  in  its  triumphs  o'er  sin, 

And  the  heart  shall  preserve  its  integrity  pure. 

The  finger  of  Love,  on  my  innermost  heart, 

Wrote  thy  name,  0  adored !  when  my  feelings 

were  young ; 
And  the  record  shall  'bide  till  my  soul  shall  depart, 

And  the  darkness  of  death  o'er  my  being  be  flung. 
Then  believe  not  the  slander  that  says  I  forget, 

In  the  whirl  of  excitement,  the  love  that  was  thine ; 
Thou  wert  dear  in  my  boyhood,  art  dear  to  me  yet: 

For  my  sunlight  of  life  is  the  smile  of  KATIIINE  ! 


THE  BROOK. 

"LiKE  thee,  0  stream !  to  glide  in  solitude 
Noiselessly  on,  reflecting  sun  or  star, 
Unseen  by  man,  and  from  the  great  world's  jar 

Kept  evermore  aloof:  methinks  'twere  good 

To  live  thus  lonely  through  the  silent  lapse 
Of  my  appointed  time."     Not  wisely  said, 
Unthinking  Quietist !     The  brook  hath  sped 

Its  course  for  ages  through  the  narrow  gaps 
Of  rifted  hills  and  o'er  the  reedy  plain, 
Or  mid  the  eternal  forests,  not  in  vain ; 

The  grass  more  greenly  groweth  on  its  brink, 
And  lovelier  flowers  and  richer  fruits  are  there, 

And  of  its  crystal  waters  myriads  drink, 
That  else  would  faint  beneath  the  torrid  air. 


THE  TIMES. 

INACTION  now  is  crime.  The  old  earth  reels 
Inebriate  with  guilt ;  and  Vice,  grown  bold, 
Laughs  Innocence  to  scorn.  The  thirst  for  gold 

Hath  made  men  demons,  till  the  heart  that  feels 

The  impulse  of  impartial  love,  nor  kneels 
In  worship  foul  to  Mammon,  is  contemn'd. 
He  who  hath  kept  his  purer  faith,  and  stemm'd 

Corruption's  tide,  and  from  the  ruffian  heels 


Of  impious  tramplers  rescued  peril'd  right, 
Is  cali'd  fanatic,  and  with  scoffs  and  jeers 
Maliciously  assail'd.     The  poor  man's  tears 

Are  unregarded ;  the  oppressor's  might 

Revered  as  law;  and  he  whose  righteous  way 
Departs  from  evil,  makes  himself  a  prey. 


SOLITUDE. 

THE  ceaseless  hum  of  men,  the  dusty  streets, 
Crowded  with  multitudinous  life ;  the  din 
Of  toil  and  traffic,  and  the  wo  and  sin, 
The  dweller  in  the  populous  city  meets : 
These  have  I  left  to  seek  the  cool  retreats 
Of  the  untrodden  forest,  where,  in  bowers 
Builded  by  Nature's  hand,  inlaid  with  flowers, 
And  roof 'd  with  ivy,  on  the  mossy  seats 
Reclining,  I  can  while  away  the  hours 
In  sweetest  converse  with  old  books,  or  give 
My  thoughts  to  GOD  ;  or  fancies  fugitive 

Indulge,  while  over  me  their  radiant  showers 
Of  rarest  blossoms  the  old  trees  shake  down, 
And  thanks  to  HIM  my  meditations  crown ! 


RAIN. 

DASHING  in  big  drops  on  the  narrow  pane, 
And  making  mournful  music  for  the  mind, 
While  plays  his  interlude  the  wizard  wind, 

I  hear  the  ringing  of  the  frequent  rain  : 
How  doth  its  dreamy  tone  the  spirit  lull, 

Bringing  a  sweet  forgetfulness  of  pain, 

While  busy  thought  calls  up  the  past  again, 
And  lingers  mid  the  pure  and  beautiful 

Visions  of  early  childhood !     Sunny  faces 
Meet  us  with  looks  of  love,  and  in  the  moans 
Of  the  faint  wind  we  hear  familiar  tones, 

And  tread  again  in  old  familiar  places ! 

Such  is  thy  power,  O  Rain  !  the  heart  to  bless, 

Wiling  the  soul  away  from  its  own  wretchedness! 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

BOLD  men  were  they,  and  true,  that  pilgrim-band, 
Who  plough'd  with  venturous  prow  the  stormy 
Seeking  a  home  for  hunted  Liberty  [sea, 

Amid  the  ancient  forests  of  a  land 

Wild,  gloomy,  vast,  magnificently  grand ! 

Friends,  country,  hallow'd  homes  they  left,  to  be 

Pilgrims  for  CHRIST'S  sake,  to  a  foreign  strand — 
Beset  by  peril,  worn  with  toil,  yet  free  ! 

Tireless  in  zeal,  devotion,  labour,  hope ; 
Constant  in  faith  ;  in  justice  how  severe  ! 
Though  fools  deride  and  bigot-skeptics  sneer. 

Praise  to  their  names !    If  cali'd  like  them  to  cope, 
In  evil  times,  with  dark  and  evil  powers, 
O,  be  their  faith,  their  zeal,  their  courage  ours ! 


LOUIS  LEGRAND   NOBLE. 


[Born,  1812.] 


THE  Reverend  Lours  LEORAWD  NOBLE  was 
born  in  the  valley  of  the  Butternut  Creek,  in  Otsego 
county,  in  New  York.  While  he  was  a  youth  his 
father  removed  to  the  banks  of  the  Wacamutquiock, 
now  called  the  Huron,  a  small  river  in  Michigan,  and 
there,  among  scenes  of  remarkable  wildness  and 
beauty,  he  passed  most  of  his  time  until  the  com- 
mencement of  his  college-life.  In  a  letter  to  me, 
he  says :  "  I  was  ever  under  a  strong  impulse  to 
imbody  in  language  my  thoughts,  feelings,  fancies, 
as  they  sprung  up  in  the  presence  of  the  rude  but 


beautiful  things  around  me :  the  prairies  on  fire, 
the  sparkling  lakes,  the  park-like  forests,  Indians 
on  the  hunt,  guiding  their  frail  canoes  amid  the 
rapids,  or  standing  at  night  in  the  red  light  of  their 
festival  fires.  I  breathed  the  air  of  poetry." 

Mr.  NOBLE  was  admitted  to  orders  in  the  Pro- 
testant Episcopal  Church,  in  1840.  His  principal 
poetical  work  is  "  Ne-mah-min,"  an  Indian  story, 
in  three  cantos,  in  which  he  has  made  good  use 
of  his  experience  of  forest  life.  I  believe  he  now 
resides  in  the  state  of  New  York. 


THE  CRIPPLE-BOY. 


Upon  an  Indian  rush-mat,  spread 
Where  burr-oak  boughs  a  coolness  shed, 
Alone  he  sat,  a  cripple-child, 
With  eyes  so  large,  so  dark  and  wild, 
And  fingers,  thin  and  pale  to  see, 
Locked  upon  his  trembling  knee. 
A-gathering  nuts  so  blithe  and  gay, 
The  children  early  tripp'd  away ; 
And  he  his  mother  had  besought 
Under  'the  oak  to  have  him  brought ; — 
It  was  ever  his  seat  when  blackbirds  sung 
The  wavy,  rustling  tops  among ; — 
They  calm'd  his  pain,— they  cheer'd  his  loneliness— 
The  gales, — the  music  of  the  wilderness. 


Upon  a  prairie  wide  and  wild 
Look'd  off  that  suffering  cripple-child  : 
The  hour  was  breezy,  the  hour  was  bright  ;- 
O,  't  was  a  lively,  a  lovely  sight ! 
An  eagle  sailing  to  and  fro 
Around  a  flitting  cloud  so  white — 
Across  the  billowy  grass  below 
Darting  swift  their  shadows'  light : — 
And  mingled  noises  sweet  and  clear, 
Noises  out  of  the  ringing  wood, 
Were  pleasing  trouble  in  his  ear, 
A  shock  how  pleasant  to  his  blood  : 
O,  happy  world ! — Beauty  and  Blessing  slept 
On  everything  but  him — he  felt,  and  wept. 


Humming  a  lightsome  tune  of  yore, 

Beside  the  open  log-house  door, 

Tears  upon  his  sickly  cheek 

Saw  his  mother,  and  so  did  speak ; — 

"What  makes  his  mother's  HESHY  weep? 

You  and  I  the  cottage  keep ; 

They  hunt  the  nuts  and  clusters  blue, 

Weary  lads  for  me  and  you ; 


And  yonder  see  the  quiet  sheep ; — 

Why,  now — I  wonder  why  you  weep  !" — 

"  Mother,  I  wish  that  I  could  be 

A  sailor  on  the  breezy  sea !" 
"  A  sailor  on  the  stormy  sea,  my  son  ! — 
What  ails  the  boy! — what  have  the  breezes  done !" 

IV. 

"  I  do ! — I  wish  that  I  could  be 

A  sailor  on  the  rolling  sea : 

In  the  shadow  of  the  sails 

I  would  ride  and  rock  all  day, 

Going  whither  blow  the  gales, 

As  I  have  heard  a  seaman  say: 

I  would,  I  guess,  come  back  again 

For  my  mother  now  and  then ; 

And  the  curling  fire  so  bright, 

When  the  prairie  burns  at  night ; 

And  tell  the  wonders  I  had  seen 

Away  upon  the  ocean  green ;"  — 
"  Hush !  hush  !  talk  not  about  the  ocean  so ; 
Better  at  home  a  hunter  hale  to  go." 


Between  a  tear  and  sigh  he  smiled ; 
And  thus  spake  on  the  cripple-child : — 
"  I  would  I  were  a  hunter  hale, 
Nimbler  than  the  nimble  doe, 
Bounding  lightly  down  the  dale, 
But  that  will  never  be,  I  know ! 
Behind  the  house  the  woodlands  lie ; 
A  prairie  wide  and  green  before ; 
And  I  have  seen  them  with  my  eye 
A  thousand  times  or  more ; 
Yet  in  the  woods  I  never  stray'd, 
Or  on  the  prairie-border  play'd ; — 
0,  mother  dear,  that  I  could  only  be 
A  sailor-boy  upon  the  rocking  sea !" 

TI. 

You  would  have  turned  with  a  tear, 

A  tear  upon  your  cheek ; 

She  wept  aloud,  the  woman  dear, 

And  further  could  not  speak  : 

452 


LOUIS    LEGRAND    NOBLE. 


453 


The  boy's  it  was  a  bitter  lot 

She  always  felt,  I  trow ; 

Yet  never  till  then  its  bitterness 

At  heart  had  grieved  her  so. 

Nature  had  waked  the  eternal  wish ; 

— Liberty,  far  and  wide ! — 

And  now,  to  win  him  health,  with  joy, 

She  would  that  morn  have  died. 
Till  noon,  she  kept  the  shady  door-way  chair, 
But  never  a  measure  of  that  ancient  air.- 

vir. 

Piped  the  March-wind ;  pinch'd  and  slow 
The  deer  were  trooping  in  the  snow; 
He  saw  them  out  of  the  cottage-door, 
The  lame  boy  sitting  upon  the  floor  : 
"  Mother,  mother,  how  long  will  it  be 
Till  the  prairie  go  like  a  waving  sea  1 
Will  the  bare  woods  ever  be  green,  and  when  7 
O,  will  it  ever  be  summer  again  7" — 
She  look'd  in  silence  on  her  child  : 
That  large  eye,  ever  so  dark  and  wild, 
O  me,  how  bright ! — it  may  have  been 
That  he  was  grown  so  pale  and  thin. 
It  came,  the  emerald  month,  and  sweetly  shed 
Beauty  for  grief,  and  garlands  for  the  dead. 


TO  A  SWAN 

FLYING  AT  MIDNIGHT,  IN  THE  VALE  OF  THE  HURON.* 

OH,  what  a  still,  bright  night !     It  is  the  sleep 
Of  beauteous  Natui    in  her  bridal  hall. 
See,  while  the  groves  shadow  the  shining  lake, 
How  the  full-moon  does  bathe  their  melting  green ! — 
I  hear  the  dew-drop  twang  upon  the  pool. 
Hark,  hark,  what  music!  fron^  the  rampart  hills, 
How  like  a  far-off  bugle,  sweet  and  clear, 
It  searches  through  the  list'ning  vilderness ! — 
A  Swan — I  know  it  by  the  trumpet-tone : 
Winging  her  pathless  way  in  the  cool  heavens, 
Piping  her  midnight  melody,  she  comes. 

Beautiful  bird  !  upon  the  dusk,  still  world 
Thou  fallest  like  an  angel — like  a  lone 
Sweet  angel  from  some  sphere  of  harmony. 
Where  art  thou,  where  1 — no  speck  upon  the  blue 
My  vision  marks  from  whence  thy  music  ranges. 
And  why  this  hour — this  voiceless  hour — is  tliine, 
And  thine  alone,  I  cannot  tell.     Perchance, 
While  all  is  hush  and  silent  but  the  heart, 
E'en  thou  hast  human  sympathies  for  heaven, 
And  singest  yonder  in  the  holy  deep 
Because  thou  hast  a  pinion.     If  it  be, 
Oh,  for  a  wing,  upon  the  aerial  tide 
To  sail  with  thee  a  minstrel  mariner ! 

When  to  a  rarer  height  thou  wheelest  up, 
Hast  thou  that  awful  thrill  of  an  ascension — 


*  The  river  Huron  rises  in  the  interior  of  Michigan, 
and  flows  into  Lake  Erie.  Its  clear  waters  gave  it  the 
name  of  its  more  mighty  kinsman,  Lake  Huron. 


The  lone,  lost  feeling  in  the  vasty  vault  7 
Oh,  for  thine  ear,  to  hear  the  ascending  tones 
Range  the  ethereal  chambers ! — then  to  feel 
A  harmony,  while  from  the  eternal  depth 
Steals  nought  but  the  pure  star-light  evermore ! 
And  then  to  list  the  echoes,  faint  and  mellow, 
Far,  far  below,  breathe  from  the  hollow  earth, 
For  thee,  soft,  sweet  petition,  to  return. 

And  hither,  haply,  thou  wilt  shape  thy  neck ; 
And  settle,  like  a  silvery  cloud,  to  rest, 
If  thy  wild  image,  flaring  in  the  abyss, 
Startle  thee  not  aloft.     Lone  aeronaut, 
That  catchest,  on  thine  airy  looking-out, 
Glassing  the  hollow  darkness,  many  a  lake, 
Lay,  for  the  night,  thy  lily  bosom  here. 
There  is  the  deep  unsounded  for  thy  bath, 
The  shallow  for  the  shaking  of  thy  quills, 
The  dreamy  cove,  or  cedar-wooded  isle, 
With  galaxy  of  water-lilies,  where, 
Like  mild  Diana  'mong  the  quiet  stars, 
'Neath  over-bending  branches  thou  wilt  move, 
Till  early  warblers  shake  the  crystal  shower, 
And  whistling  pinions  warn  thee  to  thy  voyage. 

But  where  art  thou  ? — lost, — spirited  away 
To  bowers  of  light  by  thy  own  dying  whispers  7 
Or  does  some  billow  of  the  ocean-air, 
In  its  still  roll  around  from  zone  to  zone, 
All  breathless  to  the  empyrean  heave  thee  1 — 

There  is  a  panting  in  the  zenith — hush ! — 
The  Swan — how  strong  her  great  wing  times  the 
She  passes  over  high  and  quietly.          [silence! — 

Now  peals  the  living  clarion  anew ; 
One  vocal  shower  falls  in  ami  fills  the  vale. 
What  witchery  in  the  wilderness  it  plays ! — 
Shrill  snort  the  affrighted  deer ;  across  the  lake 
The  loon,  sole  sentinel,  screams  loud  alarm ; — 
The  shy  fox  barks  ; — tingling  in  every  vein 
I  feel  the  wild  enchantment; — hark !  they  come, 
The  dulcet  echoes  from  the  distant  hills, 
Like  fainter  horns  responsive ;  all  the  while, 
From  misty  isles,  soft-stealing  symphonies. 

Thou  bright,  swift  river  of  the  bark  canoe, 
Threading  the  prairie-ponds  of  Washtenung, 
The  day  of  romance  wanes.    Few  summers  more, 
And  the  long  night  will  pass  away  un waked, 
Save  by  the  house-dog,  or  the  village  bell ; 
And  she,  thy  minstrel  queen,  her  ermine  dip 
In  lonelier  waters. 

Ah !  thou  wilt  not  stoop  : 
Old  Huron,  haply,  glistens  on  thy  sky. 
The  chasing  moon-beams,  glancing  on  thy  plumes, 
Reveal  thee  now,  a  little  beating  blot, 
Into  the  pale  Aurora  fading. 

There ! 

Sinks  gently  back  upon  her  flowery  couch 
The  startled  Night ; — tinkle  the  damp  wood-vaults 
While  slip  the  dew-pearls  from  her  leafy  curtains. 
That  last  soft  whispering  note,  how  spirit-like ! 
While  vainly  yet  mine  ear  another  waits, 
A  sad,  sweet  longing  lingers  in  my  heart. 


C.  P.  CRANCH. 


[Born,  1813.] 


THE  Reverend  C.  P.  CRASCH  is  a  son  of  Chief 
Justice  CRANCH,  of  Washington,  and  was  born  on 
the  eighth  of  March,  1813,  in  Alexandria,  District 
of  Columbia.  He  was  graduated  at  the  Columbian 


College,  Washington,  in  the  summer  of  1831,  and 
afterward  studied  three  years  in  the  Divinity  School 
at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  A  collection  of  his 
poems  was  published  in  1  &44. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES. 

Aim  is  the  harmony  of  heaven  gone  1 
Hath  it  all  died  away,  ere  human  ears 

Caught  the  faint  closing  hymn,  far-off,  and  lone, — 
The  music  of  the  spheres  1 

Have  the  stars  hush'd  that  glorious  song  of  old, 
When  the  night  shrunk  to  the  far  Occident, 

And  morning  gush'd  in  streaks  of  burning  gold 
Up  the  grey  firmament  1 

Yon  orbs  that  watch  so  fixedly  above, 

Yon  planets  claiming  with  our  own  their  birth, 

Are  they  all  mute  as  through  the  abyss  they  move, 
Like  our  dim,  silent  earth  ? 

And  hath  the  sky,  the  deep,  mysterious  sky, 
No  voices  from  amid  yon  circling  throng  1 

Are  there  no  thundering  echoes  where  the  high 
Procession  rolls  along  1 

Hath  heaven  rare  changing  tints,  and  doth  it  glow 

Full  of  high  eloquence  and  poetry, 
And  all  that  makes  the  love  of  beauty  grow, 

And  yet  no  harmony  ? 

No  music  there,  where  music's  font  hath  been — 
No  sweet  sounds,  swelling  dreamily  and  long, 

When  night  and  silence  listen  to  drink  in 
The  choral  stream  of  song  1 

Is  it  a  fable  all  of  early  time, 

That  the  young  stars,  as  they  leap'd  by  our  earth, 
Rang  sweet  and  loud  a  deep  and  voice-like  chime, 

Ere  the  first  soul  had  birth  1 

And  was  the  sage's  thought  a  fiction  too, 

That  the  crystalline  spheres  that  closed  us  round, 

Murmur'd  from  all  their  moving  arches  blue 
A  never-ceasing  sound  ? 

Too  fine  and  too  sublime  for  mortal  ears 
In  our  dull  orb  of  clay — and  this  is  why 

We  never  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres 
Come  pealing  through  the  sky  1* 

Were  there  no  revelations  from  the  deep, 
Unbroken  stillness  of  yon  glittering  host, 

Murmuring  on  old  Tradition's  infant  sleep, 
Like  voice  of  heavenly  ghost? 

*  It  was  the  notion  of  PYTHAGORAS,  I  think,  that  the 
heavens  were  composed  of  a  series  of  crystal  spheres, 
transparent  and  enclosed  one  within  another,  and  that 
these  moving  against  each  other  produced  the  most  divine 
harmony  conceivable,  but  that  the  reason  it  was  not  heard 
by  mortals  was,  that  it  was  too  loud  and  sublime  to  be 
heard,  and  the  ear  too  small  to  take  cognisance  of  it. 


Did  they  not  come  to  them  who  talk'd  with  GOD, 
In  the  cool  hush  of  morning  and  of  eve — 

Who  fell  in  Eden — felt  the  Chastener's  rod, 
And  wander'd  forth  to  grieve  1 

Did  they  not  fall  in  choral  symphony 

On  the  rapt  wonder  of  the  Nomad  swain, 

As,  stretch'd  beside  his  flock,  he  raised  his  eye 
At  midnight  from  the  plain  1 

Did  all  the  wise  and  holy  men  of  old 

Watch  by  yon  burning  stars  in  vain,  to  claim 

That  wisdom  which  to  eye  nor  ear  was  told, 
Till  Christ,  the  teacher,  came  1 

If,  O  ye  orbs,  ye  never  yet  have  spoken 
In  language  audible — still  let  me  feel 

Your  silent  concord,  o'er  my  heart  unbroken, 
In  holy  influence  steal ! 

And  let  me  trace  in  all  things  beautiful 
A  natural  harmony,  that  soothes,  upraises ; 

So  it  may  wake  a  soul  too  mute  and  dull, 
To  everlasting  praises ! 


THE  BLIND  SEER. 


FROM  morn  till  night  the  old  man  sitteth  still ; 

Deep  quench'd  in  darkness  lie  all  earthly  sights ; 
He  hath  not  known,  since  childhood  sway'd  his  will, 

The  outward  shows  of  open-eyed  delights. 

But  in  an  inner  world  of  thought  he  liveth, 
A  pure,  deep  realm  of  praise  and  lowly  prayer, 

Where  faith  from  sight  no  pension  e'er  receiveth, 
But  groweth  only  from  the  All-True  and  Fair. 

That  Universal  Soul,  who  is  the  being, 
The  reason  and  the  heart  of  men  on  earth, 

Shineth  so  broad  o'er  him,  that,  though  not  seeing, 
He  walketh  where  the  morning  hath  its  birth. 

He  travelleth  where  the  upper  springs  flow  on ; 

He  heareth  harmonies  from  angel-choirs ; 
He  seeth  Uriel  standing  in  the  sun ; 

He  dwelleth  up  among  the  heavenly  fires. 

And  yet  he  loveth,  as  we  all  do  love, 

To  hear  the  restless  hum  of  common  life ; 

Though  planted  in  the  spirit-soil  above, 

His  leaves  and  flowers  do  bud  amid  the  strife 

Of  all  this  weary  world,  and  shine  more  fair 
Than  sympathies  which  have  no  inward  root, 

Which  open  fast,  but  shrink  in  bleaker  air, 
And,  dropping,  leave  behind  no  winter-fruit. 

451 


1 


0.   P.    CRANCH. 


455 


But  here  are  winter-fruits  and  blossoms  too ; 

Those  silver  hairs  o'er  bended  shoulders  curl'd, 
That  smile,  that  thought-fill'd  brow,  ope  to  the  view 

Some  symbol  of  the  old  man's  inner  world. 

O,  who  would  love  this  wondrous  world  of  sense, 
Though  steep'd  in  joy  and  ruled  by  beauty's 
queen, 

If  it  were  purchased  at  the  dear  expense 

Of  losing  all  which  souls  like  this  have  seen  ? 

Nay,  if  we  judged  aright,  this  glorious  all, 

Which  fills  like  thought  our  never-doubting  eyes, 

Might  with  its  firm-built  grandeur  sink  and  fall 
Before  one  ray  of  soul-realities. 


THE  HOURS. 

THE  hours  are  viewless  angels, 

That  still  go  gliding  by, 
And  bear  each  minute's  record  up 

To  HIM  who  sits  on  high. 

And  we,  who  walk  among  them, 

As  one  by  one  departs, 
See  not  that  they  are  hovering 

Forever  round  our  hearts. 

Like  summer-bees,  that  hover 

Around  the  idle  flowers, 
They  gather  every  act  and  thought, 

Those  viewless  angel-hours. 

The  poison  or  the  nectar 

The  heart's  deep  flower-cups  yield, 
A  sample  still  they  gather  swift, 

And  leave  us  in  the  field. 

And  some  flit  by  on  pinions 

Of  joyous  gold  and  blue, 
And  some  flag  on  with  drooping  wings 

Of  sorrow's  darker  hue. 

But  still  they  steal  the  record, 

And  bear  it  far  away ; 
Their  mission-flight  by  day  or  night 

No  magic  power  can  stay. 

And  as  we  spend  each  minute 

That  GOD  to  us  hath  given, 
The  deeds  are  known  before  His  throne, 

The  tale  is  told  in  heaven. 

These  bee-like  hours  we  see  not, 
Nor  hear  their  noiseless  wings ; 

We  only  feel,  too  oft,  when  flown, 
That  they  have  left  their  stings. 

So,  teach  me,  Heavenly  Father, 

To  meet  each  flying  hour, 
That  as  they  go  they  may  not  show 

My  heart  a  poison-flower ! 

So,  when  death  brings  its  shadows, 

The  hours  that  linger  last 
Shall  bear  my  hopes  on  angel-wings, 

Unfetter'd  by  the  past. 


STANZAS. 

THOUGHT  is  deeper  than  all  speech; 

Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought : 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils : 
Man  by  man  was  never  seen : 

All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known : 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet: 

We  are  columns  left  alone, 
Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scatter'd  lie ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer-stream'! 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scatter'd  stars  of  thought, 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught, 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth ; 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorb'd  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


MY  THOUGHTS. 

MANY  are  the  thoughts  that  come  to  me 

In  my  lonely  musing ; 
And  they  drift  so  strange  and  swift, 

There's  no  time  for  choosing 
Which  to  follow,  for  to  leave 

Any,  seems  a  losing. 

When  they  come,  they  come  in  flocks, 

As  on  glancing  feather, 
Startled  birds  rise  one  by  one, 

In  autumnal  weather, 
Waking  one  another  up 

From  the  sheltering  heather. 

Some  so  merry  that  I  laugh, 

Some  are  grave  and  serious. 
Some  so  trite,  their  last  approach 

Is  enough  to  weary  us : 
Others  flit  like  midnight  ghosts, 

Shrouded  and  mysterious. 

There  are  thoughts  that  o'er  me  steal, 
Like  the  day  when  dawning ; 

Great  thoughts  wing'd  with  melody, 
Common  utterance  scorning, 

Moving  in  an  inward  tune, 
And  an  inward  morning. 


436 


ISAAC    McLELLAN,   JR. 


THE  NOTES  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

WELL  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  eo  gayly  in  spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  summer-time, 
And  in  red  autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pain'd  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weigh'd  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far  distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike ; — 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  'thrilling  music  of  the  forest-birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir !    The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps  half-hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dogwood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree, 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  spring,  the  robin  comes ; 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  wither'd  nest    But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red-stetnm'd  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest-field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  boarded  wheat  in  sheaves, — then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  corn-field  edge. 

Lone  whip-poor-will, 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Ofttimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still: 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds,  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 
To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 
No  eye,  save  thine,  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 
I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  thrush 
And  the  green,  roving  linnet  are  at  rest, 
And  the  blithe,  twittering  swallows  have  long  ceased 
Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current 

mines 
The  forest's   blacken'd   roots,  and  whose    green 

marge 

Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 
The  lonely  heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath-silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 


Or  brooding  gloomily  on  the  time-stain'd  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom, 
Gray  watcher  of  the  waters !     Thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake ;  and  all  the  winged  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye !     Thou  lookest  down 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide ; 
And,  poising  thy  gray  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Ofttimes  I  see  thee,  through  the  curling  mist, 
Dart,  like  a  spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now,  wouldst  thou,  O  man,  delight  the  car 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  ?     Then  pass  forth, 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-colour'd  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  Beauty's  ruby  lip. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  BY  WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


THE  tender  Twilight  with  a  crimson  check 
Leans  on  the  breast  of  Eve.     The  wayward  Wind 
Hath  folded  her  fleet  pinions,  and  gone  down 
To(  slumber  by  the  darken'd  woods — the  herds 
Have  left  their  pastures,  where  the  sward  grows 

green 

And  lofty  by  the  river's  sedgy  brink, 
And  slow  are  winding  home.     Hark,  from  afar 
Their  tinkling  bells  sound  through  the  dusky  glade 
And  forest-openings,  with  a  pleasant  sound ; 
While  answering  Echo,  from  the  distant  hill, 
Sends  back  the  music  of  the  herdsman's  horn. 
How  tenderly  the  trembling  light  yet  plays 
O'er  the  far-waving  foliage !     Day's  last  blush 
Still  lingers  on  the  billowy  waste  of  leaves, 
With  a  strange  beauty — like  the  yellow  flush 
That  haunts  the  ocean,  when  the  day  goes  by. 
Methinks,  whene'er  earth's  wearying  troubles  pass 
Like  winter  shadows  o'er  the  peaceful  mind, 
'Twere  sweet  to  turn  from  life,  and  pass  abroad, 
With  solemn  footsteps,  into  Nature's  vast 
And  happy  palaces,  and  lead  a  life 
Of  peace  in  some  green  paradise  like  tliis. 

The  brazen  trumpet  and  the  loud  war-drum 
Ne'er   startled   these   green  woods: — the  raging 

sword 

Hath  never  gather'd  its  red  harvest  here  ! 
The  peaceful  summer-day  hath  never  closed 
Around  this  quiet  spot,  and  caught  the  gleam 
Of  War's  rude  pomp : — the  humble  dweller  here 
Hath  never  left  his  sickle  in  the  field, 
To  slay  his  fellow  with  unholy  hand  ; 
The  maddening  voice  of  battle,  the  wild  groan, 
The  thrilling  murmuring  of  the  dying  man, 
And  the  shrill  shriek  of  mortal  agony, 
Have  never  broke  its  Sabbath-solitude. 


JONES  VERY. 


[Born  about  1810.] 


JOVES  VERT  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  Salem. 
In  his  youth  he  accompanied  his  father,  who  was 
a  sea-captain,  on  several  voyages  to  Europe;  and 
he  wrote  his  "  Essay  on  Hamlet"  with  the  more 
interest  from  having  twice  seen  Elsineur.  After 
his  father's  death,  he  prepared  himself  to  enter 
college,  and  in  1832  became  a  student  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  graduated  in  1836,  and  in  the 
same  year  was  appointed  Greek  tutor  in  the  uni- 
versity. While  he  held  this  office,  a  religious  en- 
thusiasm took  possession  of  his  mind,  which  gra- 
dually produced  so  great  a  change  in  him,  that  his 


TO  THE  PAINTED  COLUMBINE. 


BRIGHT  image  of  the  early  years 

When  glow'd  my  cheek  as  red  as  thou, 
And  life's  dark  throng  of  cares  and  fears 
Were  swift- wing'd  shadows  o'er  my  sunny  brow! 

Thou  blushest  from  the  painter's  page, 

Robed  in  the  mimic  tints  of  art ; 
But  Nature's  hand  in  youth's  green  age 
With  fairer  hues  first  traced  thee  on  my  heart. 

The  morning's  blush,  she  made  it  thine, 

The  morn's  sweet  breath,  she  gave  it  thee ; 
And  in  thy  look,  my  Columbine  ! 
Each  fond-remember'd  spot  she  bade  me  see. 

I  see  the  hill's  far-gazing  head, 

Where  gay  thou  noddest  in  the  gale ; 
I  hear  light-bounding  footsteps  tread 
The  grassy  path  that  winds  along  the  vale. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  woodland  song 

Break  from  each  bush  and  well-known  tree, 
And,  on  light  pinions  borne  along, 
Comes  back  the  laugh  from  childhood's  heart  of  glee. 

O'er  the  dark  rock  the  dashing  brook, 

With  look  of  anger,  leaps  again, 
And,  hastening  to  each  flowery  nook, 
Its  distant  voice  is  heard  far  down  the  glen. 

Fair  child  of  art !  thy  charms  decay, 

Touch'd  by  the  wither'd  hand  of  Time ; 
And  hush'd  the  music  of  that  day, 
When  my  voice  mingled  with  the  streamlet's  chime ; 

But  on  my  heart  thy  cheek  of  bloom 

Shall  live  when  Nature's  smile  has  fled ; 
And,  rich  with  memory's  sweet  perfume, 
Shall  o'er  her  grave  thy  tribute  incense  shed. 

There  shalt  thou  live  and  wake  the  glee 

That  echoed  on  thy  native  hill ; 
And  when,  loved  flower !  I  think  of  thee, 
My  infant  fuet  will  seem  to  seek  thee  still. 


friends  withdrew  him  from  Cambridge,  and  he 
returned  to  Salem,  where  he  wrote  most  of  the 
poems  in  the  small  collection  of  his  writings  pub- 
lished in  1839.  His  essays  entitled  "Epic  Poet- 
ry," f  Shakspeare,"  and  «  Hamlet,"  are  fine  spe- 
cimens of  learned  and  sympathetic  criticism ;'  and 
his  sonnets,  and  other  pieces  of  verse,  are  chaste, 
simple,  and  poetical,  though  they  have  little  range 
of  subjects  and  illustration.  They  are  religious, 
and  some  of  them  are  mystical,  but  they  will  be 
recognised  by  the  true  poet  as  the  overflowings 
of  a  brother's  soul. 


LINES  TO  A  WITHERED  LEAF  SEEN 
ON  A  POET'S  TABLE. 


POET'S  hand  has  placed  thee  there, 
Autumn's  brown  and  wither'd  scroll ! 
Though  to  outward  eye  not  fair, 
Thou  hast  beauty  for  the  soul ; 

Though  no  human  pen  has  traced 
On  that  leaf  its  learned  lore, 
Love  divine  the  page  has  graced, — 
What  can  words  discover  more ! 

Not  alone  dim  autumn's  blast 
Echoes  from  yon  tablet  sear, — 
Distant  music  of  the  past 
Steals  upon  the  poet's  ear. 

Voices  sweet  of  summer-hours, 
Spring's  soft  whispers  murmur  by ; 
Feather'd  songs  from  leafy  bowers 
Draw  his  listening  soul  on  high. 


THE  HEART. 


THF.HE  is  a  cup  of  sweet  or  bitter  drink, 
Whose  waters  ever  o'er  the  brim  must  well, 
Whence  flow  pure  thoughts  of  love  as  angels 

think, 

Or  of  its  demon  depths  the  tongue  will  tell ; 
That  cup  can  ne'er  be  cleansed  from  outward 

stains 

While  from  within  the  tide  forever  flows ; 
And  soon  it  wearies  out  the  fruitless  pains 
The  treacherous  hand  on  such  a  task  bestows ; 
But  ever  bright  its  crystal  sides  appear, 
While  runs  the  current  from  its  outlet  pure; 
And  pilgrims  hail  its  sparkling  waters  near, 
And  stoop  to  drink  the  healing  fountain  sure, 
And  bless  the  cup  that  cheers  their  fainting  soul 
While  through  this  parching  waste  they  seek  their 

heavenly  goal. 

202  437 


458 


HENRY   T.   TUCKERMAN. 


«  Methinks  it  cannot  be 
That  thou  art  mine ;  yet,  gazing,  I  do  feel 

The  spell  of  infancy, 
Like  distant  music,  through  my  bosom  steal. 

"  Sweet  relic  of  that  hour  ! 
She  who  so  fondly  deck'd  thee,  day  by  day, 

As  some  love-cherish'd  flower, 
From  the  green  earth,  for  aye,  has  pass'd  away ! 

"  0  !  what  unconscious  bliss 
Fill'd  this  lone  breast  when  thou  wert  floating  free, 

Wooing  the  breeze's  kiss ! 
Symbol  of  early  joy,  I  welcome  thee ! 

"  Would  that  the  sunny  hue 
That  gilds  thy  silken  threads  so  brightly  o'er, — 

Would  that  life's  morning  dew 
Might  bathe  my  restless  heart  forever  more ! 

«  Unto  the  spirit-land 
Could  I,  in  being's  brightness,  have  been  borne, — 

Had  her  fond,  trembling  hand 
From  my  cold  brow  this  golden  ringlet  shorn ; 

"  Not,  then,  should  I  thus  gaze, 
And  sigh  that  time  has  weaken'd  and  made  dim 

The  charm  which  thou  dost  raise, — 
Bright  are  the  tresses  of  the  cherubim ! 

"Type  of  life's  tranquil  spring! 
Thy  voice  is  rich  and  eloquently  mild, 

The  Teacher's  echoing : 
« <  Become  thou  now  e'en  as  a  little  child.' " 


TO  AN  ELM. 

BRAYELT  thy  old  arms  fling 
Their  countless  pennons  to  the  fields  of  air, 

And,  like  a  sylvan  king, 
Their  panoply  of  green  still  proudly  wear. 

As  some  rude  tower  of  old, 
Thy  massive  trunk  still  rears  its  rugged  form, 

With  limbs  of  giant  mould, 
To  battle  sternly  with  the  winter  storm. 

In  Nature's  mighty  fane, 
Thou  art  the  noblest  arch  beneath  the  sky; 

How  long  the  pilgrim  train 
That  with  a  benison  have  pass'd  thee  by ! 

Lone  patriarch  of  the  wood ! 
Like  a  true  spirit  thou  dost  freely  rise, 

Of  fresh  and  dauntless  mood, 
Spreading  thy  branches  to  the  open  skies. 

The  locust  knows  thee  well, 
And  when  the  summer-days  his  notes  prolong, 

Hid  in  some  leafy  cell, 
Pours  from  thy  world  of  green  his  drowsy  song. 

Oft,  on  a  morn  in  spring, 
The  yellow-bird  will  seek  thy  waving  spray, 

And  there  securely  swing, 
To  whet  his  beak,  and  pour  his  blithesome  lay. 

How  bursts  thy  monarch  wail, 
When  sleeps  the  pulse  of  Nature's  buoyant  life, 

And,  bared  to  meet  the  gale, 
Wave  thy  old  branches,  eager  for  the  strife ! 

The  sunset  often  weaves 
Upon  thy  crest  a  wreath  of  splendour  rare, 


While  the  fresh-murmuring  leaves 
Fill  with  cool  sound  the  evening's  sultry  air. 

Sacred  thy  roof  of  green 
To  rustic  dance,  and  childhood's  gambols  free, 

Gay  youth  and  age  serene 
Turn  with  familiar  gladness  unto  thee. 

O,  hither  should  we  roam, 
To  hear  Truth's  herald  in  the  lofty  shade. 

Beneath  thy  emerald  dome 
Might  Freedom's  champion  fitly  draw  his  blade. 

With  blessings  at  thy  feet, 
Falls  the  worn  peasant  to  his  noontide  rest; 

Thy  verdant,  calm  retreat 
Inspires  the  sad  and  soothes  the  troubled  breast. 

When,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
Plays  through  thy  tressil  crown  the  sun's  last  gleam, 

Under  thy  ancient  bower 
The  schoolboy  comes  to  sport,  the  bard  to  dream. 

And  when  the  moonbeams  fall 
Through  thy  broad  canopy  upon  the  grass, 

Making  a  fairy  hall, 
As  o'er  the  sward  the  flitting  shadows  pass ; 

Then  lovers  haste  to  thee, 
With  hearts  that  tremble  like  that  shifting  light, 

To  them,  0,  brave  old  tree, 
Thou  art  joy's  shrine — a  temple  of  delight ! 


TRI-MOUNTAIN. 

THROUGH  Time's  dim  atmosphere,  behold 

Those  ancient  hills  again, 
Rising  to  Fancy's  eager  view 

In  solitude,  as  when 
Beneath  the  summer  firmament, 

So  silently  of  yore, 
The  shadow  of  each  passing  cloud 

Their  rugged  bosoms  bore ! 

They  sloped  in  pathless  grandeur  then 

Down  to  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  rose  upon  the  woodland  plain 

In  lonely  majesty. 
The  breeze,  at  noontide,  whisper'd  soft 

Their  emerald  knolls  among, 
And  midnight's  wind,  amid  their  heights, 

Its  wildest  dirges  sung. 

As  on  their  brow  the  forest-king 

Paused  in  his  weary  way, 
From  far  below  his  quick  ear  caught 

The  moaning  of  the  bay ; 
The  dry  leaves,  fann'd  by  autumn's  breath, 

Along  their  ridges  crept ; 
And  snow-wreaths,  like  storm-whiten'd  waves, 

Around  them  rudely  swept. 

For  ages,  o'er  their  swelling  sides, 

Grew  the  wild  flowers  of  spring, 
And  stars  smiled  down,  and  dew-founts  pour'd 

Their  gentle  offering. 
The  moonbeams  play'd  upon  their  peaks, 

And  at  their  feet  the  tide; 
And  thus,  like  altar-mounts  they  stood, 

By  nature  sanctified. 


HENRY   T.    TUCKERMAN. 


459 


Now,  when  to  mark  their  beacon-forms 

The  seaman  turns  his  gaze, 
It  quails,  as  roof,  and  spire,  and  dome 

Flash  in  the  sun's  bright  rays. 
On  those  wild  hills  a  thousand  homes 

Are  rear'd  in  proud  array, 
And  argosies  float  safely  o'er 

That  lone  and  isle-gemm'd  bay. 
Those  shadowy  mounds,  so  long  untrod, 

By  countless  feet  are  press'd  ; 
And  hosts  of  loved  ones  meekly  sleep 

Below  their  teeming  breast. 
A  world's  unnumber'd  voices  float 

Within  their  narrow  bound  : 
Love's  gentle  tone,  and  traffic's  hum, 

And  music's  thrilling  sound. 
There  Liberty  first  found  a  tongue 

Beneath  New  England's  sky, 
And  there  her  earliest  martyrs  stood, 

And  nerved  themselves  to  die. 
And  long  upon  these  ancient  hills, 

By  glory's  light  enshrined, 
May  rise  the  dwellings  of  the  free, 

The  city  of  the  mind. 


LOVE  AND  FAME. 

GITE  me  the  boon  of  love ! 

I  ask  no  more  for  fame ; 
Far  better  one  unpurchased  heart 

Than  glory's  proudest  name. 
Why  wake  a  fever  in  the  blood, 

Or  damp  the  spirit  now, 
To  gain  a  wreath  whose  leaves  shall  wave 

Above  a  wither'd  brow  1 
Give  me  the  boon  of  love ! 

Ambition's  meed  is  vain  ; 
Dearer  affection's  earnest  smile 

Than  honour's  richest  train. 
I'd  rather  lean  upon  a  breast 

Responsive  to  my  own, 
Than  sit  pavilion'd  gorgeously 

Upon  a  kingly  throne. 
Like  the  Chaldean  sage, 

Fame's  worshippers  adore 
The  brilliant  orbs  that  scatter  light 

O'er  heaven's  azure  floor ; 
But,  in  their  very  heart  enshrined, 

The  votaries  of  love 
Keep  o'er  the  holy  flame,  which  once 

Illumed  the  courts  above. 
Give  me  the  boon  of  love ! 

Renown  is  but  a  breath, 
Whose  loudest  echo  ever  floats 

From  out  the  halls  of  death. 
A  loving  eye  beguiles  me  more 

Than  fame's  emblazon'd  seal, 
And  one  sweet  note  of  tenderness 

Than  triumph's  wildest  peal. 
Give  me  the  boon  of  love ! 

The  path  of  fame  is  drear, 
And  glory's  arch  doth  ever  span 

A  hill-side  cold  and  sere. 


One  wild  flower  from  the  path  of  love, 

All  lowly  though  it  lie, 
Is  dearer  than  the  wreath  that  waves 

To  stern  ambition's  eye. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  love ! 

The  lamp  of  fame  shines  far, 
But  love's  soft  light  glows  near  and  warm — 

A  pure  and  household  star. 
One  tender  glance  can  fill  the  soul 

With  a  perennial  fire  ; 
But  glory's  flame  burns  fitfully — 

A  lone,  funereal  pyre. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  love ! 

Fame's  trumpet-strains  depart, 
But  love's  sweet  lute  yields  melody 

That  lingers  in  the  heart. 
And  the  scroll  of  fame  will  burn 

When  sea  and  earth  consume, 
But  the  rose  of  love  in  a  happier  sphere 

Will  live  in  deathless  bloom. 


GREENOUGH'S  WASHINGTON. 

THE  quarry  wnence  thy  form  majestic  sprung 

Has  peopled  earth  with  grace, 
Heroes  and  gods  that  elder  bards  have  sung, 

A  bright  and  peerless  race ; 
But  from  its  sleeping  veins  ne'er  rose  before 

A  shape  of  loftier  name 
Than  his,  who  Glory's  wreath  with  meekness  wore, 

The  noblest  son  of  Fame. 
Sheathed  is  the  sword  that  Passion  never  stain'd ; 

His  gaze  around  is  cast, 
As  if  the  joys  of  Freedom,  newly-gain'd, 

Before  his  vision  pass'd ; 
As  if  a  nation's  shout  of  love  and  pride 

With  music  fill'd  the  air, 
And  his  calm  soul  was  lifted  on  the  tide 

Of  deep  and  grateful  prayer ; 
As  if  the  crystal  mirror  of  his  life 

To  fancy  sweetly  came, 
With  scenes  of  patient  toil  and  noble  strife, 

Undimm'd  by  doubt  or  shame ; 
As  if  the  lofty  purpose  of  his  soul 

Expression  would  betray — 
The  high  resolve  Ambition  to  control, 

And  thrust  her  crown  away ! 
0,  it  was  well  in  marble  firm  and  white 

To  carve  our  hero's  form, 
Whose  angel  guidance  was  our  strength  in  fight, 

Our  star  amid  the  storm  ! 
Whose  matchless  truth  has  made  his  name  divine, 

And  human  freedom  sure, 
His  country  great,  his  tomb  earth's  dearest  shrine, 

While  man  and  time  endure ! 
And  it  is  well  to  place  his  image  there, 

Beneath  the  dome  he  blest ; 
Let  meaner  spirits  who  its  councils  share, 

Revere  that  silent  guest ! 
Let  us  go  up  with  high  and  sacred  love 

To  look  on  his  pure  brow, 
And  as,  with  solemn  grace,  he  points  above, 

Renew  the  patriot's  vow ! 


460 


HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN. 


"ARE  WE  NOT  EXILES  HERE?" 

ARE  we  not  exiles  here  1 
Come  there  not  o'er  us  memories  of  a  clime 
More  genial  and  more  dear 

Than  this  of  time  1 
When  deep,  vague  wishes  press 
Upon  the  soul,  and  prompt  it  to  aspire, 
A  mystic  loneliness, 
And  wild  desire  1 
When  our  long-baffled  zeal 
Turns  back  in  mockery  on  the  weary  heart, 
Till,  at  the  sad  appeal, 
Dismay'd  we  start ; 
And,  like  the  Deluge  dove, 
Outflown  upon  the  world's  cold  sea  we  lie, 
And  all  our  dreams  of  love 

In  anguish  die  1 
Nature  no  more  endears ; 
Her  blissful  strains  seem  only  breathed  afar, 
Nor  mount,  nor  flower  cheers, 

Nor  smiling  star. 
Familiar  things  grow  strange; 
Fond  hopes  like  tendrils  shooting  to  the  air, 
Through  friendless  being  range, 

To  meet  despair. 
And,  nursed  by  secret  tears, 
Rich  but  frail  visions  in  the  heart  have  birth, 
And  this  fair  world  appears 

A  homeless  earth. 
Then  must  we  summon  back 
Blest  guides,  who  long  ago  have  met  the  strife, 
And  left  a  radiant  track 

To  mark  their  life. 
Then  must  we  look  around 
On  heroes'  deeds — the  landmarks  of  the  brave, 
And  hear  their  cheers  resound 

From  off  the  wave. 
Then  must  we  turn  from  show, 
Pleasure  and  fame,  the  phantom  race  of  care, 

And  let  our  sprits  flow 
|  In  earnest  prayer. 


ALONE  ONCE  MORE. 

ALOITE  once  more ! — but  with  such  deep  emotion, 
Waking  to  life  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears, 

Such  wild  distrust — such  absolute  devotion, 
My  bosom  seems  a  dreary  lake  of  tears ; — 

Tears  that  stern  manhood  long  restrain'd  from  gush- 
As  mountains  keep  a  river  from  the  sea,       [ing, 

Until  spring's  floods,  impetuously  rushing, 
Channel  a  bed,  and  set  its  waters  free ! 

What  mockery  to  all  true  and  earnest  feeling, 
This  fatal  union  of  the  false  and  fair ! 

Eyes,  lips,  and  voice  unmeasured  bliss  revealing, 
With  hearts  whose  lightness  fills  us  with  despair ! 

O  God !  some  sorrows  of  our  wondrous  being 
A  patient  mind  can  partly  clear  away ; — 

Ambition  cools  when  fortune's  gifts  are  fleeing, 
And  men  grow  thoughtful  round  a  brother's  clay ; 


But  to  what  end  this  waste  of  noble  passion] 
This  wearing  of  a  truthful  heart  to  dust — 

Adoring  slaves  of  humour,  praise  or  fashion, 
The  vain  recipients  of  a  boundless  trust  1 

Come  home,  fond  heart,  cease  all  instinctive  plead- 
As  the  dread  fever  of  insane  desire,  [ing, 

To  some  dark  gulf  thy  warm  affections  leading, 
Whenlove  must  longsurvive, though  faith  expire ! 

Though  wonted  glory  from  the  earth  will  vanish, 
And  life  seem  desolate,  and  hope  beguile, 

Love's  cherish'd  dream  learn  steadfastly  to  banish, 
Till  death  thy  spirit's  conflict  reconcile ! 


FREEDOM. 

FREEDOM  !  beneath  thy  banner  I  was  born, — 

Oh  let  me  share  thy  full  and  perfect  life ! 
Teach  me  opinion's  slavery  to  scorn, 

And  to  be  free  from  passion's  bitter  strife ; 
Free  of  the  world,  a  self-dependent  soul 

Nourish'd  by  lofty  aims  and  genial  truth, 
And  made  more  free  by  love's  serene  control, 

The  spell  of  beauty  and  the  hopes  of  youth. 
The  liberty  of  nature  let  me  know,          [streams, 

Caught  from  her  mountains,  groves  and  crystal 
Her  starry  host,  and  sunset's  purple  glow, 

That  woo  the  spirit  with  celestial  dreams, 
On  Fancy's  wing  exultingly  to  soar, 
Till  life's  harsh  fetters  clog  the  heart  no  more ! 


DESOLATION. 

THIWK  ye  the  desolate  must  live  apart, 

By  solemn  vows  to  convent-walls  confined  7 
Ah !  no ;  with  men  may  dwell  the  cloister'd  heart, 

And  in  a  crowd  the  isolated  mind ; 
Tearless  behind  the  prison-bars  of  fate, 

The  world  sees  not  how  sorrowful  they  stand, 
Gazing  so  fondly  through  the  iron  grate, 

Upon  the  promised,  yet  forbidden  land  ; 
Patience,  the  shrine  to  which  their  bleeding  feet, 

Day  after  day,  in  voiceless  penance  turn  ; 
Silence,  the  holy  cell  and  calm  retreat 

In  which  unseen  their  meek  devotions  burn ; 
Life  is  to  them  a  vigil  that  none  share, 
Their  hopes  a  sacrifice,  their  love  a  prayer. 


FROM  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 
THE  LAW  OF  BEAUTY. 

READ  the  great  law  in  Beauty's  cheering  reign, 
Blent  with  all  ends  through  matter's  wide  domain; 
She  breathes  hope's  language,  and  with  boundless 
range  [change, 

Sublimes  all  forms,  smiles  through  each  subtle 
And  with  insensate  elements  combined 
Ordains  their  constant  ministry  to  mind. 
The  breeze  awoke  to  waft  the  feather'd  seed, 
And  the  cloud  fountains  with  their  dew  to  feed, 


HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN. 


461 


Upon  its  many  errands  might  have  flown, 
Nor  woke  one  river  song  or  forest  moan, 
Stirr'd  not  the  grass,  nor  the  tall  grain  have  bent, 
Like  shoreless  billows  tremulously  spent ; 
Frost  could  the  bosom  of  the  lake  have  glass'd, 
Nor  paused  to  paint  the  woodlands  as  it  pass'd ; 
The  glossy  seabird  and  the  brooding  dove 
Might  coyly  peck  with  twinkling  eye  of  love, 
Nor  catch  upon  their  downy  necks  the  dyes, 
So  like  the  mottled  hues  of  summer  skies : 
Mists  in  the  west  could  float,  nor  glory  wear, 
As  if  an  angel's  robes  were  streaming  there ; 
The  moon  might  sway  the  tides,  nor  yet  impart 
A  solemn  light  to  tranquillize  the  heart, 
And  leagues  of  sand  could  bar  the  ocean's  swell, 
Nor  yield  one  crystal  gleam  or  pearly  shell. 
The  very  sedge  lends  music  to  the  blast, 
And  the  thorn  glistens  when  the  storm  is  past; 
Wild  flowers  nestle  in  the  rocky  cleft, 
Moss  decks  the  bough  of  leaf  and  life  bereft, 
O'er  darkest  clouds  the  moonbeams  brightly  steal, 
The  rainbow's  herald  is  the  thunder's  peal ; 
Gay  are  the  weeds  that  strew  the  barren  shore, 
And  anthem-like  the  breaker's  gloomy  roar. 
As  love  o'er  sorrow  spreads  her  genial  wings 
The  ivy  round  a  fallen  column  clings, 
While  on  the  sinking  walls,  where  owlets  cry, 
The  weather  stains  in  tints  of  beauty  lie. 
The  wasting  elements  adorn  their  prey 
And  throw  a  pensive  charm  around  decay; 
Thus  ancient  limners  bade  their  canvas  glow, 
And  group'd  sweet  cherubs  o'er  a  martyr's  wo. 


COLUMBUS. 

HEROIC  guide  !  whose  wings  are  never  furl'd, 
By  thee  Spain's  voyager  sought  another  world ; 
What  but  poetic  impulse  could  sustain 
That  dauntless  pilgrim  on  the  dreary  main? 
Day  after  day  his  mariners  protest, 
And  gaze  with  dread  along  the  pathless  west ; 
Beyond  that  realm  of  waves,  untrack'd  before, 
Thy  fairy  pencil  traced  the  promised  shore, 
Through  weary  storms  and  faction's  fiercer  rage, 
The  scoffs  of  ingrates  and  the  chills  of  age, 
Thy  voice  renewed  his  earnestness  of  aim, 
And  whisper'd  pledges  of  eternal  fame; 
Thy  cheering  smile  atoned  for  fortune's  frown, 
And  made  his  fetters  garlands  of  renown. 


FLORENCE. 

PIUXCES,  when  softened  in  thy  sweet  embrace, 
Yearn  for  no  conquest  but  the  realm  of  grace, 
And  thus  redeemed,  Lorenzo's  fair  domain 
Smiled  in  the  light  of  Art's  propitious  reign. 
Delightful  Florence  !  though  the  northern  gale 
Will  sometimes  rave  around  thy  lovely  vale, 
Can  I  forget  how  softly  Autumn  threw 
Beneath  thy  skies  her  robes  of  ruddy  hue, 
Through  what  long  days  of  balminess  and  peace, 
From  wintry  bonds  spring  won  thy  mild  release? 
Along  the  Arno  then  I  loved  to  pass, 
And  watch  the  violets  peeping  from  the  grass, 
Mark  the  gray  kine  each  chestnut  grove  between, 
Startle  the  pheasants  on  the  lawny  green, 


Or  down  long  vistas  hail  the  mountain  snow, 
Like  lofty  shrines  the  purple  clouds  below. 
Within  thy  halls,  when  veil'd  the  sunny  rays, 
Marvels  of  art  await  the  ardent  gaze, 
And  liquid  words  from  lips  of  beauty  start, 
With  social  joy  to  warm  the  stranger's  heart. 
How  beautiful  at  moonlight's  hallow'd  hour, 
Thy  graceful  bridges,  and  celestial  tower ! 
The  girdling  hills  enchanted  seem  to  hang 
Round  the  fair  scene  whence  modern  genius  sprang; 
O'er  the  dark  ranges  of  thy  palace  walls 
The  silver  beam  on  dome  and  cornice  falls ; 
The  statues  cluster'd  in  thy  ancient  square, 
Like  mighty  spirits  print  the  solemn  air ; 
Silence  meets  beauty  with  unbroken  reign, 
Save  when  invaded  by  a  choral  strain, 
Whose  distant  cadence  falls  upon  the  ear, 
To  fill  the  bosom  with  poetic  cheer ! 

POETRY  IMMORTAL. 

FOR  fame  life's  meaner  records  vainly  strive, 
While,  in  fresh  beauty,  thy  high  dreams  survive. 
Still  Vesta's  temple  throws  its  classic  shade 
O'er  the  bright  foam  of  Tivoli's  cascade, 
And  to  one  Venus  still  we  bow  the  knee, 
Divine  as  if  just  issued  from  the  sea ; 
In  fancy's  trance,  yet  deem  on  nights  serene 
We  hear  the  revels  of  the  fairy  queen, 
That  Dian's  smile  illumes  the  marble  fane, 
And  Ceres  whispers  in  the  rustling  grain, 
That  Ariel's  music  has  not  died  away, 
And  in  his  shell  still  floats  the  Culprit  Fay. 
The  sacred  beings  of  poetic  birth 
Immortal  live  to  consecrate  the  earth. 
San  Marco's  pavement  boasts  no  doge's  tread, 
And  all  its  ancient  pageantry  has  fled ; 
Yet,  as  we  muse  beneath  some  dim  arcade, 
The  mind's  true  kindred  glide  from  ruin's  shade; 
In  every  passing  eye  that  sternly  beams 
We  start  to  meet  the  Shy  lock  of  our  dreams ; 
Each  maiden  form,  where  virgin  grace  is  seen, 
Crosses  our  path  with  Portia's  noble  mien ; 
While  Desdemona,  beauteous  as  of  yore, 
Yields  us  the  smile  that  once  entranced  the  Moor. 
How  Scotland's  vales  are  peopled  to  the  heart 
By  her  bold  minstrel's  necromantic  art ! 
Along  this  fern  moved  Jeannie's  patient  feet, 
Where  hangs  yon  mist  rose  Ellangowan's  seat, 
Here  the  sad  bride  first  gave  her  love  a  tongue, 
And  there  the  chief's  last  shout  of  triumph  rung; 
Beside  each  stream,  down  every  glen  they  throng, 
The  cherish 'd  offspring  of  creative  song ! 
Long  ere  brave  Nelson  shook  the  Baltic  shore, 
The  bard  of  Avon  hallow'd  Elsinore: 
Perchance  when  moor'd  the  fleet,  awaiting  day, 
To  fix  the  battle's  terrible  array, 
Some  pensive  hero,  musing  o'er  the  deep, 
So  soon  to  fold  him  in  its  dreamless  sleep, 
Heard  the  Dane's  sad  and  self-communing  tone 
Blend  with  the  water's  melancholy  moan, 
Recall'd,  with  prayer  and  awe-suspended  breath. 
His  wild  and  solemn  questionings  of  death, 
Or  caught  from  land  Ophelia's  dying  song, 
Swept  by  the  night-breeze  plaintively  along ! 


WILLIAM  JEWETT  PABODIE. 


[Born  about  1815.] 


Mn.  PABODIE  is  a  native  of  Providence,  in 
Rhode  Island.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  the 
spring  of  1837,  and  has  since,  I  believe,  practised 
his  profession  in  his  native  city.  His  principal 
work  is  "  Calidore,  a  Legendary  Poem,"  published 


in  1839.  It  possesses  considerable  merit,  but  is 
not  so  carefully  finished  as  some  of  his  minor 
pieces,  nor  is  there  any  thing  strikingly  original  in 
its  fable  or  sentiments.  His  writings  are  more 
distinguished  for  elegance  than  for  vigour. 


GO  FORTH  INTO  THE  FIELDS. 

Go  forth  into  the  fields, 
Ye  denizens  of  the  pent  city's  mart ! 
Go  forth  and  know  the  gladness  nature  yields 

To  the  care-wearied  heart 

Leave  ye  the  feverish  strife, 
The  jostling,  eager,  self-devoted  throng; — 
Ten  thousand  voices,  waked  anew  to  life, 

Call  you  with  sweetest  song. 

Hark !  from  each  fresh-clad  bough, 
Or  blissful  soaring  in  the  golden  air, 
Bright  birds  with  joyous  music  bid  you  now 

To  spring's  loved  haunts  repair. 

The  silvery  gleaming  rills 
Lure  with  soft  murmurs  from  the  grassy  lea, 
Or  gayly  dancing  down  the  sunny  hills, 

Call  loudly  in  their  glee  ! 

And  the  young,  wanton  breeze,  i 

With  breath  all  odorous  from  her  blossomy  chase, 
In  voice  low  whispering  'mong  th'embowering  trees, 

Woos  you  to  her  embrace. 

Go— breathe  the  air  of  heaven, 
Where  violets  meekly  smile  upon  your  way ; 
Or  on  some  pine-crown'd  summit,  tempest  riven, 

Your  wandering  footsteps  stay. 

Seek  ye  the  solemn  wood, 
Whose  giant  trunks  a  verdant  roof  uprear, 
And  listen,  while  the  roar  of  some  far  flood 

Thrills  the  young  leaves  with  fear ! 

Stand  by  the  tranquil  lake, 
Sleeping  mid  willowy  banks  of  emerald  dye, 
Save  when  the  wild  bird's  wing  its  surface  break, 

Checkering  the  mirror'd  sky — 

And  if  within  your  breast, 
Hallow'd  to  nature's  touch,  one  chord  remain  ; 
If  aught  save  worldly  honours  find  you  blest, 

Or  hope  of  sordid  gain, — 

A  strange  delight  shall  thrill, 
A  quiet  joy  brood  o'er  you  like  a  dove ; 
Earth's  placid  beauty  shall  your  bosom  fill, 

Stirring  its  depths  with  love. 

0,  in  the  calm,  still  hours, 
The  holy  Sabbath-hours,  when  sleeps  the  air, 
And  heaven,  and  earth  deck'd  with  her  beauteous 

Lie  hush'd  in  breathless  prayer, —  [flowers, 


Pass  ye  the  proud  fane  by, 
The  vaulted  aisles,  by  flaunting  folly  trod, 
And,  'neath  the  temple  of  the  uplifted  sky, 

Go  forth  and  worship  GOD ! 


TO  THE  AUTUMN  FOREST. 

RESPLENDENT  hues  are  thine ! 
Triumphant  beauty — glorious  as  brief! 
Burdening  with  holy  love  the  heart's  pure  shrine, 

Till  tears  afford  relief. 

What  though  thy  depths  be  hush'd  ! 
More  eloquent  in  breathless  silence  thou, 
Than  when  the  music  of  glad  songsters  gush'd 

From  every  green-robed  bough. 

Gone  from  thy  walks  the  flowers ! 
Thou  askest  not  their  forms  thy  paths  to  fleck ; — 
The  dazzling  radiance  of  these  sunlit  bowers 

Their  hues  could  not  bedeck. 

I  love  thee  in  the  spring, 
Earth-crowning  forest !  when  amid  thy  shades 
The  gentle  south  first  waves  her  odorous  wing, 

And  joy  fills  all  thy  glades. 

In  the  hot  summer-time, 
With  deep  delight  thy  sombre  aisles  I  roam, 
Or,  soothed  by  some  cool  brook's  melodious  chime, 

Rest  on  thy  verdant  loam. 

But,  O,  when  autumn's  hand 
Hath  mark'd  thy  beauteous  foliage  for  the  grave, 
How  doth  thy  splendour,  as  entranced  I  stand, 

My  willing  heart  enslave ! 

I  linger  then  with  thee, 
Like  some  fond  lover  o'er  his  stricken  bride ; 
Whose  bright,  unearthly  beauty  tells  that  she 

Here  may  not  long  abide. 

When  my  last  hours  are  come, 
Great  GOD  !  ere  yet  life's  span  shall  all  be  fill'd, 
And  these  warm  lips  in  death  be  ever  dumb, 

This  beating  heart  be  still'd, — 

Bathe  thou  in  hues  as  blest — 
Let  gleams  of  Heaven  about  my  spirit  play ! 
So  shall  my  soul  to  its  eternal  rest 

In  glory  pass  away ! 

462 


WILLIAM    JEWETT    PABODIE. 


463 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 

GONE  in  the  flush  of  youth  ! 
Gone  ere  thy  heart  had  felt  earth's  withering  care ; 
Ere  the  stern  world  had  soil'd  thy  spirit's  truth, 

Or  sown  dark  sorrow  there. 

Fled  like  a  dream  away  ! 
But  yesterday  mid  life's  auroral  bloom — 
To-day,  sad  winter,  desolate  and  gray, 

Sighs  r.ound  thy  lonely  tomb. 

Fond  hearts  were  beating  high, 
Fond  eyes  were  watching  for  the  loved  one  gone, 
And  gentle  voices,  deeming  thou  wert  nigh, 

Talk'd  of  thy  glad  return. 

They  watch'd — not  all  in  vain — 
Thy  form  once  more  the  wonted  threshold  pass'd ; 
But  choking  sobs,  and  tears  like  summer-rain, 

Welcom'd  thee  home  at  last. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  farewell ! 
To  thee,  we  trust,  a  happier  life  is  given ; 
One  tie  to  earth  for  us  hath  loosed  its  spell, 

Another  form'd  for  heaven. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

OUR  country  ! — 't  is  a  glorious  land ! 

With  broad  arms  stretch'd  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  proud  Pacific  chafes  her  strand, 

She  hears  the  dark  Atlantic  roar ; 
And,  nurtured  on  her  ample  breast, 

How  many  a  goodly  prospect  lies 
In  Nature's  wildest  grandeur  drest, 

Enamell'd  with  her  loveliest  dyes. 

Rich  prairies,  deck'd  with  flowers  of  gold, 

Like  sunlit  oceans  roll  afar ; 
Broad  lakes  her  azure  heavens  behold, 

Reflecting  clear  each  trembling  star, 
And  mighty  rivers,  mountain-born, 

Go  sweeping  onward,  dark  and  deep, 
Through  forests  where  the  bounding  fawn 

Beneath  their  sheltering  branches  leap. 

And,  cradled  mid  her  clustering  hills, 

Sweet  vales  in  dreamlike  beauty  hide, 
Where  love  the  air  with  music  fills ; 

And  calm  content  and  peace  abide ; 
For  plenty  here  her  fulness  pours 

In  rich  profusion  o'er  the  land, 
And,  sent  to  seize  her  generous  store, 

There  prowls  no  tyrant's  hireling  band. 

Great  GOD  !  we  thank  thee  for  this  home — 

This  bounteous  birthland  of  the  free ; 
Where  wanderers  from  afar  may  come, 

And  breathe  the  air  of  liberty ! — 
Still  may  her  flowers  untrampled  spring, 

Her  harvests  wave,  her  cities  rise ; 
And  yet,  till  Time  shall  fold  his  wing, 

Remain  Earth's  loveliest  paradise ! 


I  HEAR  THY  VOICE,  O  SPRING! 


I  HEAR  thy  voice,  O  Spring ! 
Its  flute-like  tones  are  floating  through  the  air, 
Winning  my  soul  with  their  wild  ravishing, 

From  earth's  heart-wearying  care. 

Divinely  sweet  thy  song — 
But  yet,  methinks,  as  near  the  groves  I  pass, 
Low  sighs  on  viewless  wings  are  borne  along, 

Tears  gem  the  springing  grass. 

For  where  are  they,  the  young, 
The  loved,  the  beautiful,  who,  when  thy  voice, 
A  year  agone,  along  these  valleys  rung, 

Did  hear  thee  and  rejoice ! 

Thou  seek'st  for  them  in  vain — 
No  more  they  '11  greet  thee  in  thy  joyous  round ; 
Calmly  they  sleep  beneath  the  murmuring  main, 

Or  moulder  in  the  ground. 

Yet  peace,  my  heart — be  still ! 
Look  upward  to  yon  azure  sky  and  know, 
To  heavenlier  music  now  their  bosoms  thrill, 

Where  balmier  breezes  blow. 

For  them  hath  bloom'd  a  spring, 
Whose  flowers  perennial  deck  a  holier  sod, 
Whose  music  is  the  song  that  seraphs  sing, 

Whose  light,  the  smile  of  GOD  ! 


I  STOOD  BESIDE  HIS  GRAVE. 

I  STOOD  beside  the  grave  of  him, 

Whose  heart  with  mine  had  fondly  beat, 

While  memories,  from  their  chambers  dim, 
Throng'd  mournful,  yet  how  sadly  sweet ! 

It  was  a  calm  September  eve, 

The  stars  stole  trembling  into  sight, 

Save  where  the  day,  as  loth  to  leave, 
Still  flush'd  the  heavens  with  rosy  light. 

The  crickets  in  the  grass  were  heard, 

The  city's  murmur  softly  fell, 
And  scarce  the  dewy  air  was  stirr'd, 

As  faintly  toll'd  the  evening-bell. 

0  Death !  had  then  thy  summons  come, 
To  bid  me  from  this  world  away, — 

How  gladly  had  I  hail'd  the  doom 

That  stretch'd  me  by  his  mouldering  clay ! 

And  twilight  deepen'd  into  night, 

And  night  itself  grew  wild  and  drear, — 

For  clouds  rose  darkly  on  the  sight, 

And  winds  sigh'd  mournful  on  the  ear: — 

And  yet  I  linger'd  mid  the  fern, 

Though  gleam'd  no  star  the  eye  to  bless — 
For,  O,  'twas  agony  to  turn 

And  leave  him  to  his  loneliness ! 


FRANCES    SARGENT    OSGOOD. 


[Bora  1615.] 


MRS.  OSGOOD  is  a  native  of  Boston — the  daugh- 
ter of  the  late  Mr.  JOSEPH  LOCKE,  a  merchant  of 
that  city.  Her  earlier  life,  however,  was  passed 
principally  in  Hingham,  a  village  of  peculiar  beauty, 
well  calculated  to  arouse  the  dormant  poetry  of  the 
soul;  and  here,  even  in  childhood,  she  became 
noted  for  her  poetical  powers.  In  their  exercise 
she  was  rather  aided  than  discouraged  by  her  pa- 
rents, who  were  proud  of  the  genius,  and  sympa- 
thized with  all  the  aspirations  of  the  child.  The  un- 
usual merit  of  some  of  her  first  productions  attracted 
the  notice  of  Mrs.  MARIA  CHILD,  who  was  then 
editing  a  Juvenile  Miscellany,  and  who  foresaw  the 
reputation  which  her  young  contributor  has  since 
acquired.  Miss  LOCKE,  employing  the  nom  de 
plume  of  "FLORENCE,"  made  it  widely  fami- 
liar, by  her  numerous  compositions  for  the  Mis- 
cellany, as  well  as,  subsequently,  for  other  periodi- 
cals. .  In  1835,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  S.  S.  OS- 
GOOD,  the  artist,  and  soon  afterwards  accompanied 
him  to  England.  In  that  country  they  remained 
four  years;  Mr.  OSGOOD  meeting  success  in  his 
profession,  and  his  wife  winning  the  esteem  of  all 
who  saw  her,  by  the  graceful  espitglerie  of  her  man- 
ner, and  her  gentle  enthusiasm.  Her  poems,  at 
the  same  period,  elicited  warm  approbation  from 
the  critics.  She  wrote  much  for  the  various  maga- 
zines; and  also  published  a  collection,  entitled 
«  A  Wreath  of  Wild  Flowers  from  New  England ;" 
which  has  been  reprinted  in  this  country,  and  was 
received  with  marked  favour ;  but  we  should  err  in 
accepting  it  as  a  specimen  of  her  abilities.  Since 
its  issue,  she  has  written  far  better  poems  than  any 


it  contains,  although  its  leading  piece,  Elfrida, 
gives  indication  of  much  ability.  While  in  Lon- 
don she  also  published  «  The  Casket  of  Fate,"  a 
miniature  volume  of  poetry. 

Since  her  return  to  the  United  States,  Mrs.  OS- 
GOOD  has  been  engaged  in  various  literary  occupa- 
tions; has  edited  (among  other  things)  a  richly  em- 
hellished  souvenir,  entitled  "The  Poetry  of  Flowers 
and  Flowers  of  Poetry ;"  and  has  been  one  of  the 
most  constant  and  popular  contributors  to  the  ma- 
gazines of  this  country.  She  has  done  much  in 
prose;  but  all  her  compositions  of  this  class  are 
instinct  with  the  poetic  spirit.  She  is  at  times 
forcible,  original,  and  frequently  picturesque;  but 
throughout  all  appears  the  poet,  and  the  affection- 
ate and  enthusiastic  woman.  Within  the  last  year 
or  two  her  fame  has  advanced  with  rapidity,  and 
as  she  is  yet  young,  it  is  presumable  that  she  has 
given  but  an  earnest  of  her  powers.  In  a  late  lec- 
ture on  the  Poets  of  America,  Mr.  EDGAR  A.  POE 
spoke  of  her  thus : 

"Mrs.  Osfiooo  has  a  rich  fancy — even  a  rich 
imagination — a  scrupulous  taste,  a  faultless  style, 
and  an  ear  finely  attuned  to  the  delicacies  of  me- 
lody. In  that  vague  and  anomalous  something 
which  we  call  grace,  for  want  of  a  more  definite 
term,  and  which,  perhaps,  in  its  supreme  develop- 
ment, may  be  found  to  comprehend  nearly  all  that 
is  genuine  in  poetry — in  this  magical  quality — ma- 
gical, because  at  once  so  shadowy  and  so  irresisti- 
ble, Mrs.  OSGOOD  has  assuredly  no  superior  in 
America,  if,  indeed,  she  has  any  equal  under  the 
sun." 


THE  UNEXPECTED  DECLARATION. 

"  AZURE-EYED  ELOISE  !  beauty  is  thine, 
Passion  kneels  to  thee,  and  calls  thee  divine ; 
Minstrels  awaken  the  lute  with  thy  name ; 
Poets  have  gladden'd  the  world  with  thy  fame ; 
Painters,  half-holy  thy  loved  image  keep; 
Beautiful  ELOISE  !  why  do  you  weep  V 

Still  bows  the  lady  her  light  tresses  low, 

Fast  the  warm  tears  from  her  veiled  eyes  flow ! 

"  Sunny-hair'd  ELOISE  !  wealth  is  thine  own  ; 
Rich  is  thy  silken  robe — bright  is  thy  zone ; 
Proudly  the  jewel  illumines  thy  way ; 
Clear  rubies  rival  thy  ruddy  lips'  play ; 
Diamonds  like  star-drops  thy  silken  braids  deck ; 
Pearls  waste  their  snow  on  thy  lovelier  neck ; 
Luxury  softens  thy  pillow  for  sleep — 
Angels  watch  over  it! — why  do  you  weep1?" 

Bows  the  fair  lady  her  light  tresses  low, — 
Faster  the  tears  from  her  veiled  eyes  flow ! 


"  Gifted  and  worshipp'd  one !  genius  and  grace 
Play  in  each  motion,  and  beam  in  thy  face : 
When  from  thy  rosy  lip  rises  the  song, 
Hearts  that  adore  thee  the  echo  prolong ! 
Ne'er  in  the  festival  shone  an  eye  brighter, 
Ne'er  in  the  mazy  dance  fell  a  foot  lighter. 
One  only  spirit  thou'st  fail'd  to  bring  down, — 
Exquisite  ELOISE  !  why  do  you  frown?" 

Swift  o'er  her  forehead  a  dark  shadow  stole. 
Sent  from  the  tempest  of  pride  in  her  soul ! 

"  Touch'd  by  thy  sweetness,  in  love  with  thy  grace, 
Charm'd  by  the  magic  of  mind  in  thy  face — 
Bewitch'd  by  thy  beauty,  e'en  his  haughty  strength, 
The  strength  of  the  stoic,  is  conquer'd  at  length ! 
Lo  !  at  thy  feet  see  him  kneeling  the  while — 
ELOISE!  ELOISE!  why  do  you  smile?" 

The  hand  was  withdrawn  from  her  happy  blue  eyes, 
She  gazed  on  her  lover  in  laughing  surprise ;  [cheek, 
While  the  dimple  and  blush,  stealing  soft  to  the 
Told  the  tale  that  her  tongue  was  too  timid  to  speak ! 

464 


FRANCES   SARGENT    OSGOOD. 


465 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

LEAVE  mo  not  yet!  Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  dear  Ideal  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  beautiful — the  only, 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  all  the  world  depart ! 
Thou,  that  dost  veil  the  frailest  flower  with  glory, 

Spirit  of  light  and  loveliness  and  truth ! 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet,  fairy  story, 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth ! 
Thou,  who  canst  weave  a  halo  round  the  spirit, 

Through  which  naught  mean  or  evil  dare  intrude, 
Resume  not  yet  the  gift,  which  I  inherit 

From  heaven  and  thee,  that  dearest,  holiest  good ! 
Leave  me  not  now !  Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  starry  prophet  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  my  friend — the  tenderest — the  only, 

With  whom,  of  all,  'twould  be  despair  to  part 

Thou,  that  earnest  to  me  in  my  dreaming  childhood, 

Shaping  the  changeful  clouds  to  pageants  rare, 
Peopling  the  smiling  vale  and  shaded  wildwood, 

With  airy  beings,  faint  yet  strangely  fair; 
Telling  me  all  the  seaborn  breeze  was  saying, 

While  it  went  whispering  through  the  willing 
Bidding  me  listen  to  the  light  rain  playing  [leaves, 

Its  pleasant  tune  about  the  household  eaves; 
Tuning  the  low,  sweet  ripple  of  the  river, 

Till  its  melodious  murmur  seemed  a  song, 
A  tender  and  sad  chant,  repeated  ever, 

A  sweet,  impassion'd  plaint  of  love  and  wrong ! 
Leave  me  not  yet !  Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  star  of  promise  o'er  my  clouded  path ! 
Leave  not  the  life,  that  borrows  from  thee  only 

All  of  delight  and  beauty  that  it  hath ! 

Thou,  that  when  others  knew  not  how  to  love  me, 

Nor  cared  to  fathom  half  my  yearning  soul, 
Didst  wreath  thy  flowers  of  light  around,  above  me, 

To  woo  and  win  me  from  my  grief's  control. 
By  all  my  dreams,  the  passionate  and  holy, 

When  thou  hast  sung  love's  lullaby  to  me; 
By  all  the  childlike  worship,  fond  and  lowly, 

Which  I  have  lavish'd  upon  thine  and  thee; 
By  all  the  lays  my  simple  lute  was  learning, 

To  echo  from  thy  voice,  stay  with  me  still ! 
Once  flown — alas !  for  thee  there's  no  returning, 

The  charm  will  die  o'er  valley,  wocfd  and  hill. 
Tell  me  not  Time,  whose  wing  my  brow  has  shaded, 

Has  wither'd  spring's  sweet  bloom  within  my 
Ah,  no!  the  rose  of  love  is  yet  unfaded,      [heart; 

Though  hope  and  joy,  its  sister  flowers,  depart. 

Well  do  I  know  that  I  have  wrong'd  thine  altar, 

With  the  light  offerings  of  an  idler's  mind, 
And  thus,  with  shame,  my  pleading  prayer  I  falter, 

Leave  me  not,  spirit !  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind ! 
Deaf  to  the  mystic  harmony  of  nature, 

Blind  to  the  beauty  of  her  stars  and  flowers; 
Leave  me  not,  heavenly  yet  human  teacher, 

Lonely  and  lost  in  this  cold  world  of  ours ! 
Heaven  knows  I  need  thy  music  and  thy  beauty 

Still  to  beguile  me  on  my  weary  way, 
To  lighten  to  my  soul  the  cares  of  duty, 

And  bless  with  radiant  dreams  the  darken'd  day ! 


To  charm  my  wild  heart  in  the  worldly  revel, 

Lest  I,  too,  join  the  aimless,  false,  and  vain ; 
Let  me  not  lower  to  the  soulless  level 

Of  those  whom  now  I  pity  and  disdain ! 
Leave  me  not  yet ! — leave  me  not  cold  and  pining, 

Thou  bird  of  paradise,  whose  plumes  of  light 
Where'er  they  rested  left  a  glory  shining, 

Fly  not  to  heaven,  or  let  me  share  thy  flight! 


YOUR  HEART  IS  A  MUSIC-BOX. 

YOUR  heart  is  a  music-box,  dearest ! 

With  exquisite  tunes  at  command, 
Of  melody  sweetest  and  clearest, 

If  tried  by  a  delicate  hand ; 
But  its  workmanship,  love,  is  so  fine, 

At  a  single  rude  touch  it  would  break: 
Then,  0  !  be  the  magic  key  mine, 

Its  fairy-like  whispers  to  wake  ! 
And  there's  one  little  tune  it  can  play 

That  I  fancy  all  others  above — 
You  learn 'd  it  of  CUPID  one  day — 

It  begins  with  and  ends  with  "  I  love  !"  « I  love !" 

It  begins  with  and  ends  with  "  I  love  !" 


TO 


YES!  "lower  to  the  level" 
Of  those  who  laud  thee  now ! 

Go — join  the  joyous  revel, 

And  pledge  the  heartless  vow ! 

Go — dim  the  soul-born  beauty 
That  lights  that  lofty  brow ! 

Fill — fill  the  bowl !     Let  burning  wine 

Drown,  in  thy  soul,  Love's  dream  divine. 

Yet,  when  the  laugh  is  lightest, 

WTien  wildest  goes  the  jest, 
When  gleams  the  wine-cup  brightest, 

And  proudest  heaves  thy  breast, 
And  thou  art  madly  pledging 

Each  gay  and  jovial  guest, 
A  ghost  shall  glide  amid  the  flowers — 
The  shade  of  Love's  departed  hours ! 

And  thou  shalt  turn,  in  sadness, 
From  all  the  splendour  there, 

And  curse  the  revel's  gladness, 
And  hate  the  banquet's  glare, 

And  pine,  'mid  Passion's  madness, 
For  true  Love's  purer  air; 

And  feel  thou'dst  give  their  wildest  glee 

For  one  unsullied  sigh  from  me. 

Yet,  deem  not  this  my  prayer,  love ! 

Ah,  no !  if  I  could  keep 
Thy  altered  heart  from  care,  love, 

And  lull  its  griefs  to  sleep, 
Mine  only  should  despair,  love! 

I — I  alone  would  weep ! 
I — I  alone  would  mourn  the  flowers 
That  fade  in  Love's  deserted  bowers. 


466 


FRANCES    SARGENT   OSGOOD. 


LABOUR. 

PAUSE  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us: 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us ; 
Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 

Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  Heaven ! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  Rose-heart  keeps  glowing, 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"Labour  is  worship!" — the  robin  is  singing: 
"  Labour  is  worship !" — the  wild  bee  is  ringing : 
Listen !  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart. 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft  breathing  flower ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labour  is  life  ! — 'Tis  the  still  water  faileth ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth ! 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labour  is  glory ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens  :    [tune  ! 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in 

Labour  is  rest — from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us, 

Rest  from  world-syrens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow; 
Work — thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow  ; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Wo's  weeping  willow ! 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will ! 

Droop  not  tho'shame,  sin  and  anguish  are  round  thee! 
Bravely  fling  oft"  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee ! 
Look  to  yon  pure  Heaven  smiling  beyond  thee ! 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness — a  clod ! 
Work — for  some  good, — be  it  ever  so  slowly ! 
Cherish  some  flower, — be  it  ever  so  lowly ! 
Labour !     All  labour  is  noble  and  holy ; — 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God ! 


SONG. 

I  LOVF.D  an  ideal — I  sought  it  in  thee ; 
I  found  it  unreal  as  stars  in  the  sea. 

And  shall  I,  disdaining  an  instinct  divine — 

By  falsehood  profaning  that  pure  hope  of  mine — 

Shall  I  stoop  from  my  vision  so  lofty — so  true — 
From  the  light  all  Elysian  that  round  me  itthrewl 

Oh !  guilt  unforgiven,  if  false  I  could  be 

To  myself  and  to  Heaven,  while  constant  to  thee ! 

Ah  no !  though  all  lonely  on  earth  be  my  lot, 
Fll  brave  it,  if  only  that,  trust  fail  me  not — 

The  trust  that,  in  keeping  all  pure  from  control 
The  love  that  lies  sleeping  and  dreams  in  my  soul, 

It  may  wake  in  some  better  and  holier  sphere, 
Unbound  by  the  fetter  fate  hung  on  it  here ! 


LINES  ON  A  DEAF  AND  DUMB  BOY. 

(ADDRESSED  TO  A  CELEBRATED  AURIST.) 

THOU  hast  set  free  a  glorious  world 
Within  his  wondering  brain — 

The  world  of  Thought  that  once  was  furl'd 
And  bound  as  with  a  chain. 

Along  the  wondrous  labyrinth 

That  yields  to  thy  control, 
Thou  hast  let  light  and  music  in 

Upon  a  |orrowing  soul. 

Thou  hast  made  clear  a  precious  path 

Into  his  beating  heart, 
For  the  sweet  thrilling  voice  of  love 
To  enter  and  depart. 

Thou  hast  unseal'd  his  silent  lips ; 

Then  teach  them  to  express 
To  Heaven  and  thee  his  spirit's  wealth 

Of  hope  and  thankfulness. 

For  oh  !  so  deep  the  o'erwhelming  trance 

Of  rapture  in  the  boy, 
The  lips,  once  dumb  from  ignorance, 

Are  wordless  now  from  joy  ! 


SHE  LOVES  HIM  YET. 


SHE  loves  him  yet! 
I  know  by  the  blush  that  rises 

Beneath  the  curls 
That  shadow  her  soul-lit  cheek — 

She  loves  him  yet  F 
Through  all  Love's  sweet  disguises, 

In  timid  girls 
A  blush  will  be  sure  to  speak. 

But  deeper  signs 
Than  the  radiant  blush  of  beauty 

The  maiden  finds 
Whenever  his  name  is  heard 

Her  young  heart  thrills; 
Forgetting  herself — her  duty — 

Her  dark  eye  fills, 
And  her  pulse,  with  hope,  is  stirr'd. 

She  loves  him  yet ! 
The  flower  the  false  one  gave  her, 

When  last  he  came, 
Is  still  with  her  wild  tears  wet 

She'll  ne'er  forget. 
However  his  faith  may  waver, 

Through  grief  and  shame, 
Believe  it — she  loves  him  yet ! 

His  favourite  songs 
She  will  sing — she  heeds  no  other. 

With  all  her  wrongs 
Her  life  on  his  love  is  set. 

Ah !  doubt  no  more  ! 
She  never  can  wed  another  : 

Till  life  be  o'er 
She  loves — she  will  love  him  yet! 


PHILIP    P.    COOKE. 


[Born,  1816  ] 


MR.  COOKE  was  born  in  Martinsburg,  Berkeley 
county,  Virginia,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  October, 
1816.  His  father,  JOHX  R.  COOKE,  of  Richmond, 
has  long  teen  a  man  of  honourable  distinction  in 
the  Virginia  bar.  Mr.  COOKE'S  first  essays  in 
poetry  were  contributed  to  the  "Knickerbocker" 
magazine,  then  edited  by  CHAHLES  F.  HOFFMAX, 
while  he  was  a  student  in  the  college  of  Princeton. 
Before  arriving  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  Mr. 
COOKE  was  married,  and  settled  as  a  lawyer,  in 
the  pleasant  village  of  Millwood,  on  the  banks  of 


EMILY: 
PROEM  TO  THE  "FROISSART  BALLADS." 

YOUNG  Emily  has  temples  fair, 
Caress'd  by  locks  of  dark  brown  hair. 

A  thousand  sweet  humanities 
Speak  wisely  from  her  hazel  eyes. 

Her  speech  is  ignorant  of  command, 
And  yet  can  lead  you  like  a  hand. 

Her  white  teeth  sparkle,  when  the  eclipse 
Is  laughter-moved,  of  her  red  lips. 

She  moves,  all  grace,  with  gliding  limbs 
As  a  white-breasted  cygnet  swims. 

In  her  sweet  childhood,  Emily 
Was  wild  with,  natural  gayety, 
A  little  creature,  full  of  laughter, 
Who  cast  no  thought  before  or  after, 
And  knew  not  custom  or  its  chains. 
The  dappled  fawns  upon  the  plains, 
The  birds  that  love  the  upper  sky, 
Lived  not  in  lovelier  liberty. 

But  with  this  natural  merriment, 
Mind,  and  the  ripening  years  have  blent 
A  thou^htfulness — not  melancholy — 
Which  wins  her  life  away  from  folly  ; 
Checking  somewhat  the  natural  gladness, 
But  saved,  by  that  it  checks,  from  sadness — 
Like  clouds  athwart  a  May-morn  sailing, 
Which  take  the  golden  light  they  are  veiling. 

She  loves  her  kind,  and  shuns  no  duty, 
Her  virtues  sanctify  her  beauty, 
And  all  who  know  her  say  that  she 
Was  born  for  man's  felicity — 
I  know  that  she  was  born  for  mine. 
Dearer  than  any  joy  of  wine, 
Or  pomp,  or  gold,  or  man's  loud  praise, 
Or  purple  power,  art  thou  to  me — 
Kind  cheerer  of  my  clouded  ways — 
Young  vine  upon  a  rugged  tree. 


the  Shenandoah,  where  he  now  resides,  in  the 
practice  of  his  profession,  the  study  of  his  favourite 
authors,  and  the  occasional  enjoyment  of  the  sports 
of  the  rod  and  gun. 

Many  of  Mr.  COOKE'S  pieces  are  very  beautiful. 
His  "  Florence  Vane"  is  one  of  the  most  poetical 
songs  that  have  been  written  in  this  country.  His 
longer  poems  are  elaborate,  full  of  striking  thoughts 
and  delicate  fancies,  and  nearly  all  of  them  contain 
touches  of  tenderness  which  show  to  what  issues 
his  spirit  is  attuned. 


Maidens  who  love  are  full  of  hope, 
And  crowds  hedge  in  its  golden  scope ; 
Wherefore  they  love  green  solitudes 
And  silence  for  their  better  moods. 
I  know  some  wilds,  where  tulip  trees, 
Full  of  the  singing  toil  of  bees, 
Depend  their  loving  branches  over 
Great  rocks,  which  honeysuckles  cover 
In  rich  and  liberal  overflow. 
In  the  dear  time  of  long  ago 
When  I  had  woo'd  young  Emily, 
And  she  had  told  her  love  to  me, 
I  often  found  her  in  these  bowers, 
Quite  rapt  away  in  meditation, 
Or  giving  earnest  contemplation 
To  leaf,  or  bird,  or  wild  wood  flowers ; 
And  once  I  heard  the  maiden  singing, 
Until  the  very  woods  were  ringing — 
Singing  an  old  song  to  the  Hours ! 
I  well  remember  that  rare  song, 
It  charged  the  Hours  with  cruel  wrong — 
Wrong  to  the  verdure  of  the  boughs — 
Wrong  to  the  lustre  of  fair  brows, 
Its  music  had  a  wondrous  sound, 
And  made  the  greenwood  haunted  ground. 

But  I  delay  :  one  jocund  morn — 
A  morn  of  that  blithe  time  of  spring, 
When  milky  blossoms  loa^the  thorn, 
And  birds  so  prate,  and  soar,  and  sing, 
That  melody  is  everywhere, 
On  the  glad  earth,  and  in  the  air, — 
On  such  a  morn  I  went  to  seek 
In  our  wild  haunts  for  Emily. 
I  found  her  where  a  flowering  tree 
Gave  odours  and  cool  shade.     Her  cheek 
A  little  rested  on  her  hand ; 
Her  rustic  skill  had  made  a  band 
Of  rare  device  which  garlanded 
The  beauty  of  her  bending  head ; 

467 


468 


PHILIP   P.    COOKE. 


Some  maiden  thoughts  most  kind  and  wise 

Were  dimly  burning  in  her  eyes. 

When  I  beheld  her — form  and  face 

So  lithe,  so  fair — the  spirit  race, 

Of  whom  the  better  poets  dream'd, 

Came  to  my  thought,  and  I  half  deem'd 

My  earth-born  mistress,  pure  and  good, 

Was  some  such  lady  of  the  wood, 

As  she  who  work'd  at  spell,  and  snare, 

With  Huon  of  the  dusky  hair, 

And  fled,  in  likeness  of  a  doe, 

Before  the  fleet  youth  Angelo. 

But  these  infirm  imaginings 

Flew  quite  away  on  instant  wings. 

I  call'd  her  name.     A  swift  surprise 

Came  whitely  to  her  face,  but  soon 

It  fled  before  some  daintier  dyes, 

And,  laughing  like  a  brook  in  June, 

With  sweet  accost  she  welcomed  me, 

And  I  sat  there  with  Emily. 

The  gods  were  very  good  to  bless 

My  life  with  so  much  happiness. 

The  maiden  on  that  lowly  seat — 

I  sitting  at  her  little  feet ! 

Two  happier  lovers  never  met, 

In  dear  and  talk-charm'd  privacy. 

It  was  a  golden  day  to  me, 

And  its  great  bliss  is  with  me  yet, 

Warming  like  wine  my  inmost  heart — 

For  memories  of  happy  hours 

Are  like  the  cordials  press'd  from  flowers, 

And  madden  sweetly.     I  impart 

Naught  of  the  love-talk  I  remember, 

For  May's  young  pleasures  are  best  hid 

From  the  cold  prudence  of  December, 

Which  clips  and  chills  all  vernal  wings ; 

And  Love's  own  sanctities  forbid, 

Now  as  of  old,  such  gossipings 

In  Hall,  of  what  befalls  in  Bower, 

But  other  matters  of  the  hour, 

Of  which  it  breaks  no  faith  to  tell, 

My  homely  rhyme  shall  chronicle. 

As  silently  we  sat  alone — 
Our  love-talk  spent — two  mated  birds 
Began  to  prate  in  loving  tone ; 
Quoth  Emily,  "  They  sure  have  words ! 
Didst  hear  them  say  '  My  sired,'  '  My  dear' .?" 
And  as  they  chirp'd  we  laugh'd  to  he 

Soon  after  this  a  southern  wind 
Came  sobbing  like  a  hunted  hind 
Into  the  quiet  of  the  glen  : 
The  maiden  mused  awhile,  and  then 
Worded  her  thought  right  playfully. 
"  The  winds,"  she^ku'd,  "  of  land  and  sea, 
My  friend,  are  surely  living  things 
That  come  and  go  on  unseen  wings. 
The  teeming  air  and  prodigal, 
Which  droops  its  azure  over  all, 
Is  full  of  immortalities 
That  look  on  us  with  unseen  eyes. 
This  sudden  wind  that  hath  come  here, 
With  its  hard  sobs  of  pain  or  fear, 
It  may  be,  is  a  spirit  kind, 
That  loves  the  bruised  flowers  to  bind, 
Whose  task  it  is  to  shake  the  dew 


From  the  sad  violet's  eye  of  blue, 
Or  chase  the  honey-making  thieves 
From  off  the  rose,  and  shut  its  leaves 
Against  the  cold  of  April  eves. 
Perhaps  its  dainty,  pink-tipt  hands 
Have  plied  such  tasks  in  far  off  lands 
And  now,  perchance,  some  grim  foe  follows 
The  little  wight  to  these  green  hollows." 
Such  gentle  words  had  Emily 
For  the  south  wind  in  the  tulip  tree. 

A  runnel,  hidden  by  the  trees, 
Gave  out  some  natural  melodies. 
She  said,  "  The  brook,  among  the  stones, 
Is  solemn  in  its  undertones ; 
How  like  a  hymn !  the  singing  creature 
Is  worshipping  the  God  of  nature." 
But  I  replied,  "My  dear — not  so; 
Thy  solemn  eyes,  thy  brow  of  snow, 
And,  more  than  these,  thy  maiden  merit 
Have  won  Undine,  that  gentle  spirit, 
To  sing  her  songs  of  love  to  thee." 
Swift  answer'd  merry  Emily — 
"Undine  is  but  a  girl,  you  know, 
And  would  not  pine  for  love  of  me ; 
She  has  been  peering  from  the  brook, 
And  glimpsed  at  you."     She  said  and  shook 
With  a  rare  fit  of  silvery  laughter. 
I  was  more  circumspect  thereafter, 
And  dealt  in  homelier  talk.     A  man 
May  call  a  white-brow'd  girl  "  Dian," 
But  likes  not  to  be  turn'd  upon, 
And  nick-named  "Young  Endymion." 

My  Emily  loved  very  well, 
At  times,  those  ancient  lays  which  tell 
Rude  natural  tales ;  she  had  no  lore 
Of  trouvere,  or  of  troubadour, 
Nor  knew  what  difference  there  might  be 
Between  the  tongues  of  or  and  oui  ; 
But  hearing  old  tales,  loved  them  all 
If  truth  but  made  them  natural. 
In  our  good  talks,  we  oft  went  o'er 
The  little  horde  of  my  quaint  lore, 
Cull'd  out  of  old  melodious  fable. 
She  little  cared  for  Arthur's  table, 
For  tales  of  doughty  Launcelot, 
Or  Tristram,  or  of  him  who  smote 
The  giant,  Angoulafre  hight, 
And  moari'd  for  love  by  day  and  night 
She  little  cared  for  such  as  these, 
But  if  I  cross'd  the  Pyrenees, 
With  the  great  peers  of  Charlemagne, 
Descending  toward  the  Spanish  plain, 
Her  eye  would  lighten  at  the  strain ; 
And  it  would  moisten  with  a  tear 
The  sud  end  of  that  tale  to  hear — 
How  all  aweary,  worn  and  white, 
And  urging  his  failing  steed  amain, 
A  courier  from  the  south,  one  night, 
Reach'd  the  great  city  of  the  Seine ; 
And  how  at  that  same  time  and  hour, 
The  briile  of  Roland  Iny  in  Bower 
Wakeful,  and  quick  of  ear  to  win 
Some  rumour  of  her  Paladin — 
And  how  it  came  in  sudden  cries, 
That  shook  the  earth  and  rent  the  skies ; 


PHILIP    P.    COOKE. 


469 


And  how  the  messenger  of  fate — 
That  courier  who  rode  so  late — 
Was  dragg'd  on  to  her  palace  gate ; 
And  how  the  lady  sat  in  hall, 
Moaning  among  her  damsels  all, 
At  the  wild  tale  of  Ronceval. 
That  story  sounds  like  solemn  truth, 
And  she  would  hear  it  with  such  ruth 
As  sympathetic  hearts  will  pay 
To  real  griefs  of  yesterday. 

Pity  look'd  lovely  in  the  maiden; 
Her  eyes  were  softer,  when  so  laden 
With  the  bright  dew  of  tears  unshed. 
But  I  was  somewhat  envious 
That  other  bards  should  move  her  thus, 
And  oft  within  myself  had  said, 
"  Yea — I  will  strive  to  touch  her  heart 
With  some  fair  songs  of  mine  own  art" — 
And  many  days  before  the  day 
Whereof  I  speak,  I  made  assay 
At  this  bold  labour.     In  the  wells 
Of  Froissart's  life-like  chronicles 
I  dipp'd  for  moving  truths  of  old. 
A  thousand  stories,  soil  and  bold, 
Of  stately  dames,  and  gentlemen, 
Which  good  Lord  Berncrs,  with  a  pen 
Pompous  in  its  simplicity, 
Yet  tipt  with  charming  courtesy, 
Had  put  in  English  words,  I  learn'd; 
And  some  of  these  I  deftly  turn'd 
Into  the  forms  of  minstrel  verse. 
I  know  the  good  tales  are  the  worse — 
But,  sooth  to  say,  it  seems  to  me 
My  verse  has  sense  and  melody — 
Even  that  its  measure  sometimes  flows 
V/ith  the  brave  pomp  of  that  old  prose. 

Beneath  our  trysting  tree,  that  day, 
With  dubious  face,  I  read  one  lay ; 
Young  Emily  quite  understood 
My  fears,  and  gave  me  guerdon  good 
In  well-timed  praise,  and  cheer'd  me  on, 
Into  full  flow  of  heart  and  tone. 
And  when,  in  days  of  pleasant  weather, 
Thereafter,  we  were  met  together, 
As  our  strong  love  oft  made  us  meet, 
I  always  took  my  cosy  seat, 
Just  at  the  damsel's  little  feet, 
And  read  my  tales.     It  was  no  friend 
To  me — that  day  that  heard  their  end. 
It  had  become  a  play  of  love, 
To  watch  the  swift  expression  rove 
Over  the  bright  sky  of  her  face — 
To  steal  those  upward  looks,  and  trace 
In  every  change  of  cheek  and  eye, 
The  influence  of  my  poesy. 

I  made  my  verse  for  Emily — 
I  give  it,  reader,  now  to  thee. 
The  tales  which  I  have  toil'd  to  tell 
Of  Dame  in  hall  and  knight  in  Selle, 
Of  faithful  love,  and  courage  high — 
Sweet  flower,  strong  staff  of  chivalry — 
These  tales  indeed  are  old  of  date ; 
But  why  should  time  their  force  abate] 
Shall  we  look  back  with  vision  dull 
On  the  old  brave  and  beautiful, 


And,  for  they  lived  so  long  ago, 

Be  careless  of  their  mirth  or  wo? 

If  sympathy  knows  but  to-day — 

If  time  quite  wears  its  nerve  away — 

If  deeds  majestically  bold, 

In  words  of  ancient  music  told, 

Are  only  food  for  studious  minds 

And  touch  no  hearts — if  man  but  finds 

An  abstract  virtue  in  the  faith, 

That  clung  to  truth,  and  courted  death, — 

If  he  can  lift  the  dusky  pall 

With  dainty  hand  artistical 

And  smile  at  woes,  because  some  years 

Have  swept  between  them  and  his  tears — 

I  say,  my  friend,  if  this  may  be, 

Then  burn  old  books ;  antiquity 

Is  no  more  than  a  skeleton 

Of  painted  vein  and  polish'd  bone. 

Reader !  the  minstrel  brotherhood, 
Earnest  to  soothe  thy  listening  mood, 
Were  wont  to  style  thee  Gentle,  Good, 
Noble  or  Gracious : — they  could  bow 
With  loyal  knee,  yet  open  brow — 
They  knew  to  temper  thy  decision 
With  graces  of  a  proud  submission. 
That  wont  is  changed.     Yet  I,  a  man 
Of  this  new  land  republican, 
Where  insolence  wins  upward  better 
Than  courtesy — that  old  dead  letter — 
And  toil  claims  pay  with  utterance  sharp, 
Follow  the  good  Lords  of  the  Harp, 
And  dub  thee  with  each  courtly  phrase, 
And  ask  indulgence  for  my  lays. 


LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS. 

SUMMER  has  gone, 

And  fruitful  autumn  has  advanced  so  far 
That  there  is  warmth,  not  heat,  in  the  broad  sun, 
And  you  may  look,  with  naked  eye,  upon 

The  ardours  of  his  car ; 
The  stealthy  frosts,  whom  his  spent  looks  embolden, 

Are  making  the  green  leaves  golden. 

What  a  brave  splendour 
Is  in  the  October  air !  How  rich,  and  clear, 
And  bracing,  and  all-joyous !  we  must  render 
Love  to  the  spring-time,  with  its  sproutings  tender, 

As  to  a  child  quite  dear; 
But  autumn  is  a  thing  of  perfect  glory, 

A  manhood  not  yet  hoary. 

I  love  the  woods, 

In  this  good  season  of  the  liberal  year; 
I  love  to  seek  their  leafy  solitudes, 
And  give  myself  to  melancholy  moods, 

With  no  intruder  near, 
And  find  strange  lessons,  as  I  sit  and  ponder, 

In  every  natural  wonder. 

But  not  alone, 

As   Shakspearc's   melancholy  courtier   loved  Ar- 
dennes, 

Love  I  the  browning  forest ;  and  I  own 
I  would  not  oft  have,  mused,  as  he,  but  flown 
To  hunt  with  Amiens — 
2R 


470 


PHILIP    P.    COOKE. 


And  little  thought,  as  up  the  bold  deer  bounded, 
Of  the  sad  creature  wounded. 

A  brave  and  good, 

But  world-worn  knight* — soul  wearied  with  hispart 
In  this  vext  life — gave  man  for  solitude, 
And  built  a  lodge,  and  lived  in  Wantley  wood, 

To  hear  the  bellingf  Hart. 
It  was  a  gentle  taste,  but  its  sweet  sadness 

Yields  to  the  Hunter's  madness. 

What  passionate 

And  keen  delight  is  in  the  proud  swift  chase ! 
Go  out  what  time  the  lark  at  heaven's  red  gate 
Soars  joyously  singing — quite  infuriate 

With  the  high  pride  of  his  place ; 
What  time  the  unrisen  sun  arrays  the  morning 

In  its  first  bright  adorning. 

Hark !  the  quick  horn — 
As  sweet  to  hear  as  any  clarion — 
Piercing  with  silver  call  the  ear  of  morn ; 
And  mark  the  steeds,  stout  Curtal  and  Topthorne 

And  Greysteil  and  the  Don — 
Each  one  of  them  his  fiery  mood  displaying 

With  pawing  and  with  neighing. 

Urge  your  swift  horse, 
After  the  crying  hounds  in  this  fresh  hour, 
Vanquish  high  hills — stem  perilous  streams  perforce, 
On  the  free  plain  give  free  wings  to  your  course, 

And  you  will  know  the  power 
Of  the  brave  chase — and  how  of  griefs  the  sorest 

A  cure  is  in  the  forest 

Or  stalk  the  deer ; 

The  same-red  lip  of  dawn  has  kiss'd  the  hills, 
The  gladdest  sounds  are  crowding  on  your  ear, 
There  is  a  life  in  all  the  atmosphere : — 

Your  very  nature  fills 
With  the  fresh  hour,  as  up  the  hills  aspiring 

You  climb  with  limbs  untiring. 

It  is  a  fair 

And  goodly  sight  to  see  the  antler'd  stag, 
With  the  long  sweep  of  his  swift  walk  repair 
To  join  his  brothers ;  or  the  plethoric  Bear 

Lying  on  some  high  crag, 
With  pinky  eyes  half  closed,  but  broad  head  shaking, 

As  gad-flies  keep  him  waking. 

And  these  you  see, 

And  seeing  them,  you  travel  to  their  death 
With  a  slow  stealthy  step,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Noting  the  wind  however  faint  it  be. 

The  hunter  draws  a  breath 

*  Sir  THOMAS  WORTLKY. 

t  Belling  is  an  old  word  for  the  peculiar  cry  of  the  Hart. 
See  a  letter,  written  by  GEORGE  ELLIS,  in  LOCKHART'S 
Life  of  SCOTT,  giving  an  account  of  Sir  THOMAS  Wour- 
LEY  and  his  reason  for  building  his  lodge. 


In  times  like  these,  which,  he  will  say,  repays  him 
For  all  care  that  waylays  him. 

A  strong  joy  fills 

(A  joy  beyond  the  tongue's  expressive  power) 
My  heart  in  autumn  weather — fills  and  thrills ! 
And  I  would  rather  stalk  the  breezy  hills, 

Descending  to  my  bower 
Nightly,  by  the  sweet  spirit  of  Peace  attended, 

Than  pine  where  life  is  splendid. 


FLORENCE  VANE. 

I  LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again ; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hopes,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told, — 
That  spot — the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excell'd  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane ! 

But,  fairest,  coldest,  wonder  ! 
Thy  glorious  clay 

Lieth  the  green  sod  under—- 
Alas, the  day ! 

And  it  boots  not  to  remember 
Thy  disdain — 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 
Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep ; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane ! 


EPES   SARGENT. 


[Born,  1816.] 


THE  author  of  "Velasco"  is  a  native  of  Glou- 
cester, a  town  on  the  sea-coast  of  Massachusetts, 
and  was  born  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  September, 
1816.  His  father,  a  respectable  merchant,  of  the 
same  name,  is  still  living,  and  resides  in  Boston. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  educated  in  the 
schools  of  that  city  and  the  neighbourhood,  where 
he  lived  until  his  removal  to  New  York,  in  1837. 
His  earliest  metrical  compositions  were  printed  in 
"The  Collegian,"  a  monthly  miscellany  edited  by 
several  of  the  students  of  Harvard  College,  of  the 
junior  and  senior  classes  of  1830.  One  of  his 
contributions  to  that  work,  entitled  "Twilight 
Sketches,"  exhibits  the  grace  of  style,  ease  of  ver- 
sification, and  variety  of  description,  which  are 
characteristic  of  his  more  recent  effusions.  It  was 
a  sketch  of  the  Summer  Gardens  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  was  written  during  a  visit  to  that  capi- 
tal in  the  spring  of  1828. 

Mr.  SARGENT'S  reputation  rests  principally  on 
his  dramas,  which  bear  a  greater  value  in  the 
closet  than  on  the  stage.  His  first  appearance 
as  a  dramatic  author  was  in  the  winter  of  1836, 
when  his  "  Bride  of  Genoa"  was  brought  out  at  the 
Tremont  Theatre,  in  Boston.  This  was  a  five-act 
play,  founded  on  incidents  in  the  career  of  ANTONIO 
MONTALUO,  a  plebeian,  who  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two,  made  himself  doge  of  Genoa,  in  1693,  and 
who  is  described  in  the  history  of  the  times  as  a 
man  of  "forgiving  temper,"  but  daring  and  ambi- 
tious, with  a  genius  adequate  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  vast  designs.  In  the  delineation  of  his 
hero,  the  author  has  followed  the  historical  record, 
though  the  other  characters  and  incidents  of  the 
drama  are  entirely  fictitious.  It  was  successfully 


RECORDS  OF  A  SUMMER-VOYAGE  TO 
CUBA. 

I. THE    DEPARTURE. 

AGAIN  thy  winds  are  pealing  in  mine  ear! 
Again  thy  waves  are  flashing  in  my  sight! 
Thy  meaiory-haunting  tones  again  I  hear, 
As  through  the  spray  our  vessel  wings  her  (light ! 
On  thy  cerulean  breast,  now  swelling  high, 
Again,  thou  broad  Atlantic,  am  I  cast ! 
Six  years,  with  noiseless  tread,  have  glided  by, 
Since,  an  adventurous  boy,  I  hail'd  thee  last, 
The  sea-birds  o'er  me  wheel,  as  if  to  greet 
An  old  companion;  on  my  naked  brow 
The  sparkling  foam-drops  not  unkindly  beat;  [now 
Flows  through  my  hair  the  freshening  breeze — and 
The  horizon's  ring  ericlasps  me ;  and  I  stand 
Gazing  whore  fades  from  view,  cloud-like,  my  father- 
land! 


performed  in  Boston,  and  since  in  many  of  the 
first  theatres  of  the  country.  His  next  production 
was  of  a  much  higher  order,  and  as  a  specimen  of 
dramatic  art,  has  received  warm  commendation 
from  the  most  competent  judges.  It  was  the  tragedy 
of  "Velasco,"  first  performed  at  Boston,  in  No- 
vember, 1837,  Miss  ELLEN  THEE  in  the  character 
of  IzinoRA,  and  subsequently  at  the  principal 
theatres  in  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Washington, 
and  New  Orleans.  It  was  published  in  New  York 
in  1839.  "The  general  action  of  the  piece,"  says 
the  author  in  his  preface,  "is  derived  from  incidents 
in  the  career  of  RODRIGO  DIAZ,  the  Cid,  whose 
achievements  constitute  so  considerable  a  portion 
of  the  historical  and  romantic  literature  of  Spain." 
The  subject  had  been  variously  treated  by  French 
and  Spanish  dramatists,  among  others,  by  COR- 
NEILLE,  but  Mr.  SARGENT  was  the  first  to  intro- 
duce it  successfully  upon  the  English  stage.  It  is 
a  chaste  and  elegant  performance,  and  probably 
has  not  been  surpassed  by  any  similar  work  by 
so  youthful  an  author.  It  was  written  before  Mr. 
SARGENT  was  twenty-one  years  of  age. 

In  the  beginning  of  1847  Mr.  SARGENT  pub- 
lished in  Boston  a  volume  entitled  "  Songs  of  the 
Sea,  and  other  Poems,"  and  a  new  edition  of  his 
plays.  The  quatorzains  written  during  a  voyage 
to  Cuba,  in  the  spring  of  1 835,  appear  to  be  among 
the  most  elaborate  of  his  sea  pieces,  but  some  of 
his  nautical  lyrics  are  more  spirited. 

He  has  published  anonymously  several  prose 
works,  and  in  1846  commenced  the  publication  of 
the  "Modern  Acting  Drama,"  of  which  several 
volumes  have  been  issued  under  his  editorial  su- 
pervision. 


II. THE    GALE. 

The  night  came  down  in  terror.     Through  the 

air 

Mountains  of  clouds,  with  lurid  summits,  roll'd ; 
The  lightning  kindling  with  its  vivid  glare 
Their  outlines,  as  they  rose,  heap'd  fold  on  fold, 
The  wind,  in  fitful  sughs,  swept  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  then  a  sudden  lull,  gentle  as  sleep, 
Soft  as  an  infant's  breathing,  seem'd  to  be 
Lain,  like  enchantment,  on  the  throbbing  deep. 
But,  false  the  calm!    for  soon  the  strengthen'd 

gale 

Burst,  in  one  loud  explosion,  far  and  wide, 
Drowning  the  thunder's  voice  !    With  every  sail 
Close-reef 'd,  our  groaning  ship  beel'd  on  her  side ; 
The  torn  waves  comb'd  the  deck ;  while  o'er  the 

mast 

The  meteors  of  the  storm  a  ghastly  radiance  cast ! 

471 


472 


EPES   SARGENT. 


III. MORNING   AFTER    THE    GALE. 

Bravely  our  trim  ship  rode  the  tempest  through; 
And,  when  the  exhausted  gale  had  ceased  to  rave, 
How  broke  the  day-star  on  the  gazer's  view ! 
How  flush'd  the  orient  every  crested  wave ! 
The  sun  threw  down  his  shield  of  golden  light 
In  fierce  defiance  on  the  ocean's  bed ; 
Whereat,  the  clouds  betook  themselves  to  flight, 
Like  routed  hosts,  with  banners  soil'd  and  red. 
The  sky  was  soon  all  brilliance,  east  and  west; 
All  traces  of  the  gale  had  pass'd  away — 
The  chiming  billows,  by  the  breeze  caress'd, 
Toss'd  lightly  from  their  heads  the  feathery  spray. 
Ah!  thus  may  Hope's  auspicious  star  again 
Rise  o'er  the  troubled  soul  where  gloom  and  grief 
have  been ! 

IT. TO  A  LAND-BIRD. 

Thou  wanderer  from  green  fields  and  leafy  nooks ! 
Where  blooms  the  flower  and  toils  the  honey-bee; 
Where  odorous  blossoms  drift  along  the  brooks, 
And  woods  and  hills  are  very  fair  to  see — 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  native  bough  to  roam, 
With  drooping  wing,  far  o'er  the  briny  billow! 
Thou  canst  not,  like  the  osprey,  cleave  the  foam, 
Nor,  like  the  petrel,  make  the  wave  thy  pillow. 
Thou'rt  like  those  fine-toned  spirits,  gentle  bird, 
Which,  from  some  better  land,  to  this  rude  life 
Seem  borne — they  struggle,  mid  the  common  herd, 
With  powers  unfitted  for  the  selfish  strife  ! 
Haply,  at  length,  some  zephyr  wafts  them  back 
To  their  own  home  of  peace,  across  the  world's 
dull  track. 

V. A  THOUGHT   OF  THE   PAST. 

I  woke  from  slumber  at  the  dead  of  night, 
Stirr'd  by  a  dream  which  was  too  sweet  to  last — 
A  dream  of  boyhood's  season  of  delight ; 
It  flash'd  along  the  dim  shapes  of  the  past ! 
And,  as  I  mused  upon  its  strange  appeal, 
Thrilling  my  heart  with  feelings  undefined, 
Old  memories,  bursting  from  time's  icy  seal, 
Rush'd,  like  sun-stricken  fountains,  on  my  mind. 
Scenes,  among  which  was  cast  my  early  home, 
My  favourite  haunts,  the  shores,  the  ancient  woods, 
Where,  with  my  schoolmates,  I  was  wont  to  roam, 
Green,  sloping  lawns,  majestic  solitudes — 
All  rose  before  me,  till,  by  thought  beguiled, 
Freely  I  could  have  wept,  as  if  once  more  a  child. 

'      TI. TROPICAL   WEATHER. 

We  are  afloat  upon  the  tropic  sea ! 
Here  summer  holdeth  a  perpetual  reign  : 
How  flash  the  waters  in  their  bounding  glee ! 
The  sky's  soft  purple  is  without  a  stain  !  [Mowing, 
Full  in  our  wake  the  smooth,  warm  trade-winds 
To  their  unvarying  goal  still  faithful  run ; 
And  as  we  steer,  with  sails  I  efore  them  flowing, 
Nearer  the  zenith  daily  climbs  the  sun. 
The  startled  flying-fish  around  us  skim, 
Gloss'd,  like  the  hummingbird,  with  nrnbow  dyes ; 
And,  as  they  dip  into  the  water's  brim, 
Swift  in  pursuit  the  preying  dolphin  hies. 
All,  all  is  fair;  and,  gazing  round,  we  feel 
The  south's  soft  languor  gently  o'er  our  senses  steal. 


VII. A   CALM. 

O !  for  one  draught  of  cooling  northern  air ! 
That  it  might  pour  its  freshness  on  me  now; 
That  it  might  kiss  my  cheek  and  cleave  my  hair, 
And  part  its  currents  round  my  fever'd  brow ! 
Ocean,  and  sky,  and  earth  !  a  blistering  calm 
Spread  over  all !  how  weary  wears  the  day  ! 
O,  lift  the  wave,  and  bend  the  distant  palm, 
Breeze !  wheresoe'er  thy  lagging  pinions  stray, 
Triumphant  burst  upon  the  level  deep, 
Rock  the  fix'd  hull  and  swell  the  clinging  sail! 
Arouse  the  opal  clouds  that  o'er  us  sleep, 
Sound  thy  shrill  whistle !  we  will  bid  thee  hail ! 
Though  wrapt  in  all  the  storm-clouds  of  the  north, 
Yet  from  thy  home  of  ice,  come  forth,  O,  breeze, 
corne  forth ! 

VIII. A   WISH. 

That  I  were  in  some  forest's  green  retreat, 
Beneath  a  towering  arch  of  proud  old  elms ; 
Where  a  clear  streamlet  gurgled  at  my  feet — 
Its  wavelets  glittering  in  their  tiny  helms ! 
Thick  clustering  vines,  in  many  a  rich  festoon, 
From  the  high,  rustling  branches  should  depend ; 
Weaving  a  net,  through  which  the  sultry  noon 
Might  stoop  in  vain  its  fiery  beams  to  send. 
There,  prostrate  on  some  rock's  gray  sloping  side, 
Upon  whose  tinted  moss  the  dew  yet  lay, 
Would  I  catch  glimpses  of  the  clouds  that  ride 
Athwart  the  sky — and  dream  the  hours  away ; 
While  through  the  alleys  of  the  sunless  wood 
The  fanning  breeze  might  steal,  with  wild-flowers' 
breath  imbued. 

IX. TROPICAL   NIGHT. 

But,  0 !  the  night ! — the  cool,  luxurious  night, 
Which  closes  round  us  when  the  day  grows  dim, 
And  the  sun  sinks  from  his  meridian  height 
Behind  the  ocean's  occidental  rim ! 
Clouds,  in  thin  streaks  of  purple,  green,  and  red, 
Lattice  his  parting  glory,  and  absorb 
The  last  bright  emanations  that  are  shed 
In  wide  profusion,  from  his  failing  orb. 
And  now  the  moon,  her  lids  unclosing,  deigns 
To  smile  serenely  on  the  charmed  sea, 
That  shines  as  if  inlaid  with  lightning-chains, 
From  which  it  hardly  struggled  to  be  free. 
Swan-like,  with  motion  unperceived,  we  glide, 
Touch'd  by  the  downy  breeze,  and  favour'd  by  the  tide. 

X. THE    PLANET    JUPITER. 

Ever,  at  night,  have  I  look'd  first  for  thee, 
O'er  all  thy  astral  sisterhood  supreme  ! 
Ever,  at  night,  have  I  look'd  up  to  see 
The  diamond  lustre  of  thy  quivering  beam ; 
Shining  sometimes  through  pillowy  clouds  serene, 
As  they  part  from  thee,  like  a  loosen'd  scroll ; 
Sometimes  unveil'd,  in  all  thy  native  sheen, 
When  no  pale  vapours  underneath  thee  roll. 
Bright  planet!  that  art  but  a  single  ray 
From  our  Creator's  throne,  illume  my  soul ! 
Thy  influence  shed  upon  my  doubtful  way 
Through  life's  dark  vista  to  the  immortal  goal — 
Gleam  but  as  now  upon  my  dying  eyes  [shall  rise. 
And  hope,  from  earth  to  thee,  irom  thee  to  heaven, 


EPES   SARGENT. 


473 


XI. TO 

Leagues  of  blue  ocean  are  between  us  spread ; 
And  I  cannot  behold  thee  save  in  dreams ! 
I  may  not  hear  thy  voice,  nor  list  thy  tread, 
Nor  see  the  light  that  ever  round  thee  gleams. 
Fairest  and  best !  mid  summer  joys,  ah,  say, 
Dost  thou  e'er  think  of  one  who  thinks  of  thee — 
The  Atlantic-wanderer,  who,  day  by  day, 
Looks  for  thine  image  in  the  deep,  deep  sea  ? 
Long  months,  and  years,  perchance.will  pass  away, 
Ere  he  shall  gaze  into  thy  face  again ; 
He  cannot  know  what  rocks  and  quicksands  may 
Await  him,  on  the  future's  shipless  main ; 
But,  thank'd  be  memory  !  there  are  treasures  still, 
Which  the  triumphant  mind  holds  subject  to  its  will. 

XII. — CUBA. 

What  sounds  arouse  me  from  my  slumbers  light? 
"  Land  ho  !  all  hands  ahoy  /" — I  'in  on  the  deck. 
'T  is  early  dawn.     The  day-star  yet  is  bright 
A  few  white  vapoury  bars  the  zenith  fleck. 
And  lo  !  along  the  horizon,  bold  aud  high, 
The  purple  hills  of  Cuba !  hail,  all  hail ! 
Isle  of  undying  verdure,  with  thy  sky 
Of  purest  azure  !     Welcome,  odorous  gale  ! 
O  !  scene  of  life  and  joy !  thou  art  array'd 
In  hues  of  unimagined  loveliness — 
Sing  louder,  brave  old  mariner !  and  aid 
My  swelling  heart  its  rapture  to  express ; 
For  from  enchanted  memory  never  more    [shore  ! 
Shall  fade  this  dawn  sublime,  this  bright,  celestial 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  PAST. 

WE  will  not  deplore  them,  the  days  that  are  past; 
The  gloom  of  misfortune  is  over  them  cast ; 
They  are  lengthen'd  by  sorrow  and  sullied  by  care; 
Their  griefs  were  too  many,  their  joys  were  too  rare ; 
Yet,  now  that  their  shadows  are  on  us  no  more, 
Let  us  welcome  the  prospect  that  brightens  before ! 

We  have  cherish'd  fair  hopes,  we  have  plotted 

brave  schemes, 

We  have  lived  till  we  find  them  illusive  as  dreams ; 
Wealth  has  melted  like  snow  that  is  grasp'd  in  the 

hand, 
And  the  steps  we  have  climb'd  have  departed  like 

sand  ; 

Yet  shall  we  despond  while  of  health  unbereft, 
And  honour,  bright  honour,  and  freedom  are  left] 

O  !  shall  we  despond,  while  the  pages  of  time 
Yet  open  before  us  their  records  sublime  !  [gold, 
While,  ennobled  by  treasures  more  precious  than 
Wi;  ran  walk  with  the  martyrs  and  heroes  of  old; 
While  humanity  whispors  such  truths  in  the  ear, 
As  it  softens  the  heart  like  sweet  music  to  hear  1 

O  !  shall  we  despond  while,  with  visions  still  free, 
We  can  gaze  on  the  sky,  and  the  earth,  and  the  sea; 
While  the  sunshine  can  waken  a  burst  of  delight, 
And  the  stars  arc  a  joy  and  a  glory  by  night: 
While  each  harmony,  running  through  nature,  can 

raise 
In  our  spirits  the  impulse  of  gladness  and  praise  1 

O  !  let  us  no  longer  then  vainly  lament 
Over  scenes  that  are  faded  and  days  that  are  spent : 
60 


But,  by  faith  unforsaken,  unawed  by  mischance, 
On  hope's  waving  banner  still  fix'd  be  our  glance; 
And,  should  fortune  prove  cruel  and  false  to  the  last, 
Let  us  look  to  the  future  and  not  to  the  past  ! 

THE  MARTYROF  THE  ARENA. 


_ 

'D  be  the  hero  evermore, 

Who  at  mercy's  call  has  nobly  died  ! 
Echoed  be  his  name  from  shore  to  shore, 

With  immortal  chronicles  allied! 
Verdant  be  the  turf  upon  his  dust, 

Bright  the  sky  above,  and  soft  the  air  ! 
In  the  grove  set  up  his  marble  bust, 

And  with  garlands  crown  it,  fresh  and  fair. 
In  melodious  numbers,  that  shall  live 

With  the  music  of  the  rolling  spheres, 
Let  the  minstrel's  inspiration  give 

His  eulogium  to  the  future  years  ! 
Not  the  victor  in  his  country's  cause, 

Not  the  chief  who  leaves  a  people  free, 
Not  the  framer  of  a  nation's  laws 

Shall  deserve  a  greater  fame  than  he  ! 
Hast  thou  heard,  in  Rome's  declining  day, 

How  a  youth,  by  Christian  zeal  impell'd, 
Swept  the  sanguinary  games  away, 

Which  the  Coliseum  once  beheld  1 
Fill'd  with  gazing  thousands  were  the  tiers, 

With  the  city's  chivalry  and  pride, 
When  two  gladiators,  with  their  spears, 

Forward  sprang  from  the  arena's  side. 
Rang  the  dome  with  plaudits  loud  and  long, 

As,  with  shields  advanced,  the  athletes  stood  — 
Was  there  no  one  in  that  eager  throng 

To  denounce  the  spectacle  of  blood  ? 
Aye,  TELEMACHUS,  with  swelling  frame, 

Saw  the  inhuman  sport  renew'd  once  more  : 
Few  among  the  crowd  could  tell  his  name  — 

For  a  cross  was  all  the  badge  he  wore  ! 
Yet,  with  brow  elate  and  godlike  mien, 

Stepp'd  he  forth  upon  the  circling  sand; 
And,  while  all  were  wondering  at  the  scene, 

Check'd  the  encounter  with  a  daring  hand. 
"  Romans  !"  cried  he  —  "  Let  this  reeking  sod 

Never  more  with  human  blood  be  stain'd! 
Let  no  image  of  the  living  GOD 

In  unhallow'd  combat  be  profaned  ! 
Ah  !  too  long  has  this  colossal  dome 

Fail'd  to  sink  and  hide  your  brutal  shows  ! 
Here  I  call  upon  assembled  Rome 

Now  to  swear,  they  shall  forever  close  !" 
Parted  thus,  the  combatants,  with  joy, 

Mid  the  tumult,  found  the  means  to  fly  ; 
In  the  arena  stood  the  undaunted  boy, 

And,  with  looks  adoring,  gazed  on  high. 
Peal'd  the  shout  of  wrath  on  every  side  ; 

Every  hand  was  eager  to  assail  ! 
"Slay  him  !  slay!"  a  hundred  voices  cried, 

Wild  with  fury  —  but  he  did  not  quail  ! 
Hears  he,  as  entranced  he  looks  above, 

Strains  celestial,  that  the  menace  drown? 
Sees  he  angels,  with  their  eyes  of  love, 

Beckoning  to  him,  with  a  martyr's  crown  ? 
Fiercer  swell'd  the  people's  frantic  shout  ! 

Launch'd  against  him  flew  the  stones  like  rain! 
2R2 


474 


EPES   SARGENT. 


Death  and  terror  circled  him  about — 

But  he  stood  and  perish'd — not  in  vain ! 
Not  in  vain  the  youthful  martyr  fell ! 

Then  and  there  he  crush'd  a  bloody  creed ! 
And  his  high  example  shall  impel 

Future  heroes  to  as  great  a  deed  ! 
Stony  answers  yet  remain  for  those 

Who  would  question  and  precede  the  time ! 
In  their  season,  may  they  meet  their  foes, 

Like  TELEMACHUS,  with  front  sublime  ! 


SUMMER  IN  THE  HEART. 

THE  cold  blast  at  the  casement  beats, 
The  window-panes  are  white, 

The  snow  whirls  through  the  empty  streets- 
It  is  a  dreary  night ! 

Sit  down,  old  friend  !  the  wine-cups  wait ; 
Fill  to  o'erflowing !  fill ! 

Though  Winter  howleth  at  the  gate, 
In  our  hearts  'tis  summer  still ! 

For  we  full  many  summer  joys 

And  greenwood  sports  have  shared> 
When,  free  and  ever-roving  boys, 

The  rocks,  the  streams  we  dared ! 
And,  as  I  look  upon  thy  face — 

Back,  back  o'er  years  of  ill, 
My  heart  flies  to  that  happy  place, 

Where  it  is  summer  still ! 

Yes,  though,  like  sere  leaves  on  the  ground, 

Our  early  hopes  are  strown, 
And  cherish'd  flowers  lie  dead  around, 

And  singing  birds  are  flown, — 
The  verdure  is  not  faded  quite, 

Not  mute  all  tones  that  thrill ; 
For,  seeing,  hearing  thee  to-night, 

In  my  heart  'tis  summer  still ! 

Fill  up !  the  olden  times  come  back ! 

With  light  and  life  once  more 
We  scan  the  future's  sunny  track, 

From  youth's  enchanted  shore  ! 
The  lost  return.     Through  fields  of  bloom 

We  wander  at  our  will ; 
Gone  is  the  winter's  angry  gloom — 

In  our  hearts  't  is  summer  still ! 


THE  FUGITIVE  FROM  LOVE. 

Is  there  but  a  single  theme 
For  the  youthful  poet's  dream  1 
Is  there  but  a  single  wire 
To  the  youthful  poet's  lyre  1 
Earth  below  and  heaven  above — 
Can  he  sing  of  naught  but  love  1 

Nay !  the  battle's  dust  I  see  ! 
God  of  war!  I  follow  thee! 
And,  in  martial  numbers,  raise 
Worthy  pseans  to  thy  praise. 
Ah !  she  meets  me  on  the  field — 
If  I  fly  not,  I  must  yield. 

Jolly  patron  of  the  grape ! 
To  thy  arms  I  will  escape ! 


Quick,  the  rosy  nectar  bring ; 
"  lo   BACCHK"  I  will  sing. 
Ha  !   Confusion  !  every  sip 
But  reminds  me  of  her  lip. 

PALLAS  !  give  me  wisdom's  page, 

And  awake  my  lyric  rage ; 

Love  is  fleeting ;  love  is  vain  ; 

I  will  try  a  nobler  strain. 

O,  perplexity  !  my  books 

But  reflect  her  haunting  looks  ! 

JUPITEH  !   on  thee  I  cry  ! 
Take  me  and  my  lyre  on  high ! 
Lo  !  the  stars  beneath  me  gleam  ! 
Here,  O,  poet !  is  a  theme. 
Madness  !  She  has  come  above ! 
Every  chord  is  whispering  "  Love !' 


THE  NIGHT-STORM  AT  SEA. 

'T  is  a  dreary  thing  to  be 

Tossing  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

When  the  sun  has  set  in  clouds, 

And  the  wind  sighs  through  the  shrouds, 

With  a  voice  and  with  a  tone 

Like  a  living  creature's  moan ! 

Look  !  how  wildly  swells  the  surge 
Round  the  black  horizon's  verge ! 
See  the  giant  billows  rise 
From  the  ocean  to  the  sides ! 
While  the  sea-bird  wheels  his  flight 
O'er  their  streaming  crests  of  white. 

List !  the  wind  is  wakening  fast ! 
All  the  sky  is  overcast ! 
Lurid  vapours,  hurrying,  trail 
In  the  pathway  of  the  gale, 
As  it  strikes  us  with  a  shock 
That  might  rend  the  deep-set  rock ! 

Falls  the  strain'd  and  shiver'd  mast ! 
:  Spars  are  scatter'd  by  the  blast ! 
And  the  sails  are  split  asunder, 
As  a  cloud  is  rent  by  thunder; 
And  the  struggling  vessel  shakes, 
As  the  wild  sea  o'er  her  breaks. 

Ah !  what  sudden  light  is  this, 
Blazing  o'er  the  dark  abyss  1 
Lo !  the  full  moon  rears  her  form 
Mid  the  cloud-rifts  of  the  storm, 
And,  athwart  the  troubled  air, 
Shines,  like  hope  upon  despair ! 

Every  leaping  billow  gleams 
With  the  lustre  of  her  beams, 
And  lifts  high  its  fiery  plume 
Through  the  midnight's  parting  gloom : 
While  its  scatter'd  flakes  of  gold 
O'er  the  sinking  deck  are  roll'd. 

Father !  low  on  bended  knee, 
Humbled,  weak,  we  turn  to  thee ! 
Spare  us,  mid  the  fearful  fio;ht 
Of  the  raging  winds  to-night! 
Guide  us  o'er  the  threatening  wave: 
Save  us  ! — thou  alone  canst  save  ! 


LUCY  HOOPER. 

[Born,  1817.    Died,  1841.] 


Miss  HOOPER  was  a  native  of  Newburyport, 
near  Boston,  but,  for  several  of  the  last  years  of 
her  life,  resided  at  Brooklyn,  on  Long  Island.  She 
was  a  girl  of  much  gentleness  and  simplicity  of 
character,  and  from  her  childhood  gave  evidence 
of  the  possession  of  a  poetical  mind.  She  was  a 
long  time  an  invalid,  and  her  illness  was  borne 
with  fortitude  and  resignation.  Within  a  few 


months  of  her  death  she  edited  an  elegant  volume, 
entitled  "  The  Lady's  Book  of  Flowers  and  Poet- 
ry," and  wrote  her  <l  Stories  from  Real  Life,"  and 
some  of  her  finest  poems  Doubtless,  had  she  lived 
to  a  riper  age,  she  would  have  won  an  enduring 
reputation  as  an  author.  She  died  on  the  second 
day  of  August,  1841,  in  the  twenty-fourth  year  of 
her  age. 


OSEOLA. 

NOT  on  the  battle-plain, 
As  when  thy  thousand  warriors  joy'd  to  meet  thee, 

Sounding  the  fierce  war-cry, 

Leading  them  forth  to  die : 
Not  thus — not  thus  we  greet  thee. 

But  in  a  hostile  camp, 

Lonely  amid  thy  foes — 
Thine  arrows  spent, 
Thy  brow  unbent, 
Yet  wearing  record  of  thy  people's  woes. 

Chief!  for  thy  memories  now, 
While  the  tall  palm  against  this  quiet  sky 

Her  branches  waves, 

And  the  soft  river  laves 
The  green  and  flower-crown'd  banks  it  wanders  by ; 

While  in  this  golden  sun 
The  burnished  rifle  gleameth  with  strange  light, 

And  sword  and  spear 

Rest  harmless  here, 
Yet  flash  with  startling  radiance  on  the  sight  ; 

Wake  they  thy  glance  of  scorn, 
Thou  of  the  folded  arms  and  aspect  stern  ? 

Thou  of  the  soft,  deep  tone,* 

For  whose  rich  music  gone, 
Kindred  and  tribe  full  soon  may  vainly  yearn ! 

Wo  for  the  trusting  hour ! 
0,  kingly  stag,  no  hand  hath  brought  thee  down: 

'Twas  with  a  patriot's  heart, 

Where  fear  usurped  no  part, 
Thou  earnest,  a  noble  offering — and  alone ! 

For  vain  yon  army's  might, 

While  for  thy  band  the  wide  plain  own'd  a  tree, 

And  the  wild  vine's  tangled  shoots 

On  the  gnarl'd  oak's  mossy  roots 

Their  trysting-place  might  be. 

Wo  for  thy  hapless  fate ! 
Wo  for  thine  evil  times  and  lot,  brave  chief! 

Thy  sadly-closing  story, 

Thy  quickly-vanish'd  glory, 
Thy  high  but  hopeless  struggle,  brave  and  brief. 

*  OSEOLA  was  remarkable  for  a  soft  and  flute-like  voice. 


Wo  for  the  bitter  stain 
That  from  our  country's  banner  may  not  part ! 

Wo  for  the  captive — wo  ! 

For  bitter  pains  and  slow 
Are  his  who  dieth  of  the  fever'd  heart ! 

O,  in  that  spirit-land, 

Where  never  yet  the  oppressor's  foot  hath  pass'd; 
Chief!  by  those  sparkling  streams, 
Whose  beauty  mocks  our  dreams, 

May  that  high  heart  have  won  its  rest  at  last ! 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS. 

MOTHER !  I  bring  thy  gift; 
Take  from  my  hand  the  dreaded  boon — I  pray, 
Take  it ;  the  still,  pale  sorrow  of  the  face 
Hath  left  upon  my  soul  its  living  trace, 

Never  to  pass  away, 

Since  from  these  lips  one  word  of  idle  breath 
Blanch'd  that  calm  face.    O,  mother !  this  is  death ! 

What  is  it  that  I  see 

From  all  the  pure  and  settled  features  gleaming? 
Reproach !  reproach !  My  dreams  are  strange  and 

wild. 
Mother !  hadst  thou  not  pity  on  thy  child  1 

Lo  !  a  celestial  smile  seems  softly  beaming 
On  the  hush'd  lips ; — my  mother !  canst  thou  brook 
Longer  upon  thy  victim's  face  to  look  1 

Alas !  at  yester  morn 

My  heart  was  light,  and  to  the  viol's  sound 
I  gayly  danced,  while  crown'd  with  summer  flowers, 
And  swiftly  by  me  sped  the  flying  hours ; 

And  all  was  joy  around — 
Not  death  !  O,  mother !  could  I  say  thee  nay  1 
Take  from  thy  daughter's  hand  thy  boon  away ! 

Take  it !  my  heart  is  sad  ; — 
And  the  pure  forehead  hath  an  icy  chill. 
I  dare  not  touch  it,  for  avenging  Heaven 
Hath  shuddering  visions  to  my  fancy  given; 

And  the  pale  face  appals  me,  cold  and  still, 
With  the  closed  lips.     O,  tell  me  !  could  I  know 
That  the  pale  features  of  the  dead  were  so  ? 

475 


476 


LUCY   HOOPER. 


I  may  not  turn  away 

From  the  charm'd  brow ;  and  I  have  heard  his 
Even  as  a  prophet  by  his  people  spoken ;  [name 
And  that  high  brow  in  death  bears  seal  and  token 

Of  one  whose  words  were  flame. 
O,  Holy  Teacher!  couldst  thou  rise  and  live, 
Would  not  those  hush'd  lips  whisper,  "I  forgive?" 

Away  with  lute  and  harp — 
With  the  glad  heart  forever,  and  the  dance ! 

Never  again  shall  Habret  sound  for  me ! 

O,  fearful  mother !  I  have  brought  to  thee 
The  silent  dead  with  his  rebuking  glance, 

And  the  crush'd  heart  of  one  to  whom  is  given 

Wild  dreams  of  judgment  and  offended  Heaven ! 


"TIME,  FAITH,  ENERGY."* 

HIBH  words  and  hopeful ! — fold  them  to  thy  breast, 
Time,  Faith,  and  Energy,  are  gifts  sublime ; 
If  thy  lone  bark  the  threatening  waves  surround, 
Make  them  of  all  thy  silent  thoughts  a  part. 
When  thou  wouldst  cast  thy  pilgrim-staff  away, 
Breathe  to  thy  soul  their  high,  mysterious  sound, 
And  faint  not  in  the  noontide  of  thy  day, — 
Wait  thou  for  Time ! 

Wait  thou  for  Time — the  slow-unfolding  flower 
Chides  man's  impatient  haste  with  long  delay ; 
The  harvest  ripening  in  the  autumnal  sun — 
The  golden  fruit  of  suffering's  weighty  power 
Within  the  soul — like  soft  bells'  silvery  chime 
Repeat  the  tones,  if  fame  may  not  be  won, 
Or  if  the  heart  where  thou  shouldst  find  a  shrine, 
Breathe  forth  no  blessing  on  thy  lonely  way. 

Wait  thou  for  Time — it  hath  a  sorcerer's  power 
To  dim  life's  mockeries  that  gayly  shine, 
To  lift  the  veil  of  seeming  from  the  real, 
Bring  to  thy  soul  a  rich  or  fearful  dower, 
With  golden  tracery  on  the  sands  of  life, 
And  raise  the  drooping  heart  from  scenes  ideal, 
To  a  high  purpose  in  the  world  of  strife. 
Wait  thou  for  Time  ! 

Yea,  wait  for  Time,  but  to  thy  heart  take  Faith, 
Soft  beacon-light  upon  a  stormy  sea : 
A  mantle  for  the  pure  in  heart,  to  pass 
Through  a  dim  world,  untouch'd  by  living  death, 
A  cheerful  watcher  through  the  spirit's  night, 
Soothing  the  grief  from  which  she  may  not  flee — 
A  herald  of  glad  news — a  seraph  bright, 

Pointing  to  sheltering  havens  yet  to  be. 

Yea,  Faith  and  Time,  and  thou  that  through  the 

hour 

Of  the  lone  night  hast  nerved  the  feeble  hand, 
Kindled  the  weary  heart  with  sudden  fire, 
Gifted  the  drooping  soul  with  living  power, 
Immortal  Energy!  shall  thou  not  be 
With  the  old  tales  our  wayward  thoughts  inspire, 
Link'd  with  each  vision  of  high  destiny, 

Till  on  the  fadeless  borders  of  that  land 

*  Suggested  by  a  passage  in  BULWER'S  "Night  and 
Morning." 


Where  all  is  known  we  find  our  certain  way, 
And  lose  yc,  mid  its  pure  effulgent  light  1 
Kind  ministers,  who  cheer'd  us  in  our  gloom, 
Seraphs  who  lighten'd  griefs  with  guiding  ray, 
Whispering  through  tears  of  cloudless  glory  dawn- 
ing, 

Say,  in  the  gardens  of  eternal  bloom 
W'ill  not  our  hearts,  where  breaks  the  cloudless 

morning, 
Joy  that  ye  led  us  through  the  drooping  night  ? 


GIVE  ME  ARMOUR  OF  PROOF. 

GIVE  me  armour  of  proof,  I  must  ride  to  the  plain ; 
Give  me  armour  of  proof,  ere  the  trump  sound  again: 
To  the  halls  of  my  childhood  no  more  am  I  known, 
And  the  nettle  must  rise  where  the  myrtle  hath 

blown ! 

Till  the  conflict  is  over,  the  battle  is  past — 
Give  me  armour  of  proof — I  am  true  to  the  last ! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — bring  me  helmet  and 

spear; 

Away !  shall  the  warrior's  cheek  own  a  tear  1 
Bring  the  steel  of  Milan — 't  is  the  firmest  and  best, 
And  bind  o'er  my  bosom  its  closely  link'd  vest, 
Where  the  head  of  a  loved  one  in  fondness  hath  lain, 
Whose  tears  fell  at  parting  like  warm  summer  rain ! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — I  have  torn  from  my  heart 
Each  soft  tie  and  true  that  forbade  me  to  part; 
Bring  the  sword  of  Damascus,  its  blade  cold  and 

bright, 

That  bends  not  in  conflict,  but  gleams  in  the  fight; 
And  stay — let  me  fasten  your  scarf  on  my  breast, 
Love's  light  pledge  and  true — I  will  answer  the  rest ! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — shall  the  cry  be  in  vain, 
When  to  life's  sternest  conflicts  we  rush  forth 

amain  ? 

The  knight  clad  in  armour  the  battle  may  bide ; 
But  wo  to  the  heedless  when  bendeth  the  tried  ; 
And  wo  to  youth's  morn,  when  we  rode  forth  alone, 
To  the  conflict  unguarded,  its  gladness  hath  flown ! 

Give  us  armour  of  proof — our  hopes  were  all  high ; 
But  they  pass'd  like  the  meteor  lights  from  the  sky ; 
Our  hearts'  trust  was  firm,  but  life's  waves  swept 

away 
One  by  one  the  frail  ties  which  were  shelter  and 

stay; 

And  true  was  our  love,  but  its  bonds  broke  in  twain : 
Give  me  armour  of  proof,  ere  we  ride  forth  again. 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — we  should  turn  from 
the  view 

Of  a  world  that  is  fading  to  one  that  is  true ; 

We  would  lift  up  each  thought  from  this  earth- 
shaded  light, 

To  the  regions  above,  where  there  stealejh  no  blight ; 

And  with  Faith's  chosen  shield  by  no  dark  tempests 
riven, 

We  would  gaze  from  earth's  storms  on  the  bright- 
ness of  heaven. 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


477 


LINES   SUGGESTED   BY  A  SCENE  IN 
"MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK."* 

BKAUTIFUL  child  !  my  lot  is  cast; 

Hope  from  my  path  hath  forever  past ; 

Nothing  the  future  can  bring  to  me 

Hath  ever  been  shadow'd  in  dreams  to  thee; 

The  warp  is  woven,  the  arrow  sped, 

My  brain  hath  throbb'd,  but  my  heart  is  dead: 

Tell  ye  my  tale,  then,  for  love  or  gold  1 — 

Years  have  pass'd  by  since  that  tale  was  told. 

God  keep  thee,  child,  with  thine  angel  brow, 
Ever  as  sinless  and  bright  as  now; 
Fresh  as  the  roses  of  earliest  spring, 
The  fair,  pure  buds  it  is  thine  to  bring. 
Would  that  the  bloom  of  the  soul  could  be, 
Beautiful  spirit !  caught  from  thee ; 
Would  that  thy  gift  could  anew  impart 
The  roses  that  bloom  for  the  pure  in  heart. 

Beautiful  child  !  mayst  thou  never  hear 
Tones  of  reproach  in  thy  sorrowing  ear : 
Beautiful  child !  may  that  cheek  ne'er  glow 
With  a  warmer  tint  from  the  heart  below: 
Beautiful  child  !  mayst  thou  never  bear 
The  clinging  weight  of  a  cold  despair ; 
A  heart,  whose  madness  each  hope  hath  cross'd, 
Which  hath  thrown  one  die,  and  the  stake  hath  lost. 

Beautiful  child  !  why  shouldst  thou  stay  ? 

There  is  danger  near  thee, — away !  away  ! 

Away !  in  thy  spotless  purity  ; 

Nothing  can  here  be  a  type  of  thee ; 

The  very  air,  as  it  fans  thy  brow, 

May  leave  a  trace  on  its  stainless  snow; 

Lo  !  spirits  of  evil  haunt  the  bowers, 

And  the  serpent  glides  from  the  trembling  flowers. 

Beautiful  child !  alas,  to  see 

A  fount  in  the  desert  gush  forth  for  thee, 

Where  the  queenly  lilies  should  faintly  gleam, 

And  thy  life  flow  on  as  its  silent  stream 

Afar  from  the  world  of  doubt  and  sin, — 

This  weary  world  thou  must  wander  in ; 

Such  a  home  was  once  to  my  visions  given, — 

It  comes  to  my  heart  as  a  type  of  heaven. 

Beautiful  child  !  let  the  weary  in  heart 

Whisper  thee  once,  ere  again  we  part; 

Tell  thee  that  want,  and  tell  thee  that  pain 

Never  can  thrill  in  the  throbbing  brain, 

Till  a  sadder  story  that  brain  hath  learn'd, 

Till  a  fiercer  fire  hath  in  it  burn'd  ; 

God  keep  thee  sinless  and  undefiled, 

Though  poor,  and  wretched,  and  sad,  my  child ! 

Beautiful  being!  away,  away  ! 

The  angels  above  be  thy  help  and  stay, 

Save  thee  from  sorrow,  and  save  thee  from  sin, 

Guard  thee  from  danger  without  and  within. 

Pure  be  thy  spirit,  and  breathe  for  me 

A  sigh  or  a  prayer  when  thy  heart  is  free ; 

In  the  crowded  mart,  by  the  lone  wayside, 

Beautiful  child  !  be  thy  God  thy  guide. 


*  "Nelly  bore  upon  her  arm  the  little  basket  with  her 
flowers,  and  sometimes  stopped,  with  timid  and  modest 

looks,  to  offer  them  at  some  gay  carriage There 

was  but  one  lady  who  seemed  to  understand  the  child, 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 


"La  mort  est  le.seul  dieu  que  J'osais  implorer." 

NOT  unto  thee,  0  pale  and  radiant  Death ! 
Not  unto  thee,  though  every  hope  be  past, 
Though  Life's  first,  sweetest  stars  may  shine  no 

more, 

Nor  earth  again  one  cherish'd  dream  restore, 
Or  from  the  bright  urn  of  the  future  cast 

Aught,  aught  of  joy  on  me. 

Yet  unto  thee,  0  monarch  !  robed  and  crown'd, 
And  beautiful  in  all  thy  sad  array, 
I  bring  no  incense,  though  the  heart  be  chill, 
And  to  the  eyes,  that  tears  alone  may  fill, 

Shines  not  as  once  the  wonted  light  of  day, 
Still  upon  another  shrine  my  vows 

Shall  all  be  duly  paid,  and  though  thy  voice 
Is  full  of  music  to  the  pining  heart, 
And  woos  one  to  that  pillow  of  calm  rest, 
Where  all  Life's  dull  and  restless  thoughts  depart, 
Still,  not  to  thee,  O  Death ! 

I  pay  my  vows,  though  now  to  me  thy  brow 
Seems  crown'd  with  roses  of  the  summer  prime, 
And  to  the  aching  sense  thy  voice  would  be, 
0  Death  !  0  Death !  of  softest  melody, 
And  gentle  ministries  alone  were  thine, 
Still  I  implore  thee  not. 

But  thou,  0  Life  !  0  Life  !  the  searching  test 

Of  the  weak  heart !  to  thee,  to  thee  I  bow ; 

And  if  the  fire  upon  the  altar  shrine 

Descend,  and  scathe  each  glowing  hope  of  mine, 
Still  may  my  heart  as  now 
Turn  not  from  that  dread  test. 

But  let  me  pay  my  vows  to  thee,  0  Life ! 
And  let  me  hope  that  from  that  glowing  fire 
There  yet  may  be  redeem'd  a  gold  more  pure 
And  bright,  and  eagle  thoughts  to  mount  and  soar 

Their  flight  the  higher, 
Released  from  earthly  hope,  or  earthly  fear. 

This,  this,  0  Life !  be  mine. 
Let  others  strive  thy  glowing  wreaths  to  bind — 
Let  others  seek  thy  false  and  dazzling  gleams, 
For  me  their  light  went  out  on  early  streams, 
And  faded  were  thy  roses  in  my  grasp, 

No  more,  no  more  to  bloom. 

Yet  as  the  stars,  the  holy  stars  of  night, 

Shine  out  when  all  is  dark, 
So  would  I,  cheer'd  by  hopes  more  purely  bright, 
Tread  still  the  thorny  path  whose  close  is  light, 
If,  but  at  last,  the  toss'd  and  weary  barque 
Gains  the  sure  haven  of  her  final  rest. 

and  she  was  one  who  sat  alone  in  a  handsome  carriage, 
while  two  young  men  in  dashing  clothes,  who  had  just 
dismounted  from  it,  talked  and  laughed  loudly  at  a  little 
distance,  appearing  to  forget  her  quite.  There  were 
nviny  ladies  all  around,  but  they  turned  their  backs,  or 
looked  another  way,  or  at  the  two  young  men,  (not 
unfavourably  at  them,)  and  left  her  to  herself.  She 
motioned  away  a  gipsy-woman,  urgent  to  tell  her  fortune, 
saying,  that  it  was  told  already,  and  had  been  for  some 
years,  but  called  the  child  towards  her,  and  taking  her 
flowers,  put  money  into  her  trembling  hand,  and  bade 
her  go  home,  and  keep  at  home,  for  God's  sake " 


THOMAS    W.    PARSONS. 

[Born  about  1S17.] 


Dn.  PAHSONS  is  a  native  of  Boston.  After  the  | 
completion  of  his  academical  and  professional  edu- 
cation, he  went  abroad  and  passed  several  years  of 
study  and  observation  in  Italy  and  other  parts  of  Eu- 
rope. He  is  known  as  a  poet  by  an  admirable  trans- 
lation of  DAKTE'S  « Inferno,"  in  the  terza  rinia,  of 


which  the  first  ten  cantos  only  have  been  published ; 
by  the  "  Mail  Robber,"  a  series  of  exceedingly  clever 
poetical  epistles  printed  in  the  "  Knickerbocker,"  and 
other  contributions  to  the  literary  magazines.  He  has 
a  fine  eye  for  the  picturesque,  and  a  lively  fancy ;  and 
his  poems  are  nearly  all  in  a  very  chaste  style  of  art. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK. 

HOME  returning  from  the  music  which  had  so  en- 
tranced my  brain, 

That  the  road  I  scarce  remember'd  to  the  Pincian 
Hill  again, 

Nay,  was  willing  to  forget  it  underneath  a  moon  so 
fair, 

In  a  solitude  so  sacred,  and  so  summer-like  in  air — 

Came  I  to  the  side  of  Tiber,  hardly  conscious 
where  I  stood, 

Till  I  mark'd  the  sullen  murmur  of  the  venerable 
flood. 

Rome  lay  doubly  dead  around  me,  sunk  in  silence 
calm  and  deep; 

'T  was  the  death  of  desolation — and  the  nightly 
one  of  sleep. 

Dreams  alone,  and  recollections  peopled  now  the 
solemn  hour ; 

Such  a  spot  and  such  a  season  well  might  wake 
the  Fancy's  power ; 

Yet  no  monumental  fragment,  storied  arch  or  tem- 
ple vast, 

Mid  the  mean,  plebeian  buildings  loudly  whisper'd 
of  the  Past. 

Tether'd  by  the  shore,  some  barges  hid  the  wave's 
august  repose ; 

Petty  sheds  of  merchants  merely,  nigh  the  Campus 
Martius  rose ; 

Hardly  could  the  dingy  Thamis,'  when  his  tide  is 
ebbing  low, 

Life's  dull  scene  in  colder  colours  to  the  homesick 
exile  show. 

Winding  from  the  vulgar  prospect,  through  a  la- 
byrinth of  lanes, 

Forth  I  stepp'd  upon  the  Corso,  where  its  greatness 
Rome  retains. 

Yet  it  was  not  ancient  glory,  though  the  midnight 
radiance  fell 

Soft  on  many  a  princely  mansion,  many  a  dome's 
majestic  swell ; 

Though,  from  some  hush'd  corner  gushing,  oft  a 
modern  fountain  gleam'd, 

Where  the  marble  and  the  waters  in  their  fresh- 
ness equal  seem'd : 

What  though  open  courts  unfolded  columns  of 
Corinthian  mould  1 

Beautiful  it  was — but  alter'd^  nought  bespoke  the 
Rome  of  old. 


So,  regardless  of  the  grandeur,  pass'd  I  tow'rds  the 
Northern  Gate ; 

All  around  were  shining  gardens— churches  glit- 
tering, yet  sedate, 

Heavenly  bright  the  broad  enclosure  !  but  the  o'er- 
whelming  silence  brought 

Stillness  to  mine  own  heart's  beating,  with  a  mo- 
ment's truce  of  thought, 

And  I  started  as  I  found  me  walking  ere  I  was 
aware, 

O'er  the  Obelisk's  tall  shadow,  on  the  pavement 
of  the  square. 

Ghost-like  seem'd  it  to  address  me,  and  convey'd 
me  for  a  while, 

Backward,  through  a  thousand  ages,  to  the  borders 
of  the  Nile ; 

Where  for  centuries,  every  morning  saw  it  creep- 
ing, long  and  dun, 

O'er  the  stones  perchance  of  Memphis,  or  the  City 
of  the  Sun. 

Kingly  turrets  look'd  upon  it — pyramids  and  sculp- 
tured fanes : 

Towers  and  pyramid  have  moulder'd — but  the 
shadow  still  remains. 

Tired  of  that  lone  tomb  of  Egypt,  o'er  the  seas 

the  trophy  flew ; 
Here  the  eternal  apparition  met  the  millions'  duily 

view. 
Virgil's  foot  has  touch 'd   it  often — it  has  kiss'd 

Octavia's  face — 
Royal  chariots  have  rolled  o'er  it,  in  the  frenzy  of 

the  race, 
When  the  strong,  the  swift,  the  valiant,  mid  the 

throng'd  arena  strove, 
In  the  days  of  good  Augustus,  and  the  dynasty  of 

Jove. 

Herds  are  feeding  in  the  Forum,  as  in  old  Evan- 

der's  time : 
Tumbled  from  the  steep  Taqician  every  pile  that 

sprang  sublime. 
Strange  !  that  what  seem'd  most  inconstant  should 

the  most  abiding  prove  ; 
Strange  !  that  what  is  hourly  moving  no  mutation 

can  remove : 
Ruin'd  lies  the  cirque !  the  chariots,  long  ago,  have 

ceased  to  roll — 
Ev'n  the  Obelisk  is  broken — but  the  shadow  still 

is  whole. 

478 


THOMAS    W.    PARSONS. 


479 


Out  alas !  if  mightiest  empires  leave  so  little  mark 

behind, 
How  much  less  must  heroes  hope  for,  in  the  wreck 

of  humankind! 
Less  than  ev'n  this  darksome  picture,  which  I  tread 

beneath  my  feet, 
Copied  by  a  lifeless  moonbeam  on  the  pebbles  of 

the  street ; 
Since  if  Caesar's  best  ambition,  living,  was  to  be 

renown'd, 
What  shall  Caesar  leave  behind  him,  save  the 

shadow  of  a  sound  ] 


HUDSON  RIVER. 

RIVERS  that  roll  most  musical  in  song 
Are  often  lovely  to  the  mind  alone ; 

The  wanderer  muses,  as  he  moves  along 

Their  barren  banks,  on  glories  not  their  own. 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyish  dreams, 
He  flies  abroad  far  countries  to  survey, 

Oft  must  he  whisper,  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"  Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

And  oft,  lemembering  rivulets  more  fair, 

Whose  praise  no  poet  yet  has  dared  to  sound, 
He  marvels  much  that  deserts  dull  and  bare, 
Soak'd  by  scant  brooks,  should  be  so  wide  re- 
nown'd. 
If  chance  he  mark  the  shrunken  Danube  pour 

A  tide  more  meager  than  his  native  Charles ; 
Or  views  the  Rhone  when  summers  heat  is  o'er, 
Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries ; 

Or  when  he  sees  the  slimy  Tiber  fling 
His  sullen  tribute  at  the  feet  of  Rome, 

Oft  to  his  partial  thought  must  memory  bring 
More  noble  waves  that  sleep  unhymn'd  at  home ; 

Then  will  he  mourn  that  not  in  nature  dwell 
The  charms  which  fired  him  in  harmonious  verse, 

For  numbers  veil  mean  objects  with  a  spell 

Whose  mist  the  reasoning  senses  must  disperse. 

But  bid  him  climb  the  Catskill  to  behold 

Thy  flood,  0  Hudson !  marching  to  the  deep, 

And  tell  what  strain  of  any  bard  of  old 

Might  paint  thy  grace  and  imitate  thy  sweep. 

In  distant  lands,  ambitious  walls  and  towers 
Declare  what  robbers  once  the  realm  possess'd, 

But  here  heaven's  handiwork  surpasses  ours, 
And  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 

No  storied  castle  overawes  thy  heights, 

Nor  antique  arches  curb  thy  current's  play, 

Nor  crumbling  architrave  the  mind  invites 
To  dream  of  deities  long  pass'd  away. 

No  Gothic  buttress,  nor  decaying  shaft 
Of  marble  yellovv'd  by  a  thousand  years, 

Rears  a  proud  landmark  to  the  cloudlike  craft 
That  grows  in  sight,  then  melts  and  disappears. 

But  cliffs,  unalter'd  from  their  primal  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge,  rise 

And  lift  their  savins  to  the  upper  storm, 

To  screen  the  skiff  that  underneath  it  plies. 


Farms,  rich  not  more  in  harvests,  than  in  men 

Of  Saxon  mould,  and  strong  for  every  toil, 
Gem  the  green  mead  or  scatter  through  the  glen 

Boeotian  plenty  in  a  Spartan  soil. 
Then,  where  the  reign  of  cultivation  ends, 

Again  the  beauteous  wilderness  begins ; 
From  steep  to  steep  one  solemn  wild  extends, 

Till  some  new  hamlet's  growth  the  boscage  thins. 
And  there  deep  groves  for  ever  have  remain'd 

Touch'd  by  no  axe — by  no  proud  owner  nursed ; 
As  now  they  bloom,  they  bloom'd  when  Pharaoh 

Lineal  descendants  of  creation's  first,      [reign'd, 

Thou  Scottish  Tweed,  whose  course  is  holier  now, 

Since  thy  last  minstrel  laid  him  down  to  die, 
Where  through  the  casement  of  his  chamber  thou 

Didst  mix  thy  moan  with  his  departing  sigh ; 
A  single  one  of  Hudson's  lesser  hills 

Might  furnish  forests  for  the  whole  of  thine, 
Hide  in  thick  shade  all  Humber's  feeding  rills 

And  blacken  all  the  children  of  the  Tyne. 
Whatever  waters  rush  from  Albion's  heart, 

To  float  the  citadels  that  crowd  her  sea, 
In  nothing  save  the  meaner  pomp  of  Art, 

Sublimer  Hudson !  can  be  named  with  thee. 

Could  bloated  Thames  with  all  his  riches  buy 
To  deck  the  strand  which  London  loads  with  gold, 

Sunshine  so  fresh — such  purity  of  sky 
As  bless  thy  sultry  season  and  thy  cold  1 

No  deeds  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 
In  sacred  scrolls ;  no  tales  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree, 

And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  fame. 

But  neither  here  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invaders  from  barbarian  climes ; 

No  horrors  feign'd  of  giant  or  of  god 

Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields  laid  waste, 
And  butcher'd  flocks  and  heaps  of  burning  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruin'd — and  the  shrine  defaced, 
Track'd  the  foul  passage  of  the  feudal  brute. 

"Alas,  Antiquity!"  the  stranger  sighs — 

«  Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pall  upon  the  view ; 

The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 
Where  all  is  fair  indeed — but  all  is  new." 

False  thought !  is  age  to  musty  books  confined  ? 

To  Grecian  fragments  and  Egyptian  bones  1 
Hath  Time  no  monuments  to  raise  the  mind, 

More  than  old  fortresses  and  sculptured  stones? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 

That  wears  unchanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  budding  from  its  Maker's  hand, 
Glad  Jen'd  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 

Nor  did  Euphrates  with  an  earlier  birth       [south, 
Glide  past  green  Eden  towards  the  unknown 

Than  Hudson  flash'd  upon  the  infant  earth, 
And  kiss'd  the  ocean  with  its  nameless  mouth. 

Twin-born  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile! 

Thebes  and  the  pyramids  to  thee  are  young ; 
Oh  !  had  thy  fountain  burst-from  Britain's  isle, 

Till  now  perchance  it  had  not  flow'd  unsung. 


480 


THOMAS    W.    PARSONS. 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE. 

SET.,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song. 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn  abide ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng ; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was — but  a  fight ; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  7 
To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guess'd  the  visions  came 
Of  beauty,  veil'd  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  1 

The  lips,  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks,  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Keep  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  stray 'd, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo's  hush'd  monastic  shade ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  pray'd 

The  convent's  charity  was  rest.* 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  tlyit  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth ; 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 

*  It  is  told  of  DANTE  that  when  he  was  roaming  over 
Italy,  he  came  to  a  certain  monastery,  where  he  was 
met  by  one  of  the  friars,  who  blessed  him,  and  asked 
what  was  his  desire — to  which  the  weary  stranger  simply 
answered  "  Pace." 


He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Pluck'd  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou ; 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow : 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


ON  A  MAGDALEN,  BY  GUIDO. 


MAKT,  when  thou  wert  a  virgin, 

Ere  the  first,  the  fatal  sin 
Stole  into  thy  bosom's  chamber, 

Leading  six  companions  in ; 
Ere  those  eyes  had  wept  an  error, 

What  thy  beauty  must  have  been ! 

Ere  those  lips  had  paled  their  crimson, 
Quivering  with  the  soul's  despair, 

Ere  with  pain  they  oft  had  parted 
In  thine  agony  of  prayer, 

Or,  instead  of  pearls,  the  tear-drops 
Glisten'd  in  thy  streaming  hair. 

While  in  ignorance  of  sorrow 
Still  thy  heart  serenely  dream'd, 

And  the  morning  light  of  girlhood 
On  thy  cheek's  young  garden  beam'd, 

Where  th'  abundant  rose  was  blushing, 
Not  of  earth  couldst  thou  have  seem'd. 

When  thy  frailty  fell  upon  thee, 
Lovely  wert  thou,  even  then ; 

Shame  itself  could  not  disarm  thee 
Of  the  charms  that  vanquish'd  men ; 

Which  of  Salem's  purest  daughters 
Match'd  the  sullied  Magdalen  1 

But  thy  Master's  eye  beheld  thee 
Foul  and  all  unworthy  heaven ; 

Pitied,  pardon'd,  purged  thy  spirit 
Of  its  black,  pernicious  leaven ; 

Drove  the  devils  from  out  the  temple, 
All  the  dark  and  guilty  seven. 

Oh  the  beauty  of  repentance ! 

Mary,  tenfold  fairer  now 
Art  thou  with  those  dewy  eyelids, 

And  that  anguish  on  thy  brow ; 
Ah,  might  every  sinful  sister 

Grow  in  beauty  ev'n  as  thou ! 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLETT. 


[Bora  about  1817.] 


THE  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  ELLETT  was  LUM- 
MIS.  She  was  born  at  Sodus,  a  small  town  on 
the  margin  of  the  lake  Ontario,  where  her  father 
was  for  many  years  a  respectable  physician.  When 
about  seventeen  years  of  age,  she  was  married  to 
Doctor  WILLIAM  H.  ELLETT,  then  Professor  of 
Chymistry  in  Columbia  College,  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  and  now  one  of  the  professors  in 
the  college  at  Columbia,  in  South  Carolina.  With- 
in a  few  years  after  her  marriage  she  made  her- 
self familiar  with  the  languages  and  literature  of 
Germany,  Italy,  and  France ;  and  she  has  since 
published  many  admirable  translations  from  SCHIL- 
LER, ALFIERI,  LAMAHTINE,  and  others;  and  a 
number  of  judicious  and  interesting  papers  in  the 


"  American  Quarterly  Review,"  and  other  periodi- 
cals, on  foreign  authors  and  their  works,  and  the 
condition  and  prospects  of  foreign  literature. 

She  began  to  write  for  the  magazines  in  1833, 
and  in  the  following  year  appeared  her  translation 
of  "Euphemiaof  Messina,"  by  SILVIO  PELLICO. 
In  the  spring  of  1835,  her  tragedy,  entitled  "Te- 
resa Contarina,"  was  successfully  performed  at 
the  Park  Theatre,  in  New  York ;  and  in  the  suc- 
ceeding autumn  she  published  at  Philadelphia  her 
« Poems,  Translated  and  Original."  Since  that 
time  she  has  written  much  and  well  for  various 
literary  miscellanies,  and  has  published  "Joanna  of 
Sicily,"  and  two  or  three  other  works,  which  have 
been  deservedly  popular. 


THE  DELAWARE  WATER- GAP. 

Oan  western  land  can  boast  no  lovelier  spot. 
The  hills  which  in  their  ancient  grandeur  stand, 
Piled  to  the  frowning  clouds,  the  bulwarks  seem 
Of  this  wild  scene,  resolved  that  none  but  Heaven 
Shall  look  upon  its  beauty.     Round  their  breast 
A  curtain'd  fringe  depends,  of  golden  mist, 
Touch'd  by  the  slanting  sunbeams ;  while  below 
The  silent  river,  with  majestic  sweep, 
Pursues  his  shadow'd  way, — his  glassy  face 
Unbroken,  save  when  stoops  the  lone  wild  swan 
To  float  in  pride,  or  dip  his  ruffled  wing. 
Talk  ye  of  solitude ! — It  is  not  here. 
Nor  silence. — Low,  deep  murmurs  are  abroad. 
Those  towering  hills  hold  converse  with  the  sky 
That  smiles  upon  their  summits ; — and  the  wind 
Which  stirs  their  wooded  sides,  whispers  of  life, 
And  bears  the  burden  sweet  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
Bidding  the  stately  forest-boughs  look  bright, 
And  nod  to  greet  his  coming! — And  the  brook, 
That  with  its  silvery  gleam  comes  leaping  down 
From  the  hill-side,  has,  too,  a  tale  to  tell; 
The  wild  bird's  music  mingles  with  its  chime ; — 
And  gay  young  flowers,  that  blossom  in  its  path, 
Send  forth  their  perfume  as  an  added  gift. 
Tin-  river  utters,  too,  a  solemn  voice, 
And  tells  of  deeds  long  past,  in  ages  gone, 
When  not  a  sound  was  heard  along  his  shores, 
Save  the  wild  tread  of  savage  feet,  or  shriek 
Of  some  expiring  captive, — and  no  bark 
E'er  cleft  his  gloomy  waters.     Now,  his  waves 
Are  vocal  often  with  the  hunter's  song; —  • 

Now  visit,  in  thoir  glad  and  onward  course, 
The  abodes  of  happy  men — gardens  and  fields — 
And  cultured  plains — still  bearing,  as  they  pass, 
Fertility  rcnew'd  and  fresh  delights. 

The  time  has  been, — so  Indian  legends  say, — 
When  here  the  mighty  Delaware  pour'd  not 
61 


His  ancient  waters  through,  but  turn'd  aside 
Through  yonder  dell,  and  wash'd  those  shaded  vales. 
Then,  too,  these  riven  cliffs  were  one  smooth  hill, 
Which  smiled  in  the  warm  sunbeams,  and  display'd 
The  wealth  of  summer  on  its  graceful  slope. 
Thither  the  hunter-chieftains  oft  repair'd 
To  light  their  council-fires;  while  its  dim  height, 
Forever  veiled  in  mist,  no  mortal  dared, 
'T  is  said,  to  scale ;  save  one  white-hair'd  old  man, 
Who  there  held  commune  with  the  Indian's  GOD, 
And  thence  brought  down  to  men  his  high  com- 
mands. 

Years  pass'd  away :  the  gifted  seer  had  lived 
Beyond  life's  natural  term,  and  bent  no  more 
His  weary  limbs  to  seek  the  mountain's  summit. 
New  tribes  had  fill'd  the  land,  of  fiercer  mien, 
Who  strove  against  each  other.     Blood  and  death 
Fill'd  those  green  shades,  where  all  before  was  peace, 
And  the  stern  warrior  scalp'cl  his  dying  captive 
E'en  on  the  precincts  of  that  holy  spot   [mourn'd 
Where  the  Great  Spirit  had  been.     Some  few,  who 
The  unnatural  slaughter,  urged  the  aged  priest 
Again  to  seek  the  consecrated  height, 
Succour  from  Heaven,  and  mercy  to  implore. 
They  walch'd  him  from  afar.     He  labour'd  slowly 
High  up  the  steep  ascent,  and  vanish'd  soon 
Behind  the  folded  clouds,  which  cluster'd  dark 
As  the  last  hues  of  sunset  pass'd  away. 
The  night  fell  heavily;  and  soon  were  heard 
Low  tones  of  thunder  from  the  mountain-top, 
Muttering,  and  echoed  from  the  distant  hills 
In  deep  and  solemn  peal ;  while  lurid  flashes 
Of  lightning  rent  anon  the  gathering  gloom. 
Then,  wilder  and  more  loud,  a  fearful  crash 
Burst  on  the  startled  ear;  the  earth,  convulsed, 
Groan'd  from  its  solid  centre ;  forests  shook 
For  leagues  around ;  and,  by  the  sudden  gleam 
Which  flung  a  fitful  radiance  on  the  spot, 
A  sight  of  dread  was  seen.     The  mount  was  rent 
2  S  481 


482 


ELIZABETH   F,   ELLETT. 


From  top  to  base ;  and  where  so  late  had  smiled 
Green  boughs  and  blossoms,  yawn'd  a  frightful 

chasm, 

Fill'd  with  unnatural  darkness.     From  afar 
The  distant  roar  of  waters  then  was  heard ; 
They  came,  with  gathering  sweep,  o'erwhelming  all 
That  check'd  their  headlong   course;    the  rich 

maize-field, 

The  low-roof 'd  hut,  its  sleeping  inmates — all 
Were  swept  in  speedy,  undistinguish'd  ruin 
Morn  look'd  upon  the  desolated  scene 
Of  the  Great  Spirit's  anger,  and  beheld 
Strange  waters  passing  through  the  cloven  rocks ; 
And  men  look'd  on  in  silence  and  in  fear, 
And  far  removed  their  dwellings  from  the  spot, 
Where  now  no  more  the  hunter  chased  his  prey, 
Or  the  war-whoop  was  heard.   Thus  years  went  on : 
Each  trace  of  desolation  vanish'd  fast; 
Those  bare  and  blacken'd  cliffs  were  overspread 
With  fresh,  green  foliage,  and  the  swelling  earth 
Yielded  her  stores  of  flowers  to  deck  their  sides. 
The  river  pass'd  majestically  on 
Through  his  new  channel ;  verdure  graced  his  banks; 
The  wild  bird  murmur'd  sweetly  as  before 
In  its  beloved  woods ;  and  naught  remain'd, 
Save  the  wild  tales  which  chieftains  told, 
To  mark  the  change  celestial  vengeance  wrought. 


SUSQUEHANNA. 

SOFTLY  the  blended  light  of  evening  rests 
Upon  thee,  lovely  stream !     Thy  gentle  tide, 
Picturing  the  gorgeous  beauty  of  the  sky, 
Onward,  unbroken  by  the  ruffling  wind, 
Majestically  flows.     0  !  by  thy  side, 
Far  from  the  tumults  and  the  throng  of  men, 
And  the  vain  cares  that  vex  poor  human  life, 
'T  were  happiness  to  dwell,  alone  with  thee, 
And  the  wide,  solemn  grandeur  of  the  scene. 
From  thy  green  shores,  the  mountains  that  enclose 
In  their  vast  sweep  the  beauties  of  the  plain, 
Slowly  receding,  toward  the  skies  ascend, 
Enrobed  with  clustering  woods,  o'er  which  the  smile 
Of  Autumn  in  his  loveliness  hath  pass'd, 
Touching  their  foliage  with  his  brilliant  hues, 
And  flinging  o'er  the  lowliest  leaf  and  shrub 
His  golden  livery.     On  the  distant  heights 
Soft  clouds,  earth-based,  repose,  and  stretch  afar 
Their  burnish'd  summits  in  the  clear,  blue  heaven, 
Flooded  with  splendour,  that  the  dazzled  eye 
Turns  drooping  from  the  sight. — Nature  is  here 
Like  a  throned  sovereign,  and  thy  voice  doth  tell, 
In  music  never  silent,  of  her  power. 
Nor  are  thy  tones  unanswer'd,  where  she  builds 
Such  monuments  of  regal  sway.     These  wide, 
Untrodden  forests  eloquently  speak, 
Whether  the  breath  of  summer  stir  their  depths, 
Or  the  hoarse  moaning  of  November's  blast 
Strip  from  their  boughs  their  covering. 

All  the  air 

Is  now  instinct  with  life.     The  merry  hum 
Of  the  returning  bee.  and  the  blithe  song 
Of  fluttering  bird,  mocking  the  solitude, 
Swell  upward ;  and  the  play  of  dashing  streams 


From  the  green  mountain-side  is  faintly  heard. 
The  wild  swan  swims  the  waters'  azure  breast 
With  graceful  sweep,  or,  startled,  soars  away, 
Cleaving  with  mounting  wing  the  clear,  bright  air. 

O !  in  the  boasted  lands  beyond  the  deep, 
Where    Beauty  hath  a  birthright — where   each 

mound 

And  mouldering  ruin  tells  of  ages  past — 
And  every  breeze,  as  with  a  spirit's  tone, 
Doth  waft  the  voices  of  Oblivion  back, 
Waking  the  soul  to  lofty  memories, 
Is  there  a  scene  whose  loveliness  could  fill 
The  heart  with  peace  more  pure  !    Nor  yet  art  thou, 
Proud  stream  !  without  thy  records — graven  deep 
On  yon  eternal  hills,  which  shall  endure 
Long  as  their  summits  breast  the  wintry  storm, 
Or  smile  in  the  warm  sunshine.     They  have  been 
The  chroniclers  of  centuries  gone  by: 
Of  a  strange  race,  who  trod  perchance  their  sides, 
Ere  these  gray  woods  had  sprouted  from  the  earth 
Which  now  they  shade.  '  Here  onward  swept  thy 

waves, 

When  tones  now  silent  mingled  with  their  sound, 
And  the  wide  shore  was  vocal  with  the  song 
Of  hunter  chief,  or  lover's  gentle  strain. 
Those  pass'd  away — forgotten  as  they  pass'd ; 
But  holier  recollections  dwell  with  thee : 
Here  hath  immortal  Freedom  built  her  proud 
And  solemn  monuments.     The  mighty  dust 
Of  heroes  in  her  cause  of  glory  fallen, 
Hath  mingled  with  the  soil,  and  hallow'd  it. 
Thy  waters  in  their  brilliant  path  have  seen 
The  desperate  strife  that  won  a  rescued  world — 
The  deeds  of  men  who  live  in  grateful  hearts, 
And  hymn'd  their  requiem. 

Far  beyond  this  vale, 

That  sends  to  heaven  its  incense  of  lone  flowers, 
Gay  village  spires  ascend — and  the  glad  voice 
Of  industry  is  heard.     So  in  the  lapse 
Of  future  years  these  ancient  woods  shall  bow 
Beneath  the  levelling  axe — and  man's  abodes 
Displace  their  sylvan  honours.     They  will  pass 
In  turn  away;  yet,  hee'lless  of  all  change, 
Surviving  all,  thou  still  wilt  murmur  on, 
Lessoning  the  fleeting  race  that  look  on  thee 
To  mark  the  wrecks  of  time,  and  read  their  doom. 

LAKE  ONTARIO. 

DEEP  thoughts  o'ershade  my  spirit  while  I  craze 

Upon  the  blue  depths  of  thy  mighty  breast ; 
Thy  glassy  face  is  bright  with  sunset  rays, 

And  thy  far-stretching  waters  are  at  rest, 
Save  the  small  wave  that  on  thy  margin  plays, 

Lifting  to  summer  airs  its  flashing  crest ; 
While  the  fleet  hues  across  thy  surface  driven, 
Mingle  afar  in  the  embrace  of  heaven. 
Thy  smile  is  glorious  when  the  morning's  spring 

Gives  half  its  glowing  beauty  to  the  deop ; 
When  the  dusk  swallow  dips  his  drooping  wing, 

And  the  gay  winds  that  o'er  thy  bosom  sweep 
Tribute  from  dewy  woods  and  violets  bring, 

Thy  restless  billows  in  their  gifts  to  steep. 
Thou'rt  beautiful  when  evening  moonbeams  shine. 
And  the  soft  hour  of  night  and  stars  is  thine. 


ELIZABETH   F.   ELLETT. 


483 


Thou  hast  thy  tempests,  too ;  the  lightning's  home 
Is  near  thee,  though  unseen ;  thy  peaceful  shore, 

When  storms  have  lash'd  these  waters  into  foam, 
Echoes  full  oft  the  pealing  thunder's  roar. 

Thou  hast  dark  trophies :  the  unhonour'd  tomb 
Of  those  now  sought  and  wept  on  earth  no  more: 

Full  many  a  goodly  form,  the  loved  and  brave, 

Lies  whelm'd  and  still  beneath  thy  sullen  wave. 

The  world  was  young  with  thee:  this  swelling  flood 
As  proudly  swell'd,  as  purely  met  the  sky, 

When  sound  of  life  roused  not  the  ancient  wood, 
Save  the  wild  eagle's  scream,  or  panther's  cry. 

Here  on  this  verdant  bank  the  savage  stood, 
And  shook  his  dart  and  battle-axe  on  high, 

While  hues  of  slaughter  tinged  thy  billows  blue, 

As  deeper  and  more  close  the  conflict  grew. 

Here,  too,  at  early  morn,  the  hunter's  song 

Was  heard  from  wooded  isle  and  grassy  glade ; 

And  here,  at  eve,  these  cluster'd  bowers  among, 
The  low,  sweet  carol  of  the  Indian  maid, 

Chiding  the  slumbering  breeze  and  shadows  long, 
That  kept  her  lingering  lover  from  the  shade, 

While,  scarcely  seen,  thy  willing  waters  o'er, 

Sped  the  light  bark  that  bore  him  to  the  shore. 

Those  scenes  are  past.  The  spirit  of  changing  years 
Has  breathed  on  all  around,  save  thee  alone. 

More  faintly  the  receding  woodland  hears 
Thy  voice,  once  full  and  joyous  as  its  own. 

Nations  have  gone  from  earth,  nor  trace  appears 
To  tell  their  tale — forgotten  or  unknown. 

Yet  here,  unchanged,  untamed,  thy  waters  lie, 

Azure,  and  clear,  and  boundless  as  the  sky. 

SODUS  BAY. 

I  BLESS  thee — native  shore! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear ! 

'Tis  like  a  dream  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand  waves  to  hear ! 

As,  murmuring  up  the  sand, 
With  kisses  bright  they  lave  the  sloping  land. 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray; 

And  o'er  thy  headlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  evening  play. 

Thy  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallow'd  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found ; 

With  scarce  disputed  reign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around. 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
The  regal  garb  that  suits  a  queen  so  fair. 

Full  oft  my  heart  hath  yearn'd 
For  thy  sweet  shades  and  vales  of  sunny  rest ! 

Even  as  the  swan  rcturn'd, 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thine  azure  breast, 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot 
Forsaken  long — but  ne'er,  ah,  ne'er  forgot ! 

'T  was  here  that  memory  grew —        [left; 
'T  was  here  that  childhood's  hopes  and  cares  were 
Its  early  freshness,  too — 


Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  her  best  joys  bereft. 

Where  are  they  ? — o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  I  would  call  the  wanderers  back  ! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still ! 
Thou  art  unchanged— as  bright  the  sunbeams  play — 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatch'd  away. 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  thing  so  late  resigned  to  thee ! 

Give  back,  O,  smiling  deep ! 
The  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  of  youth 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep — 
Life's  April-innocence,  and  trustful  truth ! 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  murmurs,  once  again  restore ! 

Where  have  they  vanish'd  all  ? — 
Only  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh — 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call, 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by! 

And  idle  as  the  air, 
Or  fleeting  stream,  my  soul's  insatiate  prayer ! 

Home  of  sweet  thoughts — farewell ! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  be, 

A  deep  and  hallow'd  spell 
Is  on  thy  waters  arid  thy  woods  for  me ! 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Its  childhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves ! 


TO  A  WATERFALL. 

WILD  is  your  airy  sweep, 
Billows  that  foam  from  yonder  mountain-side — 
Dashing  with  whiten'd  crests  and  thundering  tide 

To  seek  the  distant  deep  ! 

Now  to  the  verge  ye  climb, 
Now  rush  to  plunge  with  emulous  haste  below ; 
Sounding  your  stormy  chorus  as  ye  go — 

A  never-ending  chime ! 

Leaping  from  rock  to  rock, 
Unwearied  your  eternal  course  ye  hold ; 
The  rainbow  tints  your  eddying  waves  unfold, 

The  hues  of  sunset  mock ! 

Why  choose  this  pathway  rude, 
These  cliffs  by  gray  and  ancient  woods  o'ergrown? 
Why  pour  your  music  to  the  echoes  lone 

Of  this  wild  solitude  1 

The  mead  in  green  array, 
With  silent  beauty  wooes  your  loved  embrace ; 
Would  lead  you  through  soft  banks,  with  devious 

Along  a  gentler  way.  [grace, 

There,  as  ye  onward  roam, 

Fresh  leaves  would  bend  to  greet  your  waters  bright : 
Why  scorn  the  charms  that  vainly  court  your  sight, 

Amid  these  wilds  to  foam  7 

Alas  !  our  fate  is  one — 
Both  ruled  by  wayward  fancy  ! — All  in  vain 
I  question  both!  My  thoughts  still  spurn  the  chain — 

Ye — heedless — thunder  on  ! 


484 


ELIZABETH    F.  ELLETT. 


TO  THE  CONDOR. 

WOKDROUS,  majestic  bird  !  whose  mighty  wing 
Dwells  not  with  puny  warblers  of  the  spring ; — 

Nor  on  earth's  silent  breast — 
Powerful  to  soar  in  strength  and  pride  on  high, 
And  sweep  the  azure  bosom  of  the  sky — 

Chooses  its  place  of  rest 

Proud  nursling  of  the  tempest!  where  repose 
Thy  pinions  at  the  daylight's  fading  close  1 

In  what  far  clime  of  night 
Dost  thou  in  silence,  breathless  and  alone — 
While  round  thee  swells  of  life  no  kindred  tone — 

Suspend  thy  tireless  flight  1 

The  mountain's  frozen  peak  is  lone  and  bare, 
No  foot  of  man  hath  ever  rested  there ; — 

Yet  'tis  thy  sport  to  soar 
Far  o'er  its  frowning  summit — and  the  plain 
Would  seek  to  win  thy  downward  wing  in  vain, 

Or  the  green  sea-beat  shore. 

The  limits  of  thy  course  no  daring  eye 

Has  mark'd ; — thy  glorious  path  of  light  on  high 

Is  trackless  and  unknown  ; 

The  gorgeous  sun  thy  quenchless  gaze  may  share ; 
Sole  tenant  of  his  boundless  realm  of  air, 

Thou  art,  with  him,  alone. 

Imperial  wanderer !  the  storms  that  shake 
Earth's  towers,  and  bid  her  rooted  mountains  quake, 

Are  never  felt  by  thee  ! — 

Beyond  the  bolt — beyond  the  lightning's  gleam, 
Basking  forever  in  the  unclouded  beam — 

Thy  home — immensity! 

And  thus  the  soul,  with  upward  flight  like  thine, 
May  track  the  realms  where  Heaven's  own  glories 

And  scorn  the  tempter's  power ;  [shine, 

Yet  meaner  cares  oppress  its  drooping  wings ; 
Still  to  earth's  joys  the  sky-born  wanderer  clings — 

Those  pageants  of  an  hour ! 


THE  ISLE  OF  REST. 

Some  of  the  islands  where  the  fancied  paradise  of  the 
Indians  was  situated,  were  believed  to  be  in  Lake  Su- 
perior.   

THAT  blessed  isle  lies  far  away — 

'T  is  many  a  weary  league  from  land, 
Where  billows  in  their  golden  play 

Dash  on  its  sparkling  sand. 
No  tempest's  wrath,  or  stormy  waters'  roar, 
Disturb  the  echoes  of  that  peaceftil  shore. 

There  the  light  breezes  lie  at  rest, 

Soft  pillow'd  on  the  glassy  deep  ; 
Pale  cliffs  look  on  the  waters'  breast, 

And  watch  their  silent  sleep: 
There  the  wild  swan,  with  plumed  and  glossy  wing, 
Sits  lone  and  still  beside  the  bubbling  spring, 

And  far  within,  in  murmurs  heard, 

Comes,  with  the  wind's  low  whispers  there, 

The  music  of  the  mounting  bird, 
Skimming  the  clear,  bright  air. 


The  sportive  brook,  with  free  and  silvery  tide, 
Comes  wildly  dancing  from  the  green  hill-side. 

The  sun  there  sheds  his  noontide  beam 

On  oak-crown'd  hill  and  leafy  bowers; 
And  gayly  by  the  shaded  stream 
Spring  forth  the  forest-flowers. 
The  fountain  flings  aloft  its  showery  spray, 
With  rainbows  deck'd,  that  mock  the  hues  of  day. 

And  when  the  dewy  morning  breaks, 
A  thousand  tones  of  rapture  swell; 
A  thrill  of  life  and. motion  wakes 

Through  hill,  and  plain,  and  dell. 
The  wild  bird  trills  his  song — and  from  the  wood 
The  red  deer  bounds  to  drink  beside  the  flood. 

There,  where  the  sun  sets  on  the  sea, 

And  gilds  the  forest's  waving  crown, 
Strains  of  immortal  harmony 

To  those  sweet  shades  come  down. 
Bright  and  mysteriousforms  that  green  shore  throng, 
And  pour  in  evening's  ear  their  charmed  song. 

E'en  on  this  cold  and  cheerless  shore, 

While  all  is  dark  and  quiet  near, 
The  huntsman,  when  his  toils  are  o'er, 

That  melody  may  hear, 
And  see,  faint  gleaming  o'er  the  waters'  foam, 
The  glories  of  that  isle,  his  future  home. 


THE  VANITY  OF  THE  VULGAR  GREAT. 


STAY,  thou  ambitious  rill, 
Ignoble  offering  of  some  fount  impure. 

Beneath  the  rugged  hill, 
Gloomy  with  shade,  thou  hadst  thy  birth  obscure ; 

With  faint  steps  issuing  slow, 
In  scanty  waves  among  the  rocks  to  flow. 

Fling  not  abroad  thy  spray, 
Nor  fiercely  lash  the  green  turf  at  thy  side ! 

What  though  indulgent  May 
With  liquid  snows  hath  swollen  thy  foaming  tide! 

August  will  follow  soon, 
To  still  thy  boastings  with  his  scorching  noon. 

Lo !  calmly  through  the  vale 
The  Po,  the  king  of  rivers,  sweeps  along; 

Yet  many  a  mighty  sail 
Bears  on  his  breast — proud  vessels,  swift  and  strong  ; 

Nor  from  the  meadow's  side 
'Neath  summer's  sun  recedes  his  lessen'd  tide. 

Thou,  threatening  all  around, 
Dost  foam  and  roar  along  thy  troubled  path ; 

In  grandeur  newly  found, 
Stunning  the  gazer  with  thy  noisy  wrath ! 

Yet,  foolish  stream  !  not  one 
Of  all  thy  boasted  glories  is  thine  own. 

The  smile  of  yonder  sky 
Is  brief,  and  change  the  fleeting  seasons  know : 

On  barren  sands  and  dry, 
Soon  to  their  death  thy  brawling  waves  shall  flow. 

O'er  thee,  in  summer's  heat, 
Shall  pass  the  traveller  with  unmoisten'd  feet. 


ELIZABETH   F.   ELLETT. 


485 


A  PARALLEL. 

THE  waves  that  on  the  sparkling  sand 

Their  foaming  crests  upheave, 
Lightly  receding  from  the  land, 

Seem  not  a  trace  to  leave. 
Those  billows,  in  their  ceaseless  play, 
Have  worn  the  solid  rocks  away. 

The  summer  winds,  which  wandering  sigh 

Amid  the  forest  bower, 
So  gently  as  they  murmur  by, 

Scarce  lift  the  drooping  flower. 
Yet  bear  they,  in  autumnal  gloom, 
Spring's  wither'd  beauties  to  the  tomb. 

Thus  worldly  cares,  though  lightly  borne, 

Their  impress  leave  behind ; 
And  spirits,  which  their  bonds  would  spurn, 

The  blighting  traces  find. 
Till  alter'd  thoughts  and  hearts  grown  cold 
The  change  of  passing  years  unfold. 


LAKE  GEORGE. 

NOT  in  the  banner'd  castle, 

Beside  the  gilded  throne, 
On  fields  where  knightly  ranks  have  strode, 

In  feudal  halls — alone 
The  spirit  of  the  stately  mien, 

Whose  presence  flings  a  spell 
Fadeless  on  all  around  her, 

In  empires  loves  to  dwell. 

Gray  piles  and  moss-grown  cloisters 

Call  up  the  shadows  vast 
That  linger  in  their  dim  domain, 

Dreams  of  the  vision'd  past ! 
As  sweep  the  gorgeous  pageants  by, 

We  watch  the  pictured  train, 
And  sigh  that  aught  so  glorious 

Should  be  so  brief  and  vain. 

But  here  a  spell  yet  deeper 

Breathes  from  the  woods  and  sky, 
Proud  Her  these  rocks  and  waters  speak 

Of  hoar  antiquity ; 
Here  nature  built  her  ancient  realm 

While  yet  the  world  was  young, 
Her  monuments  of  grandeur 

Unshaken  stand,  and  strong. 

Here  shines  the  sun  of  Freedom 

Forever  o'er  the  deep, 
Where  Freedom's  heroes  by  the  shore 

In  peaceful  glory  sleep ; 
And  deeds  of  high  and  proud  emprize 

In  every  breeze  are  told, 
The  everlasting  tribute 

To  hearts  that  now  are  cold. 

Farewell,  then,  scenes  so  lovely  ! 

If  sunset  gild  your  rest, 
Or  the  pale  starlight  gleam  upon 

The  water's  silvery  breast — 
Or  morning  on  these  glad,  green  isles 

In  trembling  splendour  glows — 
A  holier  spell  than  beauty 

Hallows  your  pure  repose ! 


TO  THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

BIRD  of  the  lone  and  joyless  night, 
Whence  is  thy  sad  and  solemn  lay? 

Attendant  on  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Why  shun  the  garish  blaze  of  day  ? 

When  darkness  fills  the  dewy  air, 
Nor  sounds  the  song  of  happier  bird, 

Alone,  amid  the  silence,  there 

Thy  wild  and  plaintive  note  is  heard. 

Thyself  unseen,  thy  pensive  moan 
Pour'd  in  no  living  comrade's  ear, 

The  forest's  shaded  depths  alone 
Thy  mournful  melody  can  hear. 

Beside  what  still  and  secret  spring, 
In  what  dark  wood,  the  livelong  day, 

Sitt'st  thou,  with  dusk  and  folded  wing, 
To  while  the  hours  of  light  away  1 

Sad  minstrel !  thou  hast  Icarn'd,  like  me, 
That  life's  deceitful  gleam  is  vain ; 

And  well  the  lesson  profits  thee, 
Who  will  not  trust  its  charm  again. 

Thou,  unbeguiled,  thy  plaint  dost  trill 
To  listening  night,  when  mirth  is  o'er; 

I,  heedless  of  the  warning,  still 
Believe,  to  be  deceived  once  more. 


SONG. 

COME,  fill  a  pledge  to  sorrow, 

The  song  of  mirth  is  o'er, 
And  if  there 's  sunshine  in  our  hearts, 

'T  will  light  our  theme  the  more. 
And  pledge  we  dull  life's  changes, 

As  round  the  swift  hours  pass — 
Too  kind  were  fate,  if  none  but  gems 

Should  sparkle  in  Time's  glass. 

The  dregs  and  foam  together 

Unite  to  crown  the  cup — 
And  well  we  know  the  weal  and  wo 

That  fill  life's  chalice  up ! 
Life's  sickly  revellers  perish, 

The  goblet  scarcely  drain'd  ; 
Then  lightly  quaff,  nor  lose  the  sweets 

Which  may  not  be  retain'd. 

What  reck  we  that  unequal 

Its  varying  currents  swell — 
The  tide  that  bears  our  pleasures  down, 

Buries  our  griefs  as  well. 
And  if  the  swift-wing'd  tempest 

Have  cross'd  our  changeful  day, 
The  wind  that  toss'd  our  bark  has  swept 

Full  many  a  cloud  away ! 

Then  grieve  not  that  naught  mortal 

Endures  through  passing  years — 
Did  life  one  changeless  tenor  keep, 

'Twere  caiise,  indeed,  for  tears. 
And  fill  we,  ere  our  parting, 

A  mantling  pledge  to  sorrow; 
The  pang  that  wrings  the  heart  to-day 

Time's  touch  will  heal  to-morrow ! 


WILLIAM    WALLACE. 


[Bora,  1818.] 


MR.  WALLACE  was  born  in  Lexington,  Ken- 
tucky; educated  at  one  of  the  colleges  of  Indiana; 
studied  law,  and  soon  after  his  admission  to  the 
bar  went  to  New  York,  where,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  months  passed  in  Europe,  he  has  since 
resided.  The  longest  of  his  poems,  «  Perditi,"  was 


published  in  1842.  It  is  in  fonr  cantos.  Pas- 
sages of  it  are  highly  imaginative,  but  it  is  un- 
finished, and  marred  in  parts  by  tasteless  extrava- 
gances. Some  of  Mr.  WALLACE'S  later  pieces  are 
written  with  great  care,  and  show  that  he  possesses 
a  truly  poetical  power  and  spirit. 


THE  GODS  OF  OLD. 

NOT  realmless  sit  the  ancient  Gods  *, 

Upon  their  misty  thrones 
In  that  old  glorious  Grecian  Heaven 

Of  regal  zones  : 
A  languor  on  their  awful  forms 

May  lie, 
And  a  deep  grief  in  their  large  star-eyes, 

King-dwellers  of  the  sky  ! 
But  still  they  show  the  might  of  Gods 

In  rustless  panoply. 

They  cannot  fade,  though  other  Creeds 
Came  burden'd  with  their  curse, 
And  ONE'S  apotheosis  was 

A  darken'd  Universe : — 
No  tempest  heralded  the  Orient  Light ; 
No  fiery  portent  walk'd  the  solemn  Night; 
No  Conqueror's  blood-red  banner  was  unfurl'd ; 
No  Vulcan  shook  its  warning  torch  on  high ; 
No  earthquake  tore  the  pulses  of  the  world, 
Nor  pale  Suns  wander'd  through  the  swarthy  sky ; 

Only  the  silent  spheres 
Amid  the  darkness  shed  some  joyous  tears ; 
And  then,  as  rainbows  come,  IT  came 

With  Morning's  lambent  flame  : 
The  Stars  look'd  from  their  palaces,  whose  spires 

And  windows  caught  afar  the  prophet-glow, 
And  bade  their  choirs  sing  to  the  sweetest  lyres, 

«  Peace  and  good  will  unto  the  orb  below !" 
The  Monarchs  shudder'd  and  turn'd  sick  a-heart; 

And  from  their  bright  hands  fell 
Gem'd  sceptres  with  a  thunderous  sound 

Before  the  miracle : 
Ah  !  sick  at  soul,  but  they — the  Bards — 

Song's  calm  Immortals  i'  the  eclipse, 
Throng'd  up  and  held  the  nectar-cup 

To  their  pale  lips ; 
And  each  with  an  eager  fond  look  stirr'd 

Certain  melodious  strings, 
While  the  startled  tempest-bearing  Bird 

Poised  tremblingly  his  wings : — 
Then  loftier  still  their  harps  resounded, 

And  louder  yet  their  voices  roll'd 
Along  the  thick  air,  and  rebounded 
Lazily  from  the  roof  of  gold — 
«  YE  cannot  leave  your  throned  spheres, 

Though  Faith  is  o'er, 
And  a  mightier  OJJE  than  Jove  appears 


On  E  arth's  expectant  shore !"     [halls, — 
Slowly  the  daring  words  went  trampling  through  the 
"Nor  in  the  Earth,  nor  Hell,  nor  sky, 
The  IDEAL,  O  ye  Gods !  can  ever  die, 
But  to  the  soul  of  man  immortal  calls. 

Still,  Jove,  sublime,  shall  wrap 
His  awful  forehead  in  Olympian  shrouds, 
Or  take  along  the  heaven's  dark  wilderness 

His  thunder-chase  behind  the  hunted  clouds ; 
And  mortal  eyes  upturned  shall  behold 
Apollo's  rustling  robe  of  gold 
Sweep  through  the  corridors  of  the  ancient  sky, 

That  kindling  speaks  its  Deity : 
And  HE,  the  Ruler  of  the  sunless  Land 

Of  restless  ghosts,  shall  fitfully  illume 
With  smouldering  fires  that  stir  in  cavern'd  eyes 

Hell's  house  of  shuddering  gloom ; — 
Still  the  ethereal  Huntress,  as  of  old,       ' 

Shall  roam  amid  the  sacred  Latmos  mountains, 
And  lave  her  virgin  limbs  in  waters  cold 

That  Earth  holds  sparkling  up  in  marble  foun- 
And  in  his  august  dreams,  [tains; 

Along  the  Italian*  streams, 
The  poor,  old,  throneless  god, 

With  angry  frown, 

Will  feebly  grasp  the  air  for  his  lost  crown — 
Then  murmur  sadly  low 
Of  his  great  overthrow  : — 
And  wrapt  in  sounding  mail  shall  he  appear, 
War's  giant  Charioteer! — 
And  where  the  conflict  reels, 
Urge  through  the  swaying  lines  his  crashing  wheels : 
Or  pause  to  list  amid  the  horrent  shades, 
The  deep,  hoarse  cry  of  Battle's  thirsty  blades, 

Led  by  the  wailing  spear — 
Till  at  the  weary  combat's  close 
They  give  their  passionate  thanks 
Amid  the  panting  ranks 

Of  conquer' d  foes — 

Then  drunken  with  their  King's  red  wine, 
Go  swooning  to  repose  around  his  purple  shrine. 

And  HE,  the  Trident- Wieldcr,  still  shall  see 
The  adoring  Billows  kneel  around  his  feet, 

While,  at  his  call,  the  Winds  in  ministry 
Before  their  altar  of  the  Tempest  meet ; 

Or  when  that,  half-awake,  Hyperion  smiles 


Saturn  was  banished  to  Italy. 


486 


WILLIAM    WALLACE. 


487 


To  feel  the  kisses  of  the  amorous  Mom, 
Shall,  leaning  gently  o'er  the  Paphian  isles — 
Cheer'd  by  the  music  of  some  Triton's  horn — 
Lift  up  the  shadowy  curtains  of  the  Night 

To  their  hid  window-tops  above, 
And  bathe  thy  dtowsy  eyelids  with  the  light, 

Voluptuous  Queen  of  Love  ! 
And  thou,  ah !  thou — born  of  the  white  sea-foam, 
That  dreams  a-troubled  still  around  thy  home — 
Awaking  from  thy  slumbers,  thou  shall  press 
Thy  passionate  lips  on  his  resplendent  brow 

In  some  sweet  lone  recess 
Where  waters  murmur  and  the  dim  leaves  bow : — 

And  young  Endymion 
At  midnight's  pallid  noon 
Shall  still  be  charmed  from  his  dewy  sleep 

By  the  foolish,  love-sick  Moon, 
Who  thrills  to  find  him  in  some  lonely  vale 
Before  her  silver  lamp  may  pale — 
And  Pan  shall  play  his  reed 

Down  in  the  hush'd  arcades, 
And  Fauns  shall  prank  the  sward  amid 
Thessalia's  whispering  shades. 

Nor  absent  SHE  whose  orbs  of  azure  throw* 

Truth's  sunburst  on  the  world  below : 
Still  shall  she  calmly  watch  the  choral  Years 

Circling  slow  the  beamy  spheres, 
That  tremble  as  she  marches  through  their  plains, 
While  momently  rolls  out  a  sullen  sound 
From  Error's  hoary  mountains  falling  round ; 

Heard  by  the  Titan,  who  from  his  high  rock, 
Fill'd  with  immortal  pains 

That  his  immortal  spirit  still  can  mock, 
Exultant  sees,  despite  the  Oppressor's  ire — 

The  frost,  the  heat,  the  vulture  and  the  storm — 
Earth's  ancient  Vales  rejoicing  in  his  fire — 
The  homes,  the  loves  of  Men — those  Beings  wrought 

To  many  a  beauteous  formf 
In  the  grand  quiet  of  his  own  great  Thought ; 

And  over  all,  bright,  beautiful,  serene, 

And  changeless  in  thy  prime, 
Thou,  Psyche,  glory-cinctured  shall  be  seen, 
Whispering  for  ever  that  one  word  sublime, 
Down  through  the  peopled  gallery  of  Time — 
'  ETEIIXITT' — in  whose  dread  cycles  stand 
Men  and  their  Deities  on  common  Iand4 
Like  far  off  stars  that  glimmer  in  a  cloud, 

Deathless,  O  gods!  shall  ye  illume  the  PAST; 
To  ye  the  Poet- Voice  will  cry  aloud, 

Faithful  among  the  faithless  to  the  last — 

Ye  must  not  die  ! 

Long  as  the  dim  robes  of  the  Ages  trail 
O'er  Delphi's  steep  or  Tempe's  flowery  vale — 

An  awful  Throng — 

Borne  Hpward  on  the  sounding  wings  of  Song 
That  cast  the  Beautiful  o'er  Land,  o'er  Sea, 
And  wed  Creation  to  Divinity — 
Ye  shall  not  die : 

*  "Thou,  Pallas,  Wisdom's  blue-eyed  queen." 

+  According  to  the  Greek  mythology,  Prometheus  stole 

fire  from  Heaven  and  created  man,  lor  which  the  gods 

punished  him. 
|  "The  Greek   mythology  presents  an  inexhaustible 

source  of  significant  allegories  relating  to  man  and  the 

Deity." — Ooethe. 


Though  Time  and  storm  your  calm  old  temples  rend, 
And,  rightly,  men  to  the  '  ONE  OXLI'  bend — 
Your  Realm  is  MEMOBT  !" 


THE  STATUARY. 

A  CITT  by  the  Sea !  for  evermore 
The  billows  kiss  her  feet  upon  the  shore, 

Speaking  of  pomp,  and  wealth,  and  power, 
States  for  her  vassals,  Ocean  for  her  dower. 
An  island-city  !  leagues  away 
Sparkling,  darkling,  goes  her  bay 
To  sounding  seas ;  and  white  wings  dance 

In  many  a  dreamy  sweep 
Along  the  blue  expanse  ; 
But  when  the  winds  forget  their  tune, 
The  ships  lie  moveless  on  the  Deep 

As  Desert  tents  at  noon. 
Rivers  march  on  either  side, 

With  many  a  palisade  and  dwelling 
Painted  on  the  passive  tide, 

And  over  all  blue  mountains  swelling: 
Look  to  Eastward,  look  to  Westward,  look  to  land., 

or  look  to  sea, 

Till  thy  shrinking  vision  shudders  over  the  Im- 
mensity ; 
Look  to  Norward,  look  to  So'ward — measure  sky 

or  measure  sod, 

Thou  shall  see  for  ever  fix'd  there  the  divineness  of 
a  God. 

I  am  of  the  city,  brave 
And  beauteous  with  her  spires, 
Holy  with  her  household  fires, 

All  along  the  winding  wave. 
Day  and  night  I  hear  the  rolling 

Of  her  great  voice  in  the  marts , 
Night  and  day  Time's  deep  bell  tolling 

With  a  slow  and  solemn  might 
Over  the  troubled  tide  of  hearts — 
Loud  in  day  and  low  at  night. 
Man  must  labour :  nought  is  sleeping 

In  Ihe  dimmest,  brightest  zone, 
From  the  worm  of  painful  creeping 

To  the  Cherub  on  his  throne. 
I  would  labour :  O  my  brother ! 

Deem  not  work  a  load  and  curse  ; 
Was  its  fruit  not  in  another, 
This  unmeasured  universe  1 
This  increasing  universe ! 
Let  me  too  be  up  and  doing ! 
Something  evermore  pursuing 

Than  shall  bring  me  welfare  only : 
Something  nobler  let  me  be 
In  the  City  by  the  Sea 

Than  a  miser  delving  lonely. 
Something  I  would  do  for  all — something  worthy 

of  my  peers, 

Born  to  live  when  nations  die,  the  comrade  of  un- 
counted years. 

Oh,  I  would  lean  and  listen  to  the  breeze 

Winding  from  air-harps  a  selectest  note  ; 
And  I  would  hear  the  deep  bass  of  the  seas 
An  under-music  float : 


488 


WILLIAM    WALLACE. 


So  deftly  taught,  I'd  sound  ray  People's  march, 

Through  this  our  own  broad  forest  clime, 
And  hear  the  echoes  roll'd  from  every  arch 

Flung  over  the  gulf  of  Time  : 
But  other  tones  might  fill  the  abysmal  ways, 

Given  to  a  wide  world's  themes, 
Mingling  with  all  my  own — a  misty  maze, 

Like  intertangled  dreams — 
Or  I  would  watch  the  silvery  sea  of  light 

Swelling  and  lapsing  all  the  day  around 
An  Island-Earth  that  laugh'd  with  long  delight, 

Until  the  Eve,  by  one  star  crown'd, 
From  the  dim  billows  of  a  distant  deep, 
March'd  up  her  hush'd  sky  with  a  queenly  sweep 
Of  purple  robes,  and  saw  the  vassal  clouds, 
Like  rapt  adorers  at  a  solemn  mass, 

In  crimson-mantled  crowds, 
Around  her  kindled  shrine  in  silent  worship  pass. 
Then  I  would  picture  with  those  gorgeous  hues 

My  birth-land ;  fill  her  mountains,  vales,  and  capes 
With  legends  whisper'd  me  by  History's  Muse, 

And  certain  old  heroic  Shapes ; 
But  these,  however  Muse  or  Man  might  smile, 

Would  fade  like  rainbows  of  a  stormy  sphere, 
And  cold  and  pale  hang  in  a  little  while 
Around  a  Cycle's  bier. 

Not  these !  not  these !  What  I  would  do  should  tower 

A  steadfast  Scorner  of  the  thunder's  shock — 
A  Name,  a  Thought,  a  Glory,  and  a  Power 
Set  in  the  everlasting  rock. 

Under  the  music  of  my  heart  and  brain 

Marble  should  start  and  tremble  into  life; 
And  men  should  mark  beneath  the  daring  strain, 

The  troubled  quarry's  strife ; 
There,  one  by  one,  the  blocks  should  swiftly  fall 

From  grand  and  beautiful  creatures,  who  would 
Like  buried  kings  and  queens  from  prison  pall,     [rise 

And  look  at  me  with  wondering  eyes  : 
Brave  men  and  lovely  women — they  who  gave 

The  advancing  plume  of  Time  a  starry  fire ; 
Who  talk'd  with  Spirits — carried  Freedom's  glaive, 

Or  grasp'd  the  Immortal  with  a  lyre  : 
The  Oyr.  whom  Egypt  taught  an  awful  lore 

On  pyramidal  steps,  till  he  became 
His  august  teacher's  conqueror ;  towering  o'er 

Her  marble  mountains,  smit  with  seraph  flame, 
Himself  a  mount  of  mind,  whose  shadow  creeps 
Steadily  down  through  Time's  remotest  Deeps ; 
He  should  appear  as  when  his  stern  eye  look'd 
Command  unto  the  seas  and  they  the  bidding  brook'd. 

And  SHE,  the  first  of  women,  who  could  dare 

The  fires  of  Poesy,  nor  feel  them  slay ; 
Who  wasted  over  Egypt's  grim  despair 

Her  warrior-soul  in  trumpet  song  away; 
She  should  be  seen  with  quivering  lips  apart, 
The  pearl-clasp  broken  on  her  heaving  heart, 
And  in  her  hands  a  harp  of  antique  mould 
Which  was  by  the  repentant  Deluge  roll'd 
On  Ararat,  and  saved ;  Morn's  pilgrim  Air 
Should  pause  to  look  upon  the  statue  there, 
As  if  it  held  a  memory  of  that  plain, 

In  whose  charm'd  ocean's  overflow, 
A  smiling  people  calmly  dropp'd  their  chain 
Four  thousand  years  ago ; 


And  HE  who  heard  the  veil'd  gods  walk  at  night 
Through  the  hush'd  chambers  of  his  listening  soul, 

And  caught  high  words  which,  understood  aright, 
Are  steps  of  stars  to  an  eternal  goal ; 

With  right  arm  stretch 'd  aloft  the  Greek  should  be, 

Resolving  worlds  to  Immortality  : 

And  He,  the  Ishmael  wanderer,  over  whom 

The  orbs  of  Heaven  with  awful  meaning  spread 
Where  wearily  the  long  flat  Deserts  gloom 

Like  prostrate  Times  struck  dead ; 
He  should  appear  as  when  he  stood  at  night 

Alone,  before  his  dim  low  tent,  and  threw 
His  brave  dark  eyes  along  the  boundless  Blue, 

And  saw  but  ONE  in  all  its  fields  of  light — 
HIMSELF  Eternity, — the  Nameless  in  His  MIGHT. 

And  HE  whose  vision  clasp'd  the  wondrous  WHOLE — 

Who  mark'd  on  his  large  horoscope  of  art 
The  mystic  fortunes  of  the  human  soul, 

All  changes  of  the  heart  : 
And  HE  who  lit  the  white  cliffs  of  his  isle     [lands, 

With  Freedom's  fires  that  smite  on  populous 
Swinging  in  seas  afar,  until  they  smile, 

Call  on  their  loved  deliverer's  name, 
And,  shouting,  pile  aloft  the  answering  brands 

On  mountain-tops,  a  jubilee  of  flame ; 
Who,  resting  then  from  human  labour,  wooed 

The  folded  skies  in  song :  his  prayer  was  heard : 
Heaven's  angel,  rapt  in  a  melodious  mood, 

The  tuneful  fountain  of  his  spirit  stirr'd 
With  shining  feet  that  walk'd  in  sweet  unrest, 
Over  the  rippling  rivers  of  the  Blest: 
And  HE,  the  Lord  of  thought,  who  spurn'd  the  bars 

Which  prison  skies  from  Earth's  up-looking  fold, 
And  measured  suns  and  leagues  of  peopled  stars 

That  filFd  with  thought  the  idiot-space  of  old : — 
A  group  of  kings  fix'd  on  a  solemn  hill, 

Hands  link'd  together,  gazing  on  the  ground, 

And  reverently  still, 
As  if  they  knew  the  Almighty's  shadow  lay  around. 

Nor  only  She  who  plows  the  sea  to  reap 

Harvest  of  empires  in  the  furrows  there, 
Should  then  behold  her  mighty  children  sweep 

Out  of  the  parted  rock  to  startled  air. — 

HE  should  arise — 

An  awful  grandeur  in  his  large,  calm  eyes — 
Who  taught  the  world  how  low  the  Just  of  power, 

Until  the  monarch  almost  loathed  the  throne, 
Pining  to  be  in  his  triumphal  hour 

Earth's  noblest  fruit,  a  truthful  man  alone. 
An  eagle's  plume,  cast  by  the  war-bird  down 

In  battle's  storm,  should  darkle  on  his  robe ; 
His  feet  should  rest  upon  an  unworn  crown 

That  sparkled  over  an  unpalaccd  globe ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  blade  ;  and  kneeling  by 

A  form  should  glow  divinely  fair, 
Wiping  away  whate'er  of  crimson  dye 
Redden'd  the  falchion  there. 

And  others  soon  should  wondering  look  at  me, 

Others  who  have  lit  my  land 
With  fires  that  burn  eternally, 

A  never-dying  hand  !  [a  people's  ire ; 

He  who  woke  the  cry  "  to  arms !"  HE  who  roused 
HE,  the  plunderer  of  the  storm-cloud,  glorious  with 
his  crown  of  fire. 


WILLIAM    WALLACE. 


489 


Nor  these  alone  ;  for  I  would  turn  and  look 

Into  the  sad  world  of  my  soul  and  find 
What  radiant  shapes  might  shimmer  from  some  nook 

In  the  half  moon-lit  forest  shrined. 
0  blessed  shapes,  that  shone  like  Eden-beams, 

When  boyhood's  sinless  years  were  given  to  me, 
Dancing  along  Life's  lily-shadow'd  streams 

And  by  its  shining  sea ! 
No  spirit  is  so  poor  within  its  sphere, 

That  Beauty  sits  not  on  some  lonely  mountain, 
Or  angels  walk  not  in  the  noon  to  hear 

The  sinking  bird  and  fountain ! 
Whato'cr  of  beautiful  my  heart  hath  known 
Should  flame  a  soul  into  the  soulless  stone : 
And  gracefully  over  all  should  glow, 

Her  bosom  pillowing  a  brooding  dove, 
She  who  did  teach  my  darken'd  heart  to  know 

The  Heaven  of  sweet  young  love. 
All  forms,  all  Aspirations,  Allegories, 

The  flush  of  Life,  the  majesty  of  Death ; 
Time's  eldest  Stories  and  swift-winged  Glories 

Should  find  from  me  a  breath ; 
Wings  pure  and  bright  as  Aiden's  deep  delight 

When  souls  of  men  walk  safely  through  the  grave, 
And  stern  as  myths  hurl'd  from  a  Runic  world 

On  Norland  storms  to  Summer's  trembling  wave. 

Then  I  would  plant  soft  grasses,  trees,  and  flowers 

Of  rarest  colours  over  all  the  mould, 
And  fountain-streams  should  murmur  in  some  bow- 
Fenced  by  a  trellis-work  of  fretted  gold,     [ers — 
A  lofty  portal  ever  open  seen 

Should  woo  the  city's  toil-o'erwearied  race 
To  that  fair  sculpture!     They  would  lean 

On  rosy  plots  amid  the  holy  place, 
When  Night  lay  dreaming  under  a  rounded  moon. 
And  from  those  statues  (glimmering  thro'  the  leaves 
That  softly  whisper'd  to  the  listening  Eves 

Some  touching  tune  learn'd  long  ago) 
A  solemn  grandeur  and  a  tender  grace 

Into  their  souls  should  flow. 
The  stalwart  man  should  learn  a  nobler  strength ; 

The  blooming  boyhood  an  aspiring  fire ; 
The  reverend  Age  should  deem  he  heard  at  length 

The  soft,  low  prelude  of  a  seraph's  choir ; 
The  mother  there  should  gently  lean  and  press 

On  little  rosy  feet  a  tenderer  kiss, 
And  lovers  light  the  shadows  of  the  night 

With  eyes  that  shone  to  each  in  mutual  bliss, 
Reclined  amid  my  labour,  I  would  hear 

Their  voices  in  the  leaves ;  and  I  would  see 
The  throng,  unseen,  and  whisper  with  a  tear 

Of  joy — "  They  owe  it  all  to  me  ; 
To  me,  who  would  a-temper  so  their  souls 

That  they  should  veil  the  fierce  flash  of  the  spears 
Clashing  for  blood  :  Look  back  !     See  how  it  rolls 

In  yon  long  channels  of  the  parted  years, 
Thick  with  the  wave-uplifted  hands  of  Those 

Who  fought  their  fellows  and  went  swiftly  down 
Beneath  the  Victor; — over  th^ir  repose 

He  shook  an  idle  crown. 
But  not  like  these,  my  Brothers  !  shall  ye  die  ; 

Something  of  Heaven  is  left;  and  the  Ide.d, 
With  all  her  stars  is  found,  at  last,  to  lie 

In  that  which  ye  have  called  <  the  REAL.'  " 

62 


A  LETTER.  TO  MADELINE. 

PUHF.  as  a  passion  felt  for  stars; 

Deep  as  a  thought  to  seraphs  known ; 
Yet  sad  as  bird  confined  to  bars, 

O  Madeline !  my  love  hath  grown — 

Taking  a  mild  and  solemn  tone. 
Yes, — still  by  thee  my  soul  is  stirr'd 

With  music  ;  from  the  Past  it  swells, 
Sweet  as  a  wave's  low  murmur  heard 

In  some  old  sea-remembering  shells. 

The  misty  mountains  tower  aloft; 

Thine  infant  feet  their  summits  trod ; 
And  in  yon  quiet  valleys  oft 

Thy  little  fingers  from  the  sod 

Pluck'd  jewels  which  a  pitying  God 
Scatter'd  around  in  leaf  and  flower, 

As  if  to  tell  each  sorrowing  shore, 
That  He  who  walk'd  through  Eden's  bower, 

Was  yet  the  dim  earth  hovering  o'er. 

And  yonder  sings  the  silver  stream — 

Dancing  adown  the  listening  hill, 
That  wears  its  mantle  from  the  beam, 

And  learns  its  music  from  the  rill ; 

'Tis  murmuring  o'er  its  legends  still. 
While  musing  lonely  by  the  scene — 

My  spirit  dark  with  grief's  eclipse — 
I  took  new  heart — for  Madeline 

That  rill  had  hallow'd  with  her  lips ! 

Though  black  with  Winter's  shadow  lies 
The  land,  and  black  with  wo  my  soul ; 

Though  round  me  here  from  men  and  skies 
Clouds  ghost-like  stalk  or  shadowy  roll, 
And  such  appears  the  Pilgrim's  goal ! — 

Let  but  a  scene  which  thou  didst  know, 
A  moment  meet  my  sadden'd  view, 

And  instantly  it  wears  a  glow 

U npress'd  by  thee  it  never  knew : — 

Skies  smile  with  unaccustom'd  spheres, 

Lit  by  thy  memory  into  birth — 
And  fade  away  the  doubts  and  fears 

That  pall'd  my  heart :  the  very  earth, 

So  dark  before,  trembles  with  mirth ; 
While  through  her  everlasting  plains 

The  rivers  broad  triumphing  roll, 
As  if  they  warrn'd  her  swelling  veins, 

And  thought  she  own'd  a  living  soul. 

Thus  hourly  do  I  feel  a  chain, 

Whose  links  are  wreath'd  with  flowers  and 

light, 
Is  doom'd  for  ever  to  remain 

Between  the  world  and  me : — Thy  plight, 

The  beautiful  star-gush  of  a  night, 
Whose  dusk  wings  rustle  sadly  round — 

Thy  love — a  pure  flame  lit  about, 
Which  must  in  Nature's  Vase*  be  found, 

To  bring  its  loveliest  colours  out. 


*  The  vase  was  of  pure  alabaster,  wliose  best  figures 
only  appeared  when  a  lamp  was  kindled  inside.— East- 
ern Travels. 


WILLIAM    W.    LORD. 


[Born  about  1818.1 


Mn.  LORD  is  a  native  of  Western  New  York, 
and  is  descended  through  both  his  parents  from  the 
New  England  Puritans.  His  father  was  a  Pres- 
byterian clergyman,  and  his  mother,  who  now  re- 
sides with  her  eldest  son,  the  Rev.  Dr.  LORD  of 
Buffalo,  is  a  woman  of  refinement  and  cultiva- 
tion. He  had  therefore  the  advantages  of  a  good 
domestic  training.  He  exhibited  at  a  very  early 
age  a  love  of  letters,  and  soon  became  familiar 
with  SHAKSPEARE  and  the  other  great  writers  of 
the  Elizabethan  age,  and  probably  few  men  are 
now  more  familiar  with  English  literature  in  all 
its  departments.  During  his  college  life  his  health 
failed,  and  his  friends,  yielding  to  a  desire  for  a  sea 
voyage,  committed  him  to  the  care  of  the  master  of 
a  whale  ship,  owned  by  a  family  friend  at  New 
London.  After  being  a  few  weeks  at  sea  he  grew 
weary  of  the  monotony  of  a  cabin  passage,  and, 
against  the  remonstrances  of  the  captain,  forced 
his  way  into  the  forecastle,  where  he  soon  became 
a  sturdy  seaman,  and,  during  four  years  of  service 
in  the  Pacific,  endured  all  the  hardships,  priva- 
tions and  perils  of  that  adventurous  life,  exhibiting 
on  every  occasion  the  boldest  traits  of  character. 
On  returning  home  he  resolved  to  devote  his  time 
to  the  study  of  moral  science,  and  with  this  view, 
in  1841,  entered  the  theological  school  at  Auburn ; 


but  the  death  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  RICHARDS,  president 
of  that  institution,  occurring  in  1843,  he  joined 
the  senior  class  of  the  Princeton  Theological  Semi- 
nary, in  which  he  completed  his  course  of  study, 
with  much  credit,  early  in  the  following  year.  He 
is  now  a  fellow  of  the  College  of  New  Jersey,  and 
is  engaged  in  the  preparation  of  a  course  of  Lec- 
tures on  English  Literature. 

Mr.  LORD  has  been  a  laborious  and  successful 
student;  is  familiar  with  the  ancient  languages 
and  literatures ;  has  been  a  diligent  reader  of  the 
best  German  writers ;  and  has  cultivated  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  arts  of  design.  Philosophy 
is  his  favourite  study,  however,  and  COLERIDGE  and 
WORDSWORTH  are  his  most  familiar  authors. 

Mr.  LORD'S  only  published  volume  of  poems 
appeared  in  1845.  Its  contents  were  all  written 
during  the  previous  year,  and  they  bear  generally 
marks  of  haste  and  carelessness,  but  such  proofs 
of  genuine  poetical  taste  and  power  as  to  win  at- 
tention and  praise  from  judicious  critics.  His  mind 
is  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  his  favourite  authors, 
but  many  passages  in  his  writings  are  as  original, 
in  thought  and  manner,  as  they  are  beautiful.  The 
pervading  tone  of  his  poetry  is  that  of  reverent 
meditation,  but  occasionally  it  is  distinguished  by  a 
graceful  playfulness. 


KEATS.* 

OH  gold  Hyperion,  love-lorn  Porphyro, 

Ill-fated !  from  thine  orb'd  fire  struck  back 
Just  as  the  parting  clouds  began  to  glow, 

And  stars,  like  sparks,  to  bicker  in  thy  track ! 
Alas !  throw  down,  throw  down,  ye  mighty  dead, 

The  leaves  of  oak  and  asphodel 
That  ye  were  weaving  for  that  honour'd  head, — 

In  vain,  in  vain,  your  lips  would  seek  a  spell 
In  the  few  charmed  words  the  poet  sung, 

To  lure  him  upward  in  your  seats  to  dwell, — 
As  vain  your  grief!     O  !  why  should  one  so  young 

Sit  crown'd  midst  hoary  heads  with  wreaths  di- 
vine 7 
Though  to  his  lips  Hymettus'  bees  had  clung, 

His  lips  shall  never  taste  the  immortal  wine, 
Who  sought  to  drain  the  glowing  cup  too  soon, 
For  he  hath  perish'd,  and  the  moon 
Hath  lost  Endymion — but  too  well 

The  shaft  that  pierced  him  in  her  arms  was  sped : — 

Into  that  gulf  of  dark  and  nameless  dread, 

Star-like  he  fell,  but  a  wide  splendour  shed 
Through  its  deep  night,  that  kindled  as  he  fell. 

*  From  "An  Ode  to  England." 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

AND  shall  we  meet  in  heaven,  and  know  and  love  1 
Do  human  feelings  in  that  world  above 
Unchanged  survive  ?  blest  thought !  but  ah,  I  fear 
That  thou,  dear  sister,  in  some  other  sphere, 
Distant  from  mine,  will  find  a  brighter  home, 
Where  I,  unworthy  found,  may  never  come ; — 
Or  be  so  high  above  me  glorified, 
That  I,  a  meaner  angel,  undcscried, 
Seeking  thine  eyes,  such  love  alone  shall  see 
As  angels  give  to  all  bestowed  on  me ; 
And  when  my  voice  upon  thy  car  shall  fall, 
Hear  only  such  reply  as  angels  give  to  all. 

Forgive  me,  sister,  O  forgive  the  love 
Whose  selfishness  would  reach  the  life  above, 
And  even  in  heaven  do  its  object  wrong — 
But  should  I  see  thee  in  the  heavenly  throng, 
Bright  as  the  star  I  love — the  night's  first  star, 
If,  like  that  star,  thou  still  must  shine  afar, 
And  in  thy  glory  I  must  never  see 
A  woman's,  sister's  look  of  love  from  thee, — 
Must  never  call  thee  by  a  sister's  name, 
I  could  but  wish  thee  less,  if  thus,  the  same, 
My  sister  still,  dear  Sarah!  thou  might'st  be, 
And  I  thy  brother  still,  in  that  blest  company. 

4UO 


WILLIAM    W.    LORD. 


491 


THE  BROOK. 

A  LITTLE  blind  girl  wandering, 

While  daylight  pales  beneath  the  moon, 

And  with  a  brook  meandering, 
To  hear  its  gentle  tune. 

The  little  blind  girl  by  the  brook, 

It  told  her  something — you  might  guess, 

To  see  her  smile,  to  see  her  look 
Of  listening  eagerness. 

Though  blind,  a  never  silent  guide 
Flow'd  with  her  timid  feet  along; 

And  down  she  wander'd  by  its  side 
To  hear  the  running  song. 

And  sometimes  it  was  soft  and  low, 
A  creeping  music  in  the  ground ; 

And  then,  if  something  chcck'd  its  flow, 
A  gurgling  swell  of  sound. 

And  now,  upon  the  other  side, 

She  seeks  her  mother's  cot ; 
And  still  the  noise  shall  be  her  guide, 

And  lead  her  to  the  spot. 

For  to  the  blind,  so  little  free 
To  move  about  beneath  the  sun, 

Small  things  like  this  seem  liberty — 
Something  from  darkness  won. 

But  soon  she  heard  a  meeting  stream, 
And  on  the  bank  she  follow'd  still, 

It  murmur'd  on,  nor  could  she  tell 
It  was  another  rill. 

Ah!  whither,  whither,  my  little  maid! 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  wander  here? 
I  seek  my  mother's  cot,  she  said, 

And  surely  it  is  near. 

There  is  no  cot  upon  this  brook, 

In  yonder  mountains  dark  and  drear, 

Where  sinks  the  sun,  its  source  it  took, 
Ah,  wherefore  art  thou  here  1 

Oh !  sir,  thou  art  not  true  nor  kind, 
It  is  the  brook,  I  know  its  sound; 

Ah!  why  would  you  deceive  the  blind  1 
I  hear  it  in  the  ground. 

And  on  she  stepp'd,  but  grew  more  sad, 
And  weary  were  her  tender  feet, 

The  brook's  small  voice  seem'd  not  so  glad, 
Its  song  was  riot  so  sweet. 

Ah !  whither,  whither,  my  little  maid  7 
And  wherefore  dost  thou  wander  here  1 

I  seek  my  mother's  cot  she  said, 
And  surely  it  is  near. 

There  is  no  cot  upon  this  brook ; 

I  hear  its  sound,  the  maid  replied, 
With  dreamlike  and  bewilder'd  look — 

I  have  not  left  its  side. 

O  go  with  me,  the  darkness  nears, 
The  first  pale  star  begins  to  gleam ; 

The  maid  replied  with  bursting  tears, 
It  is  the  stream !  It  is  the  stream ! 


A  RIME, 

WHICH  IS  YET  REASON,  AND  TEACHETH,  IN  A  LIGHT 

MANNEE,  A  GRAVE  MATTER  IN  THE 

LERE  OF  LOVE. 

As  Love  sat  idling  beneath  a  tree, 

A  Knight  rode  by  on  his  charger  free, 

Stalwart  and  fair  and  tall  was  he, 

With  his  plume  and  his  mantle,  a  sight  to  see 

And  proud  of  his  scars,  right  loftily, 

He  cried,  Young  boy,  will  you  go  with  me  7 
But  Love  he  pouted  and  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  Warrior,  ill-bested : 

Love  is  not  won  by  chivalry. 

Then  came  a  Minstrel  bright  of  blee, 

Blue  were  his  eyes  as  the  heavens  be, 

And  sweet  as  a  song-bird's  throat  sung  he, 

Of  smiles  and  tears  and  ladie's  ee, 

Soft  love  and  glorious  chivalry, 

Then  cried,  Sweet  boy,  will  you  go  with  me  7 
Love  wept  and  smiled,  but  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  Minstrel  ill-bested : 

Love  is  not  won  by  minstrelsy. 

Then  came  a  Bookman,  wise  as  three, 

Darker  a  scholar  you  shall  not  see 

In  Jewrie,  Rome,  or  Araby. 

But  list,  fair  dames,  what  I  rede  to  ye, 

In  love's  sweet  lere  untaught  was  he, 

For  when  he  cried,  Come,  love,  with  me, 
Tired  of  the  parle  he  was  nodding  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  Scholar  ill-bested :  • 

Love  is  not  won  by  pedantry. 

Then  came  a  Courtier  wearing  the  key 

Of  council  and  chambers  high  privity ; 

He  could  dispute  yet  seem  to  agree, 

And  soft  as  dew  was  his  flatterie. 

And  with  honied  voice  and  low  congee 

Fair  youth,  he  said,  will  you  honour  me  7 
In  courteous  wise  Love  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  Courtier  ill-bested : 

Love  is  not  won  by  courtesy. 

Then  came  a  Miser  blinking  his  ee, 
To  view  the  bright  boy  beneath  the  tree; 
His  purse,  which  hung  to  his  cringing  knee, 
The  ransom  held  of  a  king's  countree  ; 
And  a  handful  of  jewels  and  gold  showed  he, 
And  cried,  Sweet  child,  will  you  go  with  me  7 
Then  loud  laugh'd  Love  as  he  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  Monger  ill-bested : 
Love  is  not  won  by  merchandry. 

O  then  to  young  Love  beneath  the  tree, 
Came  one  as  young  and  as  fair  as  he, 
And  as  like  to  him  as  like  'can  be, 
And  clapping  his  little  wings  for  glee, 
With  nods  and  smiles  and  kisses  free, 
He  whisper'd,  Come,  Oh  come  with  me : 
Love  pouted  and  flouted  and  shook  his  head, 
But  along  with  that  winsome  youth  he  sped, 
And  love  wins  love,  loud  shouted  he ! 


ARTHUR   CLEVELAND   COXE. 


[Born,  1818.] 


MR.  COXE  is  the  eldest  son  of  the  Reverend 
SAMOEL  H.  COXE,  D.  D.,  of  Brooklyn.  He  was 
born  in  Mendham,  in  New  Jersey,  on  the  tenth 
day  of  May,  1818.  At  ten  years  of  age  he  was 
sent  to  a  gymnasium  at  Pittsfield,  in  Massachu- 
setts, and  he  completed  his  studies  preparatory  to 
entering  the  University  of  New  York,  under  the 
private  charge  of  Doctor  BCSH,  author  of  "The 
Life  of  Mohammed,"  etc.  While  in  the  univer- 
sity he  distinguished  himself  by  his  devotion  to 
classic  learning,  and  particularly  by  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Greek  poets.  In  his  freshman  year 
he  delivered  a  poem  before  one  of  the  undergra- 
duates' societies,  on  "  The  Progress  of  Ambition," 
and  in  the  same  period  produced  many  spirited 
metrical  pieces,  some  of  which  appeared  in  the 
periodicals*  of  the  time.  In  the  autumn  of  1837 
he  published  his  first  volume,  "  Advent,  a  Mys- 
tery," a  poem  in  the  dramatic  form,  to  which  was 
prefixed  the  following  dedication  : 

FATHER,  as  he  of  old  who  reap'd  the  field, 
The  first  young  sheaves  to  Him  did  dedicate 

Whose  bounty  gave  whate'er  the  glebe  did  yield, 
Whose  smile  the  pleasant  harvest  might  create — 
So  I  to  thee  these  numbers  consecrate, 

Thou  who  didst  lead  to  Silo's  pearly  spring; 
And  if  of  hours  well  saved  from  revels  late 

And  youthful  riot,  I  these  fruits  do  bring, 

Accept  my  early  vow,  nor  frown  on  what  I  sing. 

This  work  was  followed  in  the  spring  of  1838  by 
"  Athwold,  a  Romaunt ;"  and  in  the  summer  of 
the  same  year  were  printed  the  first  and  second 
cantos  of  "  Saint  Jonathan,  the  Lay  of  a  Scald." 
These  were  intended  as  introductory  to  a  novel  I 
in  the  stanza  of  «  Don  Juan,"  and  four  other  can-  j 
tos  were  afterward  written,  but  wisely  destroyed 
by  the  author  on  his  becoming  a  candidate 'for 
holy  orders,  an   event  not  contemplated  in  his  ! 
previous  studies.     He  was  graduated  in  July,  and 
on  the  occasion  deli vered  an  eloquent  valedictory 
oration. 

From  this  period  his  poems  assumed  a  devo- 
tional cast,  and  were  usually  published  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  church.  His  «  Athanasion"  was 
pronounced  before  the  alumni  of  Washington 
College,  in  Connecticut,  in  the  summer  of  1840. 
It  is  an  irregular  ode,  and  contains  passages  of 
considerable  merit,  but  its  sectarian  character  will 
prevent  its  receiving  general  applause.  The  fol- 
lowing allusion  to  Bishop  BERKELEY  is  from  this 
poem : 

Oft  when  the  eve-st.tr,  sinking  into  day. 
Seems  empire's  plan-jt  on  its  westward  way, 
Comes,  in  soft  light  from  antique  window's  groin, 
Thy  pure  ideal,  mitred  saint  of  Cloyne  ! 

•Among  them  "The  Blues"  and  "The  Hebrew  Muse," 
in  "  The  American  Monthly  Magazine." 


Taught,  from  sweet  childhood,  to  revere  in  thee 
Earth's  every  virtue,  writ  in  pnesic, 
Nigh  did  I  leap,  on  CLIO'S  calmer  line, 
To  see  thy  story  with  our  own  entwine. 
On  Yale's  full  walls,  no  pictured  shape  to  me 
Like  BERKELEY'S  seem'd,  in  priestly  dignity, 
Such  as  he  stood,  fatiguing,  year  by  year, 
In  our  behoof,  dnil  prince  and  cavalier; 
And  dauntless  still,  as  erst  the  Genoese  ; 
Such  as  he  wander'd  o'er  the  Indy  seas 
To  vex'd  Bermoothes,  witless  that  he  went 
Mid  isles  that  beckon'd  to  a  continent. 
Such  there  he  seern'd,  the  pure,  the  undefined! 
And  meet  the  record!    Though,  perchance,  I  smiled 
That  those,  in  him,  themselves  will  glorify, 
Who  reap  his  fields,  but  let  his  doctrine  die, 
Yet,  let  him  stand :  the  world  will  note  it  well, 
And  Time  shall  thank  them  for  the  chronicle 
By  such  confess'd,  COLUMBUS  of  new  homes 
For  song,  and  Science  with  her  thousand  tomes. 
Yes— pure  apostle  of  our  western  lore, 
Spoke  the  full  heart,  that  now  may  breathe  it  more, 
Still  in  those  halls,  where  none  without  a  sneer 
Name  the  dear  title  of  thy  ghostly  fear. 
Stand  up,  bold  bishop— in  thy  priestly  vest; 
Proof  that  the  Church  bore  letters  to  the  West ! 
In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  appeared  Mr. 
CODE'S  "Christian  Ballads,"  a  collection  of  reli- 
gious poems,  of  which  the  greater  number  had 
previously  been  given  to  the  public  through  the 
columns  of  «  The  Churchman."     They  are  ele- 
gant, yet  fervent  expressions  of  the  author's  love 
for  the  impressive  and  venerable  customs,  cere- 
monies, and   rites   of   the   Protestant  Episcopal 
Church. 

While  in  the  university,  Mr.  COXE  had,  besides 
acquiring  the  customary  intimacy  with  ancient 
literature,  learned  the  Italian  language;  and  he 
now,  under  Professor  NORDHEIMEH,  devoted  two 
years  to  the  study  of  the  Hebrew  and  the  Ger- 
man. After  passing  some  time  in  the  Divinity 
School  at  Chelsea,  he  was  admitted  to  deacon's 
orders,  by  the  Bishop  of  New  York,  on  the  twen- 
ty-eighth of  June,  1841.  In  the  following  July,  on 
receiving  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  from  the 
University,  he  pronounced  the  closing  oration,  by 
appointment  of  the  faculty;  and  in  August  he 
accepted  a  call  to  the  rectorship  of  Saint  Anne's 
church,  then  recently  erected  by  Mr.  GOUVEHITEUR 
MORRIS  on  his  family  domain  of  Morrisiana,  near 
New  York.  He  was  married  on  the  twenty-first 
of  September,  by  the  bishop  of  the  diocese,  to 
his  third  cousin,  CATHARTXE  CLEVELAXD,  eldest 
daughter  of  Mr.  SIMEON  HYDE. 

Since  this  time  Mr.  COXE  has  become  Rector  of 
St.  Pauls,  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  and  has  pub- 
lished, besides  several  works  in  prose,  « Saul,  a 
Mystery,"  and  two  or  three  volumes  of  miscella- 
neous poems.  He  is  among  the  most  prolific,  and, 
but  for  this,  would  probably  be  among  the  best,  of 
our  younger  writers. 

492 


ARTHUR    CLEVELAND    COXE. 


493 


MANHOOD. 

BOYHOOD  hath  gone,  or  ever  I  was  'ware : 
Gone  like  the  birds  that  have  sung  out  their  season, 
And  fly  away,  but  never  to  return: 
Gone — like  the  memory  of  a  fairy  vision ; 
Gone — like  the  stars  that  have  burnt  out  in  heaven: 
Like  flowers  that  open  once  a  hundred  years, 
And  have  just  folded  up  their  golden  petals : 
Like  maidenhood,  to  one  no  more  a  virgin ; 
Like  all  that's  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  transient, 
And  yet,  in  its  surpassing  loveliness, 
And  quick  dispersion  into  empty  nothing, 
Like  its  dear  self  alone,  like  life,  like  Boyhood. 
Now,  on  the  traversed  scene  I  leave  for  ever, 
Doth  memory  cast  already  her  pale  look, 
And  through  the  mellow  light  of  by-gone  summers, 
Gaze,  like  the  bride,  that  leaveth  her  home-valley, 
And  like  the  Patriarch,  goes  she  knows  not  where. 
She,  with  faint  heart,  upon  the  bounding  hill-top 
Turns  her  fair  neck,  one  moment,  unbeheld, 
And  through  the  sun-set,  and  her  tearful  eye, 
Far  as  her  father's  dwelling,  strains  her  sight, 
To  bless  the  roof-tree,  and  the  lawn,  and  gardens, 
Where  romp  her  younger  sisters,  still  at  home. 

I  have  just  wakcn'd  from  a  darling  dream, 
And  fain  would  sleep  once  more.  I  have  been  roving 
In  a  sweet  isle,  and  thither  would  return. 
I  have  just  come,  methinks,  from  Fairyland, 
And  yearn  to  see  Mab's  kingdom  once  again, 
And  roam  its  landscapes  with  her !     Ah,  my  soul, 
Thy  holiday  is  over — play-time  gone, 
And  a  stern  Master  bids  thee  to  thy  task. 

How  shall  I  ever  go  through  this  rough  world ! 
How  find  me  older  every  setting  sun  ; 
How  merge  my  boyish  heart  in  manliness ; 
How  take  my  part  upon  the  tricksy  stage, 
And  wear  a  mask  to  seem  what  I  am  not ! 
Ah  me — but  I  forgot;  the  mimicry 
Will  not  be  long,  ere  all  that  I  had  feign'd, 
Will  be  so  real,  that  my  mask  will  fall, 
And  Age  act  Self,  uncostumed  for  the  play. 
Now  my  first  step  I  take,  adown  the  valley, 
But  ere  I  reach  the  foot,  my  pace  must  change ; 
And  I  toil  on,  as  man  has  ever  done, 
Treading  the  causeway,  smooth  with  endless  travel, 
Since  first  the  giants  of  old  Time  descended, 
And  Adam  leading  down  our  mother  Eve, 
In  ages  elder  than  Antiquity. 
This  voice,  so  buoyant,  must  be  all  unstrung, 
Like  harps,  that  chord  by  chord  grow  musicless ; 
These  hands  must  totter  on  a  smooth-topp'd  staff, 
That  late  could  whirl  the  ball-club  vigorously : 
This  eye  grow  glassy,  that  can  sparkle  now, 
And  on  the  dear  Earth's  hues  look  doatingly  : 
And  these  brown  locks,  which  tender  hands  have 
In  loving  curls  about  their  taper-fingers,      [twined 
Must  silver  soon,  and  bear  about  such  snows, 
As  freeze  away  all  touch  of  tenderness. 
And  then,  the  end  of  every  human  story 
Is  ever  this,  whatever  its  beginning, 
To  wear  the  robes  of  being — in  their  rags ; 
To  bear,  like  the  old  Tuscan's  prisoners, 
A  corpse  still  with  us,  insupportable ; 
And  then  to  sink  in  Earth,  like  dust  to  dust, 


And  hearse  for  ever  from  the  gaze  of  men,  [relics ! 
What  long  they  thought — now  dare  to  caU — our 
Glory  to  him  who  doth  subject  the  same, 

In  hope  of  Immortality ! 

I  go  from  strength  to  strength,  from  joy  to  joy; 
From  being  unto  being !     I  will  snatch 
This  germ  of  comfort  from  departing  youth ; 
And  when  the  pictured  primer's  thrown  aside, 
I'll  hoard  its  early  lessons  in  my  heart. 
I  shall  go  on  through  all  Eternity; 
Thank  GOD  !     I  only  am  an  embryo  still ; 
The  small  beginning  of  a  glorious  soul ; 
An  atom  that  shall  fill  Immensity ; 

The  bell  hath  toll'd !  my  birth-hour  is  upon  me ! 
The  hour  that  made  me  child,  has  made  me  man, 
And  bids  me  put  all  childish  things  away. 
Keep  me  from  evil,  that  it  may  not  grieve  me  ! 
And  grant  me,  LORD,  with  this,  the  Psalmist's  prayer, 
Remember  not  the  follies  of  my  youth, 
But  in  thy  mercy,  think  upon  me,  Lord ! 


OLD  CHURCHES. 

HAST  been  where  the  full-blossom'd  bay-tree  is  blow- 

With  odours  like  Eden's  around?  [ing 

Hast  seen  where  the  broad-leaved  palmetto  is  grow- 

And  wild  vines  are  fringing  the  ground  1    [ing, 
Hast  sat  in  the  shade  of  catalpas,  at  noon, 

And  ate  the  cool  gourds  of  their  clime ; 
Or  slept  where  magnolias  were  screening  the  moon, 

And  the  mocking-bird  sung  her  sweet  rhyme  1 

And  didst  mark,  in  thy  journey,  at  dew-dropping 

Some  ruin  peer  high  o'er  thy  way,          [eve, 
With  rooks  wheeling  round  it,  and  bushes  to  weave 

A  mantle  for  turrets  so  gray  ? 
Did  ye  ask  if  some  lord  of  the  cavalier  kind 

Lived  there,  when  the  country  was  young? 
And  burn'd  not  the  blood  of  a  Christian,  to  find 

How  there  the  old  prayer-bell  had  rung  ? 

And  did  ye  not  glow,  when  they  told  ye — the  LORD 

Had  dwelt  in  that  thistle-grown  pile ; 
And  that  bones  of  oldChristians  were  under  its  sward, 

That  once  had  knelt  down  in  its  aisle  ? 
And  had  ye  no  tear-drops  your  blushes  to  steep 

When  ye  thought — o'er  your  country  so  broad, 
The  bard  seeks  in  vain  for  a  mouldering  heap, 

Save  only  these  churches  of  GOD  ! 

0  ye  that  shall  pass  by  those  ruins  agen, 

Go  kneel  in  their  alleys  and  pray, 
And  not  till  their  arches  have  echoed  amen, 

Rise  up,  and  fare  on  in  your  way  ;         [more, 
Pray  Gon  that  those  aisles  may  be  crowded  once 

Those  altars  surrounded  and  spread, 
While  anthems  and  prayers  are  upsent  as  of  yore, 

As  they  take  of  the  wine-cup  and  bread. 

Ay,  pray  on  thy  knees,  that  each  old  rural  fane 

They  have  left  to  the  bat  and  the  mole, 
May  sound  with  the  loud-pealing  organ  again, 

And  the  full  swelling  voice  of  the  soul,     [by, 
Peradventure,  when  next  thou  shalt  journey  there- 

Evcn-bells  shall  ring  out  on  the  air, 
And  the  dim-lighted  windows  reveal  to  thine  eye 

The  snowy-robed  pastor  at  prayer. 
2T 


494 


ARTHUR    CLEVELAND    COXE. 


THE  HEART'S  SONG. 

lie  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List — thy  bosom-door  ! 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore ! 
Say  not  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating; 

'T  is  thy  heart  of  sin : 
'Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks,  and  crieth 

Rise,  and  let  me  in  ! 

Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut : 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Where  the  door  is  shut  ? 
JESUS  waiteth — waiteth — waitcth; 

But  thy  door  is  fast ! 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth : 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then  'tis  thine  to  stand — entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in : 
At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay,  alas  !  thou  foolish  virgin, 

Hast  thou  then  forgot, 
JESUS  waited  long  to  know  thee, 

But  he  knows  thee  not ! 


THE  CHIMES  OF  ENGLAND. 

THE  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Of  England  green  and  old, 
That  out  from  fane  and  ivied  tower 

A  thousand  years  have  toll'd  ; 
How  glorious  must  their  music  be 

As  breaks  the  hallow'd  day, 
And  calleth  with  a  seraph's  voice 

A  nation  up  to  pray ! 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales, 

Sweet  tales  of  olden  time ! 
And  ring  a  thousand  memories 

At  vesper,  and  at  prime ; 
At  bridal  and  at  burial, 

For  cottager  and  king — 
Those  chimes — those  glorious  Christian  chimes, 

How  blessedly  they  ring  ! 

Those  chimes,  those  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Upon  a  Christmas  morn, 
Outbreaking,  as  the  angels  did, 

For  a  Redeemer  born  ; 
How  merrily  they  call  afar, 

To  cot  ami  baron's  hall, 
With  holly  deck'd  and  mistletoe, 

To  keep  the  festival ! 

The  chimes  of  England,  how  they  peal 

From  tower  and  gothic  pile, 
Where  hymn  and  swelling  anthem  fill 

The  dim  cathedral  aisle ; 
Where  windows  bathe  the  holy  light 

On  priestly  heads  that  falls, 
And  stain  the  florid  tracery 

And  banner-dightcd  walls ! 


And  then,  those  Easter  bells,  in  spring ! 

Those  glorious  Easter  chimes; 
How  loyally  they  hail  thee  round, 

Old  queen  of  holy  times  ! 
From  hill  to  hill,  like  sentinels, 

Responsivcly  they  cry, 
And  sing  the  rising  of  the  LORD, 

From  vale  to  mountain  high. 

I  love  ye — chimes  of  Motherland, 

With  all  this  soul  of  mine, 
And  bless  the  LOUD  that  I  am  sprung 

Of  good  old  English  line ! 
And  like  a  son  I  sing  the  lay 

That  England's  glory  tells ; 
For  she  is  lovely  to  the  LOUD, 

For  you,  ye  Christian  bells ! 

And  heir  of  her  ancestral  fame, 

And  happy  in  my  birth, 
Thee,  too.  I  love,  my  forest-land, 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth ; 
For  thine  thy  mother's  voice  shall  be, 

And  here — where  GOD  is  king, 
With  English  chimes,  from  Christian  spires, 

The  wilderness  shall  ring. 


MARCH. 

MARCH — march — march ! 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread, 
Ho-ho !  how  they  step, 

Going  down  to  the  dead ! 
Every  stride,  every  tramp, 

Every  footfall  is  nearer; 
And  dimmer  each  lamp, 

As  darkness  grows  drearer; 
But  ho !  how  they  march, 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread ; 
Ho-ho !  how  they  step, 

Going  down  to  the  dead ! 

March — march — march ! 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread, 
Ho-ho,  how  they  laugh, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 
How  they  whirl — how  they  trip, 

How  they  smile,  how  they  dally, 
How  blithesome  they  skip, 

Going  down  to  the  valley; 
Oh-ho,  how  they  march, 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread ; 
Ho-ho,  how  they  skip, 

Going  down  to  the  dead ! 

March — march — march  ! 

Earth  groans  as  they  tread  ! 
Each  carries  a  skull; 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 
Every  stride — every  stamp, 

Every  footfall  is  bolder; 
'T  is  a  skeleton's  tramp, 

With  a  skull  on  his  shouldei  • 
But  ho.  how  he  steps 

With  a  high-tossing  head, 
That  clay-cover'd  bone, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 


[Born,  18:9.J 


Mr.  LOWELL  is  a  native  of  Boston,  where  his 
father  is  an  eminent  Congregational  clergyman. 
He  completed  his  education  at  Harvard  College 
when  about  twenty  years  of  age,  and  subsequently 
studied  the  law,  but  I  believe  with  no  intention  of 
entering  the  courts.  His  first  -appearance  as  an 
author  was  in  1839,  when  he  printed  a  class  poem 
recited  at  Cambridge.  He  has  since  published 
«A  Year's  Life,"  "A  Legend  of  Brittany,  and 
other  Poems,"  and  a  prose  work  entitled  «  Conver- 
sations on  some  of  the  Old  Poets."  He  was  like- 
wise for  some  time  editor  of  a  monthly  magazine. 


Mr.  LOWELL'S  poems  are  of  very  unequal 
merit,  and  his  later  works  are  in  some  respects  better 
than  those  he  first  published.  His  metres  are  hap- 
pily chosen.  His  verse  is  musical,  and  seconds  by 
its  sound  his  thought,  which,  from  seeming  care- 
lessness, is  often  indefinitely  expressed.  He  has 
an  observing  eye,  and  a  fine  imagination  by  which 
he  bodies  forth  a  spiritual  philosophy.  He  is  of 
the  school  of  KEATS,  and  though  he  cannot  be  said 
at,any  time  to  imitate,  there  is  in  many  of  his  poems 
something  to  remind  the  reader  of  his  studies  and 
affinities. 


ROSALINE. 

THOU  look'dst  on  me  all  yesternight, 
Thine  eyes  were  blue,  thy  hair  was  bright 
As  when  we  munnur'd  our  trothplight 

Beneath  the  thick  stars,  ROSALINE  ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed, 
Mine  eyes  scarce  knew  if  thou  wert  dead — 

But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  ROSALINE  ! 

The  deathwatch  tick'd  behind  the  wall, 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall, 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 

Among  the  bleak  pines,  ROSALINE  ! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears ! 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears, 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears, 

Its  eyes  are  lidless,  ROSALINE  ! 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die, — 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  ROSALINE  ? 
A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 
A  love  quite  wither'd  up  and  gone, 
A  strong  soul  trampled  from  its  throne, — 

What  woulJst  thou  further,  ROSALINE  1 

'Tis  lone  such  moonless  nights  as  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 

And  then  thou  comest,  ROSALINE  ! 
I  scorn  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long,  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumos  a-nod  ling  to  and  fro, 

As  once  I  heard  them,  ROSALINE  ! 

Thy  shroud  it  is  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  st;in<lpst  moveless  and  upright, 

Gazing  upon  me,  ROSA  LINK  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes, 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise, — 
O,  Gort !  her  gentle  spirit  tries 

To  deem  me  guiltless,  ROSALINE  ! 


Above  thy  grave  the  robin  sings, 

And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 

Flit  all  about  with  sunlit  wines, — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  ROSALINE  ! 
The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss, 
The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss, 
For  Nature  feels  not  any  loss, — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  ROSALINE  ! 

Ah !  why  wert  thou  so  lowly  bred  7 
Why  was  my  pride  gall'd  on  to  wed 
Her  who  brought  lands  and  gold  instead 

Of  thy  heart's  treasure,  ROSALINE  1 
Why  did  I  fear  to  let  thee  stay 
To  look  on  me  and  pass  away 
Forgivingly,  as  in  its  May, 

A  broken  flower,  ROSALINE  1 

I  thought  not,  when  my  dagger  strook, 
Of  thy  blue  eyes ;  I  could  not  brook 
The  past  all  pleading  in  one  look 

Of  utter  sorrow,  ROSALINE  ! 
I  did  not  know  when  thou  wert  dead : 
A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 
Thrill'd  through  my  brain ;  I  would  have  fled, 

But  dared  not  leave  thee,  ROSALINE  ! 

A  low,  low  moan,  a  light  twig  stirr'd 

By  the  upspringing  of  a  bird, 

A  drip  of  blood, — were  all  I  heard — 

Then  deathly  stillness,  ROSALINE  ! 
The  sun  roll'd  down,  and  very  soon, 
Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 
Rose,  stain'd  with  blood,  and  then  a  swoon 

Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  ROSALINE  ! 

The  stars  came  out ;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Look'd  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done : 

I  dared  not  hide  me,  ROSALINE  ! 
I  crouch'd ;  I  fear'd  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  GOD'S  quiet  sky, 
I  thought' I  saw  the  blue  lips  try 

To  utter  something,  ROSALINE. 

495 


496 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


I  waited  with  a  maddcn'd  grin 
To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 
Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  heaven,  ROSALINK  ! 
But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seem'd 
That  if  the  very  corpse  had  scream'd, 
The  sound  like  sunshine  glad  had  stream'd 

Through  that  dark  stillness,  ROSALINE  ! 

Dreams  of  old  quiet  glimmer'd  hy, 

And  faces  loved  in  infancy 

Came  and  look'd  on  me  mournfully, 

Till  my  heart  melted,  ROSALINE  ! 
I  saw  my  mother's  dying  bed, 
I  heard  her  bless  me,  and  I  shed 
Cool  tears — but  lo  !  the  ghastly  dead 

Stared  me  to  madness,  ROSALINE  ! 

And  then,  amid  the  silent  night, 
I  scream'd  with  horrible  delight, 
And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 

Did  seem  to  crackle,  ROSALINE! 
It  is  my  curse !  sweet  mem'ries  fall 
From  me  like  snow — and  only  all 
Of  that  one  night,  like  cold  worms  crawl 

My  doom'd  heart  over,  ROSALINE  ! 

Thine  eyes  are  shut,  they  never  more 
Will  leap  thy  gentle  words  before 
To  tell  the  secret  o'er  and  o'er 

Thou  couldst  not  smother,  ROSALINE  ! 
Thine  eyes  arc  shut :  they  will  not  shiwe 
With  happy  tears,  or,  through  the  vine 
That  hid  thy  casement,  beam  on  mine 

Sunful  with  gladness,  ROSALINE  ! 

Thy  voice  I  never  more  shall  hear, 
Which  in  old  times  did  seem  so  dear, 
That,  ere  it  trembled  in  mine  ear, 

My  quick  heart  heard  it,  ROSALINE  ! 
Would  I  might  die !     I  were  as  well, 
Ay,  better,  at  my  home  in  hell, 
To  set  for  ay  a  burning  spell 

"Tvvixt  me  and  memory,  ROSALINE  ! 

Why  wilt  thou  haunt  me  with  thine  eyes, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories, 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies, 

Than  hate  more  bitter,  ROSALINE! 
Woe's  me  !  I  know  that  love  so  high 
As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clay  in  church-yard  lie — 

Would  GOD  it  were  so,  ROSALINE  ! 


THE  BEGGAR. 

A  BERRAR  through  the  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by ; — 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  CHRIST'S  sweet  sake  and  charity! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me, — 
That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 


And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unmoved  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might, 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight,- 
That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance, — 
Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 

Some  of  thy  mournfulness  serene, 
Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 
Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine, — 
That  grief'  may  fall  like  snowflakes  light, 
And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 
Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright, — 

0  sweetly-mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me,  my  cheerful  brook, — 
That  I  may'still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fate  hath  prison'd  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I'  ve  been  in  the  wood ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good-bye,  kind  friends,  every  one, 

1  've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun ; 

Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey 's  scarce  be^un. 

Heaven  help  me!  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet ! 
Some  of  thy  modesty, 
That  flowers  here  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou'dst  been, 
O  give,  to  strengthen  me. 


SONG. 


LITT  up  the  curtains  of  thine  eyes 
And  let  their  light  out  shine ! 

Let  me  adore  the  mysteries 
Of  those  mild  orbs  of  thine, 

Which  ever  queenly  calm  do  roll, 

Attuned  to  an  order'd  soul ! 


Open  thy  lips  yet  once  again, 
And,  while  my  soul  doth  hush 

With  awe,  pour  forth  that  holy  strain 
Which  seemeth  me  to  gush, 

A  fount  of  music,  running  o'er 

From  thy  deep  spirit's  inmost  core ! 

HI. 

The  melody  that  dwells  in  thee 

Beorets  in  me  as  well 
A  spiritual  harmony, 

A  mild  and  blessed  spell ; 
Far,  far  above  earth's  atmosphere 
I  rise,  whene'er  thy  voice  I  hear. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


497 


SONNETS. 

I.      TO  . 

THROUGH  suffering  and  sorrow  thou  hast  pass'd 
To  show  us  what  a  woman  true  may  be : 
They  have  not  taken  sympathy  from  thee, 
Nor  made  thee  any  other  than  thou  wast ; 
Save  as  some  tree,  which,  in  a  sudden  blast, 
Sheddeth  those  blossoms,  that  are  weakly  grown, 
Upon  the  air,  but  kcepeth  every  one 
Whose  strength  gives  warrant  of  good  fruit  at  last ; 
So  thou  hast  shed  some  blooms  of  gayety, 
But  never  one  of  steadfast  cheerfulness; 
Nor  hath  thy  knowledge  of  adversity 
Robb'd  thee  of  any  faith  in  happiness, 
But  rather  clear'd  thine  inner  eyes  to  see 
How  many  simple  ways  there  are  to  bless. 


II.      THE   FIF.RY   TRIAL. 

THE  hungry  flame  hath  never  yet  been  hot 

To  him  who  won  his  name  and  crown  of  fire ; 

But  it  doth  ask  a  stronger  soul  and  higher 

To  bear,  not  longing  for  a  prouder  lot, 

Those  martyrdoms  whereof  the  world  knows  not, — 

Hope  sneaped  with  frosty  scorn,  the  faith  of  youth 

Wasted  in  seeming  vain  defence  of  Truth, 

Greatness  o'ertopp'd  with  baseness,  and  fame  got 

Too  late : — Yet  this  most  bitter  task  was  meant 

For  those  right  worthy  in  such  cause  to  plead, 

And  therefore  God  sent  poets,  men  content 

To  live  in  humbleness  and  body's  need, 

If  they  may  tread  the  path  where  Jesus  went, 

And  sow  one  grain  of  Love's  eternal  seed. 


I  ASK  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden  leap 
From  being's  sea,  like  the  isle-seeming  Kraken, 
With  whose  great  rise  the  ocean  all  is  shaken 
And  a  heart-tremble  quivers  through  the  deep ; 
Give  me  that  growth  which  some  perchance  deem 
Wherewith  the  steadfast  coral-stems  uprise,  [sleep, 
Which,  by  the  toil  of  gathering  energies, 
Their  upward  way  into  clear  sunshine  keep, 
Until,  by  Heaven's  sweetest  influences, 
Slowly  and  slowly  spreads  a  speck  of  green 
Into  a  pleasant  island  in  the  seas, 
Where,  mid  tall  palms,  the  cane-roof 'd  home  is  seen, 
And  wearied  men  shall  sit  at  sunset's  hour, 
Hearing  the  leaves  and  loving  God's  dear  power. 


IV.      TO  ,  ON    HER   BIRTH-DAT. 

MAIDEN,  when  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  born, 
The  morning-stars  their  ancient  music  make, 
And,  joyful,  once  again  their  song  awake, 
Long  silent  now  with  melancholy  scorn; 
And  thou,  not  mindless  of  so  blest  a  morn, 
By  no  least  deed  its  harmony  shalt  break, 
But  shalt  to  that  high  chime  thy  footsteps  take, 
Through  life's  most  darksome  passes,  unforlorn; 
Therefore  from  thy  pure  faith  thou  shalt  not  fall, 
Therefore  shalt  thou  be  ever  fair  and  free, 
And,  in  thine  every  motion,  musical 
As  summer  air,  majestic  as  the  sea, 
A  mystery  to  those  who  creep  and  crawl 
Through  Time,  and  part  it  from  Eternity. 
63 


V.      TO  THE   SAME. 

MY  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die ; 

Albeit  I  ask  no  fairer  life  than  this, 

Whose  nuinberinij-clock  is  still  thy  gentle  kiss. 

While  Time  and  Peace  with  hands  enlocked  fly, — 

Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 

We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that  there  is 

No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the  bliss 

Of  Faith  as  their  most  lofty  yearnings  high : 

Love  hath  so  purified  my  heart's  strong  core, 

Meseems  I  scarcely  should  be  startled,  even, 

To  find,  some  morn,  that  thou  hadst  gone  before; 

Since,  with  thy  love,  this  knowledge  too  was  given, 

Which  each  calm  day  doth  strengthen  more  and 

more, 
That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step  from  Heaven. 


IV.      TO   THE   SPIKIT   OF   KEATS. 

GREAT  soul  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my  room, 
Uplifting  me  with  thy  vast,  quiet  eyes, 
On  whose  full  orbs,  with  kindly  lustre,  lies 
The  twilight  warmth  of  ruddy  ember-gloom  : 
Thy  clear,  strong  tones  will  oft  bring  sudden  bloom 
Of  hope  secure,  to  him  who  lonely  cries, 
Wrestling  with  the  young  poet's  agonies, 
Neglect  and  scorn,  which  seejn  a  certain  doom ; 
Yes !  the  few  words  which,  like  great  thunder-drops, 
Thy  large  heart  down  to  earth  shook  doubtfully, 
Thrill'd  by  the  inward  lightning  of  its  might, 
Serene  and  pure,  like  gushing  joy  of  light, 
Shall  track  the  eternal  chords  of  Destiny, 
After  the  moon-led  pulse  of  ocean  stops. 


VII.      TO . 

OUR  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower; 

Its  wing'd  seed  dropp'd  down  from  Paradise, 

And,  nursed  by  day  and  night,  by  sun  and  shower, 

Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise  : 

To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 

Nor  winter's  rattling  boughs  lack  lusty  green, 

Our  summer  hearts  make  summer's  fulness,  where 

No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be  seen : 

For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie, 

Love, — whose  forgetfulness  is  beauty's  death, 

Whose  mystic  keys  these  cells  of  Thou  and  I 

Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth, 

And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow  grate 

The  wide-flung  leaves  of  Heaven's  palace-gate. 


Till.      IN     ABSENCE. 

THESE  rugged,  wintry  days  I  scarce  could  bear, 
Did  I  not  know,  that,  in  the  early  spring, 
When  wild  March  winds  upon  their  errands  sing, 
Thou  wouldst  return,  bursting  on  this  still  air, 
Like  those  same  winds,  when,  startled  from  their 
They  hunt  up  violets,  and  free  swift  brooks      [lair, 
From  icy  cares,  even  as  thy  clear  looks 
Bid  my  heart  bloom,  and  sing,  and  break  all  care : 
When  drops  with  welcome  rain  the  April  day, 
My  flowers  shall  find  their  April  in  thine  eyes, 
Save  there  the  rain  in  dreamy  clouds  doth  stay, 
As  loath  to  fall  out  of  those  happy  skies; 
Yet  sure,  my  love,  thou  art  most  like  to  May, 
That  comes  with  steady  sun  when  April  dies. 
2T'2 


498 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


THE  POET. 

IIT  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder, 

The  Poet's  song  with  blood-warm  truth  was  rife; 
He  saw  the  mysteries  which  circle  under 

The  outward  shell  and  skin  of  daily  life. 
Nothing  to  him  were  fleeting  time  and  fashion, 

His  soul  was  led  by  the  eternal  law ; 
There  was  in  him  no  hope  of  fame,  no  passion, 

But  with  calm,  godlike  eyes,  he  only  saw. 
He  did  not  sigh  o'er  heroes  dead  and  buried, 

Chief  mourner  at  the  Golden  Age's  hearse, 
Nor  deem  that  souls  whom  Charon  grim  had  ferried 

Alone  were  fitting  themes  of  epic  verse  : 
He  could  believe  the  promise  of  to-morrow, 

And  feel  the  wondrous  meaning  of  to-day ; 
He  had  a  deeper  faith  in  holy  sorrow 

Than  the  world's  seeming  loss  could  take  away. 
To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his  duty, 

All  things  did  sing  to  him  to  make  him  wise, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful  and  conquering  beauty, 

The  soul  of  all  looked  grandly  from  his  eyes. 
He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without  him, 

He  watch'd  the  flowing  of  Time's  steady  tide, 
And  shapes  of  glory  floated  all  about  him 

And  whispcr'd  to  him,  and  he  prophesied. 
Than  all  men  he  more  fearless  was  and  freer, 

And  all  his  brethren  cried  with  one  accord, — 
«  Behold  the  holy  man  !     Behold  the  Seer ! 

Him  who  hath  spoken  with  the  unseen  Lord !" 
He  to  his  heart  with  large  embrace  had  taken 

The  universal  sorrow  of  mankind, 
And,  from  that  root,  a  shelter  never  shaken, 

The  tree  of  wisdom  grew  with  sturdy  rind. 
He  could  interpret  well  the  wondrous  voices 

Which  to  the  calm  and  silent  spirit  come ; 
He  knew  that  the  One  Soul  no  more  rejoices 

In  the  star's  anthem  than  the  insect's  hum. 
He  in  his  heart  was  ever  meek  and  humble, 

And  yet  with  kingly  pomp  his  numbers  ran, 
As  he  foresaw  how  all  things  false  should  crumble 

Before  the  free,  uplifted  soul  of  man : 
And,  when  he  was  made  full  to  overflowing 

With  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Out  rush'd  his  song,  like  molten  iron  glowing, 

To  show  God  sitting  by  the  humblest  hearth. 
With  calmest  courage  he  was  ever  ready 

To  teach  that  action  was  the  truth  of  thought, 
And,  with   strong    arm    and  purpose    firm    and 
steady, 

The  anchor  of  the  drifting  world  he  wrought, 
So  did  he  make  the  meanest  man  partaker 

Of  all  his  brother-gods  unto  him  gave ; 
All  souls  did  reverence  him  and  name  him  Maker, 

And  when  he  died  heaped  temples  on  his  grave. 
And  still  his  deathless  words  of  light  arc  swimming 

Serene  throughout  the  great,  deep  infinite 
Of  human  soul,  unwaning  and  undimming, 

To  cheer  and  guide  the  mariner  at  night. 
But  now  the  Poet  is  an  empty  rhymer 

Who  lies  with  idle  elbow  on  the  grass, 
And  fits  his  singing,  like  a  cunning  timer, 

To  all  men's  prides  and  fancies  as  they  pass. 
Not  his  the  song,  which,  in  its  metre  holy, 

Chimes  with  the  music  of  the  eternal  stars, 


Humbling  the  tyrant,  lifting  up  the  lowly, 

And  sending  sun  through  the  soul's  prison-bars. 
Maker  no  more, — O,  no !  unmaker  rather, 

For  he  unmakes  who  doth  not  all  put  forth 
The  power  given  by  our  loving  Father 

To  show  the  body's  dross,  the  spirit's  worth. 
Awake !  great  spirit  of  the  ages  olden ! 

Shiver  the  mists  that  hide  thy  starry  lyre, 
And  let  man's  soul  be  yet  again  beholden 

To  thee  for  wings  to  soar  to  her  desire. 
O,  prophesy  no  more  to-morrow's  splendor, 

Be  no  more  shame-faced  to  speak  out  for  Truth, 
Lay  on  her  altar  all  the  gushings  tender, 

The  hope,  the  fire,  the  loving  faith  of  youth ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more  the  Maker's  coming, 

Say  not  his  onward  footsteps  thou  canst  hear 
In  the  dim  void,  like  to  the  awful  humming 

Of  the  great  wings  of  some  new-lighted  sphere ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  Poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel  and  know  it, 

That  beauty  in  its  highest  thou  couldst  be. 
O,  thou  who  meanest,  tost  with  sealikc  longings, 

Who  dimly  hearest  voices  call  on  thee, 
Whose  soul  is  overfill'd  with  mighty  throngings 

Of  love,  and  fear,  and  glorious  agony, 
Thou  of  the  toil-strung  hands  and  iron  sinews 

And  soul  by  Mother  Earth  with  freedom  fed, 
In  whom  the  hero-spirit  yet  continues, 

The  old  free  nature  is  not  chain'd  or  dead, 
Arouse !  let  thy  soul  break  in  music-thunder, 

Let  loose  the  ocean  that  is  in  thee  pent, 
Pour  forth  thy  hope,  thy  fear,  thy  love,  thy  wonder, 

And  tell  the  age  what  all  its  signs  have  meant. 
Where'er  thy  wilder'd  crowd  of  brethren  jostles, 

Where'er  there  lingers  but  a  shade  of  wrong, 
There  still  is  need  of  martyrs  and  apostles, 

There  still  are  texts  for  never-dying  song  : 
From  age  to  age  man's  still  aspiring  spirit 

Finds  wider  scope  and  sees  with  clearer  eyes, 
And  thou  in  larger  measure  dost  inherit 

What  made  thy  great  forerunners  free  and  wise. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  where  the  Poet's  mountain 

Above  the  thunder  lifts  its  silent  peak, 
And  roll  thy  songs  down  like  a  gathering  fountain, 

That  all  may  drink  and  find  the  rest  they  seek. 
Sing !  there  shall  silence  grow  in  earth  and  heaven, 

A  silence  of  deep  awe  and  wondering ;     . 
For,  listening  gladly,  bend  the  angels,  even, 

To  hear  a  mortal  like  an  angel  sing. 

Among  the  toil-worn  poor  my  soul  is  seeking 

For  one  to  bring  the  Maker's  name  to  light, 
To  be  the  voice  of  %it  almighty  speaking 

Which  every  age  demands  to.  do  it  right. 
Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ  ; 

He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this  wide  land 
Must  string  his  harp  with  chords  of  sturdy  iron 

And  strike  it  with  a  toil-embrowned  hand ; 
One  who  hath  dwelt  with  Nature,  well-attended. 

Who  hath  learnt  wisdom  from  her  mystic  books, 
Whose  soul  with  all  her  countless  lives  hath  blended, 

So  that  all  beauty  awes  us  in  his  looks ; 
Who  not  with  body's  waste  his  soul  hath  pamper'd, 

Who  as  the  clear  northwestern  wind  is  free, 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


499 


Who  walks  with  Form's  observances  unhamper'd, 

And  follows  the  One  Will  obediently ; 
Whose  eyes,  like  windows  on  a  breezy  summit, 

Control  a  lovely  prospect  every  way ; 
Who  doth  not  sound  God's  sea  with  eartlily  plummet, 

And  find  a  bottom  still  of  worthless  clay; 
Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gusts  are  working, 

Knowing  that  one  sure  wind  blows  on  above, 
And  sees,  beneath  the  foulest  faces  lurking, 

One  God-built  shrine  of  reverence  and  love ; 
WTho  sees  all  stars  that  wheel  their  shining  marches 

Around  the  centre  fix'd  of  Destiny, 
Where  the  encircling  soul  serene  o'erarches 

The  moving  globe  of  being,  like  a  sky ;    [nearer 
Who  feels  that  God  and  Heaven's  great  deeps  are 

Him  to  whose  heart  his  fellow-man  is  nigh, 
Who  doth  not  hold  his  soul's  own  freedom  dearer 

Than  that  of  all  his  brethren,  low  or  high ; 
Who  to  the  right  can  feel  himself  the  truer 

For  being  gently  patient  with  the  wrong, 
Who  sees  a  brother  in  the  evildoer, 

And  finds  in  Love  the  heart's  blood  of  his  song ; — 
This,  this  is  he  for  whom  the  world  is  waiting 

To  sing  the  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart, 
Too  long  hath  it  been  patient  with  the  grating 

Of  scrannel-pipes,  and  heard  it  misnamed  Art. 
To  him  the  smiling  soul  of  man  shall  listen, 

Laying  awhile  its  crown  of  thorns  aside, 
And  once  again  in  every  eye  shall  glisten 

The  glory  of  a  nature  satisfied. 
His  verse  shall  have  a  great,  commanding  motion, 

Heaving  and  swelling  with  a  melody 
Learnt  of  the  sky,  the  river,  and  the  ocean, 

And  all  the  pure,  majestic  things  that  be. 
Awake,  then,  thou !  we  pine  for  thy  great  presence 

To  make  us  feel  the  soul  once  more  sublime, 
We  are  of  far  too  infinite  an  essence 

To  rest  contented  with  the  lies  of  Time. 
Speak  out ! .  and,  lo !  a  hush  of  deepest  wonder 

Shall  sink  o'er  all  his  many-voiced  scene, 
As  when  a  sudden  burst  of  rattling  thunder 

Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  LEGEND  OF  BRIT- 
TANY. 

THT.X  swell'd  the  organ :  up  through  choir  and  nave 
The  music  trembled  with  an  inward  thrill 

Of  bliss  at  its  own  grandeur :  wave  on  wave 
Its  flood  of  mellow  thunder  rose,  until 

The  hush'd  air  shiver'd  with  the  throb  it  gave, 
Then,  poising  for  a  moment,  it  stood  still, 

And  sank  and  rose  again,  to  burst  in  spray 

That  wander'd  into  silence  far  away. 

Like  to  a  mighty  heart  the  music  seem'd, 
That  yearns  with  melodies  it  cannot  speak, 

Until,  in  grand  despair  of  what  it  -dreain'd, 
In  the  agony  of  effort  it  doth  break, 

Yet  triumphs  breaking;  on  it  rush'd  and  stream'd 
And  wanton'd  in  its  might,  as  when  a  lake, 

Long  pent  among  the  mountains,  bursts  its  walls 

And  in  one  crowding  gush  leaps  forth  and  falls. 


Deeper  and  deeper  shudders  shook  the  air, 
As  the  huge  bass  kept  gathering  heavily, 

Like  thunder  when  it  rouses  in  its  lair, 

And  with  its  hoarse  growl  shakes  the  low-hung 

It  grew  up  like  a  darkness  everywhere,  [sky : 

Filling  the  vast  cathedral ; — suddenly, 

From  the  dense  mass  a  boy's  dear  treble  broke 

Like  lightning,  and  the  full-toned  choir  awoke. 

Through  gorgeous  windows  shone  the  sun  aslant, 
Brimming  the  church  with  gold  and  purple  mist, 

Meet  atmosphere  to  bosom  that  rich  chant, 
Where  fifty  voices  in  one  strand  did  twist 

Their  varicolour'd  tones,  and  left  no  want 
To  the  delighted  soul,  which  sank  abyss'd 

In  the  warm  music-cloud,  while,  far  below, 

The  organ  heaved  its  surges  to  and  fro. 

As  if  a  lark  should  suddenly  drop  dead 

While  the  blue  air  yet  trembled  with  its  song, 

So  snapped  at  once  that  music's  golden  thread, 
Struck  by  a  nameless  fear  that  leapt  along 

From  heart  to  heart,  and  like  a  shadow  spread 
With  instantaneous  shiver  through  the  throng, 

So  that  some  glanced  behind,  as  half  aware 

A  hideous  shape  of  dread  were  standing  there. 

As,  when  a  crowd  of  pale  men  gather  round, 
Watching  an  eddy  in  the  leaden  deep, 

From  which  they  deem'd  the  body  of  one  drown'd 
Will  be  cast  forth,  from  face  to  face  doth  creep 

An  eager  dread  that  holds  all  tongues  fast  bound, 
Until  the  horror,  with  a  ghastly  leap, 

Starts  up,  its  dead  blue  arms  stretch'd  aimlessly, 

Heaved  with  the  swinging  of  the  careless  sea, — 

So  in  the  faces  of  all  these  there  grew, 
As  by  one  impulse,  a  dark,  freezing  awe, 

Which  with  a  fearful  fascination  drew 
All  eyes  toward  the  altar ;  damp  and  raw 

The  air  grew  suddenly,  and  no  man  knew 
Whether  perchance  his  silent  neighbour  saw 

The  dreadful  thing,  which  all  were  sure  would  rise 

To  scare  the  strained  lids  wider  from  their  eyes. 

The  incense  trembled  as  it  upward  sent 

Its  slow,  uncertain  thread  of  wandering  blue, 

As  't  were  the  only  living  element 

In  all  the  church,  so  deep  the  stillness  grew ; 

It  seem'd  one  might  have  heard  it,  as  it  went, 
Give  out  an  audible  rustle,  curling  through 

The  midnight  silence  of  that  awe-struck  air, 

More  hush'd  than  death,  though  so  much  life  was 
there. 


THE   SYRENS. 

THE  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 
The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy  ; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary, 
Wandering  thou  knowest  not  whither  ;— 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 
Come  and  rest  thcc !   O  come  hither ! 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours, 

Where  evermore 

The  low  west-wind  creeps  panting  up  the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers ; 


500 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 
As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts, 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow, — 

"  To  the  shore 
Follow !  0  follow  ! 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore ! 
For  evermore ! 

Look  how  the  gray,  old  Ocean 
From  the  depth  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices ; 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody ; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea, — 
And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere, — 
«  Here  mayest  thou  harbour  peacefully, 
Here  mayest  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar ; 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  for  evermore ! 

For  evermore !" 

And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded  hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still, 
"Evermore !" 

Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear, 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seals  only 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  gray, 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely  1 
Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 
Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 
A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 
A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shalt  lie 
Even  in  death  unquietly  1 
Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark, 

Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  side-long  shark 

Upturned  patiently, 
Ever  waiting  there  for  thee : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 

Which  ever  keep  their  dreamless  sleep 

Far  down  within  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms, 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray, 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play; 

Look  down !  Look  down ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 


That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 

Beckoning  for  thee ! 

Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark 
Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea ! 
Look  down !  Look  down ! 

Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear, 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue : 

Listen !  O  listen ! 
Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 

A  song  of  many  birds, 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 
LulTd  to  a  number'd  flow  of  words, — 

Listen" !  0  listen ! 
Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 
Underneath  full-blossom'd  trees, 
At  once  with  glowing  fru  it  and  flowers  crown'd ; — 
The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand, 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate,  as  it  touches  the  land ; 
All  around,  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 
And  there,  where  the  smooth,  wet  pebbles  be, 
The  waters  gurgle  longingly, 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore, — 
For  evermore. 

Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 

Heareth  the  marinere 

Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 

Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 

"  Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee  !" 


AN   INCIDENT   IN  A  RAILROAD  CAR. 

HE  spoke  of  Burns :  men  rude  and  rough 
Press'd  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned, 
Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears, 
His  brook-like  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sun-like,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  strong 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


501 


God  scatters  love  on  every  side, 
Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst,  unlook'd-for,  into  high-soul'd  deeds 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 
The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor, 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and  Rome. 

0  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole : 

In  his  broad  breast  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue, 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought,  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling, — wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands  glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray  who  deems 
That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows  broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  order'd  impulse  streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes  :  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
Till  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message  rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  me,  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and  fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century ; — 


But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutor'd  heart 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crown'd  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 


THE  HERITAGE. 

THE  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft,  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants. 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy  chair ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  1 
Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 

A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
Wishes  o'erjoy'd  with  humble  things, 

A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 
Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labour  sings; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit ! 
A  patience  learn'd  by  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 


502 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


O,  rich  man's  son !  there  is  a  toil, 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft,  white  hands, — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O,  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-fill'd  past ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


TO   THE    FUTURE. 

O,  LAITD  of  Promise !  from  what  Pisgah's  height 
Can  I  behold  thy  stretch  of  peaceful  bowers? 
Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight, 

Thy  nestled  homes  and  sun-illumined  towers  1 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heap'd  gold, 

Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  crysolite, 
Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory  that  unfold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices, 
Whence  but  a  scanty  leap  it  seems  to  heaven, 

Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given, 
Of  thy  more  gorgeous  realm,  thy  more  unstinted 


O,  Land  of  Quiet !  to  thy  shore  the  surf 

Of  the  perturbed  Present  rolls  and  sleeps ; 
Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  June  upon  thy  turf 

And  lure  out  blossoms:  to  thy  bosom  leaps, 
As  to  a  mother's,  the  o'er-wearied  heart, 
Hearing  far  off  and  dim  the  toiling  mart, 

The  hurrying  feet,  the  curses  without  numoer, 
And,  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian, 

Of  thine  exulting  vision, 

Out  of  its  very  cares  wooes  charms  for  peace  and 
slumber.  « 

To  thee  the  Earth  lifts  up  her  fetter'd  hands 

And  cries  for  vengeance ;  with  a  pitying  smile 
Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her  bands, 

And  her  old  wo-worn  face  a  little  while 
Grows  young  and  noble;  unto  thee  the  Oppressor 
Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe; 

The  eternal  law 

Which  makes  the  crime  its  own  blindfold  redresser, 
Shadows  his  heart  with  perilous  foreboding, 


And  he  can  see  the  grim-eyed  Doom 

From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its  silent-footed  steeds  toward  his  palace  goading. 

What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poets'  eyes, 

Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong! 
To  all  their  hopes  what  overjoy'd  replies ! 

What  undream'd  ecstasies  for  blissful  song! 
Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trumps  brawling  clangor 
Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate  the  poor ; 
The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with  anger; 

Love  leaves  no  grudge  at  less,  no  greed  for  more ; 
In  vain  strives  self  the  godlike  sense  to  smother ; 
From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps ; 

The  noble  'neath  foul  rags  beholds  his  long  lost 
brother. 

To  thee  the  Martyr  looketh,  and  his  fires 

Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit  free ; 

To  thee  the  Poet  'mid  his  toil  aspires, 

And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his  knee 

Welcome  as  children :  thou  upholdest 

The  lone  Inventor  by  his  demon  haunted ; 

The  Prophet  cries  to  thee  when  hearts  are  coldest, 
And,  gazing  o'er  the  midnight's  bleak  abyss, 
Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at  thy  kiss, 
And  stretch  its  happy  arms  and  leap  up  disen- 
chanted. 

Thou  bringest  vengeance,  but  so  loving-kindly 

The  guilty  thinks  it  pity ;  taught  by  thee 
Fierce  tyrants  drop  the  scourges  wherewith  blindly 
Their  own   souls  they  were  scarring;  con- 
querors see 

With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed  spear 
That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  on  Calvary, 
And  from  their  trophies  shrink  with  ghastly  fear ; 

Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 
The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  revealing ; 

The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 
Pierce  error's   guilty  heart,  but   only  pierce  for 
hejBing. 

O,  whither,  whither,  glory-winged  dreams, 

From  out  Life's  sweat  and  turmoil  would  ye 

bear  me  ? 

Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden  gleams, 
This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare  me ! 
Fade,  cheating  glow,  and  leave  me  to  my  night ! 
He  is  a  coward  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of  delight : 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll, 
The  ancestral  buckler  calls, 
Self-clanging,  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul; 
Where  are  most  sorrows,  there  the  poet's  sphere  is, 
To  feed  the  soul  with  patience, 
To  heal  its  desolations 

With  words  of  unshorn  truth,  with  love  that  never 
wearies. 


AMELIA   B.   WELBY. 


[Born  about  1821.] 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY  was  born  in  the  small  town 
of  St.  Michaels,  in  Maryland.  When  she  was 
about  fourteen  years  of  age  her  father  removed 
to  Lexington,  and  afterwards  to  Louisville,  in 
Kentucky,  where,  in  1838,  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  GEORGE  B.  WELBY.  She  still  resides  in 
that  city. 

Mrs.  WELBY  made  herself  known  to  the  public 
by  numerous  poetical  pieces  which  were  originally 


printed  under  the  signature  of  « Amelia,"  in  the 
"Louisville  Journal."  In  1844  a  collection  of  her 
writings  appeared  in  a  small  octavo  volume,  in 
Boston,  and  was  received  with  uniform  applause 
by  judicious  critics.  They  are  all  short,  and  have 
generally  the  appearance  of  unpremeditated  ex- 
pressions of  feeling  and  fancy.  They  are  full  of 
tenderness  and  beauty,  and  many  of  them  are 
nearly  faultless  in  execution. 


THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

0,  THOU  who  flingst  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  0  GOD  ! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  fleecy  wings  are  lightly  furl'd, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world  ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot,  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  Thou,  0  GOD  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer-flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet 

Up-springing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet 

At  every  step,  thy  smiles,  O  GOD  ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palacc-haU,  or  cot, — 
Give  me,  O  LORD,  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot ; 
Within  their  pure,  ambrosial  bells 
In  odours  sweet  thy  spirit  dwells. 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 
'T  is  thine,  0  GOD  !  for  Thou  art  there. 

Hark !  from  yon  casement,  low  and  dim, 

What  sounds  are  these  that  fill  the  breeze? 
It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 

Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  seas ; 
The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 

Upon  his  light  suspended  oar, 
Until  those  soft,  delicious  airs 

Have  diod  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 
Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  1 
What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul  ] 
His  heart  is  fill'd  with  peace  and  prayer, 
For  Thou,  0  Gon,  art  with  him  there. 

The  birds  among  the  summer  blooms 
Pour  forth  to  Thee  their  hymns  of  love, 

When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 
They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above ; 


We  hear  their  sweet,  familiar  airs 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found : 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs,  * 
Diffusing  sweetness  all  around  ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll ; 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
They  reach  thy  throne  in  grateful  prayer. 

The  stars — those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, — 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet  set  the  soaring  fancy  free : 
And,  0  !  how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell 

Of  faith,  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee. 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  breeze  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair — 
They  speak  of  thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 

The  spirit,  oft  oppress'd  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  thee  from  its  thought; 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 

Thou  mighty  Guest  that  com'st  unsought ! 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Magnetic-like,  where'er  we  be, 
Still,  still  the  thoughtful  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  thee. 
We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blest — 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou,  the  living  GOD,  art  there. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  enter  in ; 
There,  in  those  realms  so  calmly  bright, 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathe  their  soft  plumes  in  living  light, 

That  sparkles  from  thy  radiant  throne ! 
There,  souls  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours 
Look  up  and  sing  mid  fadeless  flowers ; 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  Thou,  the  GOD  of  peace,  art  there. 

503 


504 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

WHE*T  shines  the  star,  by  thee  loved  best, 

Upon  these  soft,  delicious  eves, 
Lighting  the  ring-dove  to  her  nest, 

Where  trembling  stir  the  darkling  leaves ; 
When  flings  the  wave  its  crest  of  foam 

Above  the  shadowy-mantleu  seas : 
A  softness  o'er  my  heart  doth  come, 

Linking  thy  memory  with  these ; 
For  if,  amid  those  orbs  that  roll, 

Thou  hast  at  times  a  thought  of  me, 
For  every  one  that  stirs  thy  soul 

A  thousand  stir  my  own  of  thee. 

Even  now  thy  dear  remember'd  eyes, 

Fill'd  up  with  floods  of  radiant  light, 
Seem  bending  from  the  twilight  skies, 

Outshining  all  the  stars  of  night: 
And  thy  young  face,  divinely  fair, 

Like  a  bright  cloud,  seems  melting  through, 
While  low,  sweet  whispers  fill  the  air, 

Making  my  own  lips  whisper  too ; 
For  never  does  the  soft  south  wind 

Steal  o'er  the  hush'd  and  lonely  sea, 
But  it  awakens  in  my  mind 

A  thousand  memories  of  thee. 

O  !  could  I,  while  these  hours  of  dreams 

Are  gathering  o'er  the  silent  hills, 
While  every  breeze  a  minstrel  seems, 

And  every  leaf  a  heart  that  thrills, 
Steal  all  unseen  to  some  hush'd  place, 

And,  kneeling  'neath  those  burning  orbs, 
Forever  gaze  on  thy  sweet  face, 

Till  seeing  every  sense  absorbs ; 
And  singling  out,  each  blessed  even, 

The  star  that  earliest  lights  the  sea, 
Forget  another  shines  in  heaven 

While  shines  the  one  beloved  by  thee. 

Lost  one !  companion  of  the  blest, 

Thou,  who  in  purer  air  dost  dwell, 
Ere  froze  the  life-drops  in  thy  breast, 

Or  fled  thy  soul  its  mystic  cell, 
We  pass'd  on  earth  such  hours  of  bliss 

As  none  but  kindred  hearts  can  know, 
And,  happy  in  a  world  like  this, 

But  dream'd  of  that  to  which  we  go, 
Till  thou  wert  call'd  in  thy  young  years 

To  wander  o'er  that  shoreless  sea, 
Where,  like  a  mist,  time  disappears, 

Melting  into  eternity. 

I'm  thinking  of  some  sunny  hours, 

That  shone  out  goldenly  in  June, 
'A^hen  birds  were  singing  'mong  the  flowers, 

With  wild,  sweet  voices  all  in  tune 
When  o'er  thy  locks  of  paly  gold 

Flow'd  thy  transparent  veil  away, 
Till  'neath  each  snow-white  trembling  fold 

The  Eden  of  thy  bosom  lay ; 
And,  shelter'd  'neath  its  dark-fringed  lid 

Till  raised  from  thence  in  girlish  glee, 
How  modestly  thy  glance  lay  hid 

From  the  fond  glances  bent  on  thee. 


There  are  some  hours  that  pass  so  soon 

Our  spell-touch'd  hearts  scarce  know  they  end ; 
And  so  it  was  with  that  sweet  June, 

Ere  thou  wert  lost,  my  gentle  friend ! 
O  !  how  I  '11  watch  each  flower  that  closes 

Through  autumn's  soft  and  breezy  reign, 
Till  summer-blooms  restore  the  roses, 

And  merry  June  shall  come  again  ! 
But,  ah!  while  float  its  sunny  hours 

O'er  fragrant  shore  and  trembling  sea, 
Missing  thy  face  among  the  flowers, 

How  my  full  heart  will  mourn  for  thee  ! 

TO  A  SEA-SHELL. 

SHELL  of  the  bright  sea-waves ! 
What  is  it  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan? 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own, 

Lute  of  the  ocean-caves ! 

Or,  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chamber  dim, 
Breathing  forever,  in  its  mournful  hymn, 

Of  ocean's  anthem  swell  1 

Wert  thou  a  murmurer  long 
In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 
Ere,  on  the  bright  air,  thou  hadst  heard  the  breeze 

Pour  its  full  tide  of  song  ! 

Another  thing  with  thee — 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  darkly  sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  seal 

And  say,  0  lone  sea-shell, 

Are  there  not  costly  things,  and  sweet  perfumes, 
Scatter'd  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of  tombs  • 

Hush  thy  low  moan,  and  tell. 

But  yet,  and  more  than  all — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  toss'd 
O'er  earth's  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall  ] 

'Tis  vain— ^thou  answerest  not! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead — 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs,  like  odours  shed, 

To  hold  them  unforgot ! 

Thine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  many  things  that  dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet,  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whisper'd  by  the  waves, 
But  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves, 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 

The  earth,  O  moaning  shell ! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than  these, 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees, 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 

Are  not  these  tones  of  earth, 
The  rustling  foliage  with  its  shivering  leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlight  eves 

Upon  the  seas  have  birth  ? 

Alas  !  thou  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY. 


505 


MY  SISTERS. 


LIKE  flowers  that  softly  bloom  together, 

Upon  one  fair  and  fragile  stem, 
Mingling  their  sweets  in  sunny  weather, 

Ere  strange  rude  hands  have  parted  them: 
So  were  we  link'd  unto  each  other, 

Sweet  sisters !  in  our  childish  hours, 
For  then  one  fond  and  gentle  mother 

To  us  was  like  the  stem  to  flowers. 
She  was  the  golden  thread  that  bound  us 

In  one  bright  chain  together  here, 
Till  Death  unloosed  the  cord  around  us, 

And  we  were  sever'd  far  and  near. 

The  floweret's  stem,  when  broke  or  shatter'd, 

Must  cast  its  blossoms  to  the  wind, 
Yet  round  the  buds,  though  widely  scatter'd, 

The  same  soft  perfume  still  we  find ; 
And  thus,  although  the  tie  is  broken 

That  link'd  us  round  our  mother's  knee, 
The  memory  of  words  we've  spoken 

When  we  were  children  light  and  free, 
Will,  like  the  perfume  of  each  blossom, 

Live  in  our  hearts  where'er  we  roam, 
As  when  we  slept  on  one  fond  bosom, 

And  dwelt  within  one  happy  home. 

I  know  that  changes  have  come  o'er  us : 

Sweet  sisters !  we  are  not  the  same, 
For  different  paths  now  lie  before  us, 

And  all  three  have  a  different  name; 
And  yet,  if  Sorrow's  dimming  fingers 

Have  shadow'd  o'er  each  youthful  brow, 
So  much  of  light  around  them  lingers, 

I  cannot  trace  those  shadows  now. 
Ye  both  have  those  who  love  ye  only, 

Whose  dearest  hopes  are  round  ye  thrown — 
While,  like  a  stream  that  wanders  lonely, 

Am  I,  the  youngest,  wildest  one. 

My  heart  is  like  the  wind  that  beareth 

Sweet  scents  upon  its  unseen  wing — 
The  wind !  that  for  no  creature  careth, 

Yet  stealeth  sweets  from  every  thing; 
It  hath  rich  thoughts  forever  leaping 

Up,  like  the  waves  of  flashing  seas, 
That  with  their  music  still  are  keeping 

Soft  time  with  every  fitful  breeze; 
Each  leaf  that  in  the  bright  air  quivers, 

The  sounds  from  hidden  solitudes, 
And  the  deep  flow  of  far-off  rivers, 

And  the  loud  rush  of  many  floods: 
All  these,  and  more,  stir  in  my  bosom 

Feelings  that  make  my  spirit  glad, 
Like  dew-drops  shaken  in  a  blossom, 

And  yet  there  is  a  something  sad 
Mix'd  wifti  those  thoughts,  like  clouds,  that  hover 

Above  us  in  the  quiet  air, 
Veiling  the  moon's  pale  beauty  over 

lake  a  dark  spirit  brooding  there. 

But,  sisters !  those  wild  thoughts  were  never 
Yours,  for  ye  would  not  love  like  me 

To  gaze  upon  the  stars  forever, 
To  hear  the  wind's  wild  melody. 


Ye'd  rather  look  on  smiling  faces, 

And  linger  round  a  cheerful  hearth, 
Than  mark  the  stars'  bright  hiding-places 

As  they  peep  out  upon  the  earth. 
But,  sisters!  as  the  stars  of  even 

Shrink  from  day's  golden  flashing  eye, 
And,  melting  in  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Veil  their  soft  beams  within  the  sky : 
So  will  we  pass,  the  joyous-hearted, 

The  fond,  the  young,  like  stars  that  wane, 
Till  every  link  of  earth  be  parted, 

To  form  in  heaven  one  mystic  chain. 


1  KNOW  THAT  THY  SPIRIT. 


that  thy  spirit  looks  radiantly  down 
From  yon  beautiful  orb  of  the  west, 
For  a  sound  and  a  sign  have  been  set  in  my  own, 

That  tell  of  the  place  of  thy  rest  ; 
For  I  gaze  on  the  star  that  we  talk'd  of  so  oft, 

As  our  glances  would  heavenward  rove, 
When  thy  step  was  on  earth,  and  thy  bosom  was 

soft 
With  a  sense  of  delight  and  of  love. 

The  dreams  that  were  laid  on  thy  shadowless  brow 

Were  pure  as  a  feeling  unborn, 
And  the  tone  of  thy  voice  was  as  pleasant  and  low 

As  a  bird's  in  a  pleasant  spring  morn  ; 
Such  a  heaven  of  purity  dwelt  in  thy  breast, 

Such  a  world  of  bright  thoughts  in  thy  soul, 
That  naught  could  have  made  thee  more  lovelj 
or  blest, 

So  bright  was  the  beautiful  whole. 

But,  now  o'er  thy  breast  in  the  hush  of  the  tomb 

Are  folded  thy  pale  graceful  arms, 
While  the  midnight  of  death,  like  a  garment  of 
gloom, 

Hangs  over  that  bosom's  young  charms  ; 
And  pale,  pale,  alas  !  is  thy  rosy  lip  now, 

Its  melody  broken  and  gone; 
And  cold  is  the  young  heart  whose  sweet  dreams 
below 

Were  of  summer,  of  summer  alone, 

Yet  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  thine  eyelids  of  snow 

O'er  their  blue  orbs  so  mournfully  meek, 
And  the  delicate  blush  that  would  vanish  and  glow 

Through  the  light  of  thy  transparent  cheek, 
And  thy  tresses  all  put  from  thy  forehead  away  — 

These,  these  on  my  memory  rise 
As  I  gaze  on  yon  bright  orb  whose  beautiful  ray 

Hath  so  often  been  blest  by  thine  eyes. 

The  blue-girdled  stars  and  the  soft  dreamy  air 

Divide  thy  fair  spirit  and  mine  : 
Yet  I  look  in  my  heart,  and  a  something  is  there 

That  links  it  in  feeling  to  thine  : 
The  glow  of  the  sunset,  the  voice  of  the  breeze, 

As  it  cradles  itself  on  the  sea, 
Are  dear  to  my  bosom,  for  moments  like  these 

Are  sacred  to  memory  and  thee. 


2U 


LUCRETIA  AND   MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


I  DID  not  notice  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON 
in  that  part  of  this  volume  in  which,  according  to 
the  chronological  order  which  has  governed  me,  her 
biography  should  have  appeared,  because  it  seemed 
most  proper  to  consider  together  the  remarkable 
children  of  whom  she  was  the  first  born  and  the 
first  to  die.  The  verses  which  she  wrote,  like  those 
of  her  younger  sister,  are  extraordinary,  considered 
as  the  productions  of  so  young  a  person,  however 
little  they  might  deserve  regard  if  presented  as  the 
effusions  of  a  matured  and  well-educated  mind. 

Those  who  have  read  the  preceding  memoirs 
may  remember  that  an  unusual  precocity  of  genius 
has  been  frequently  exhibited  in  this  country.  The 
cases  of  LUCRETIA  and  MARGARET  DAVIDSON  are 
doubtless  more  interesting  than  any  to  which  I  have 
already  alluded,  but  they  are  not  the  most  wonder- 
ful that  have  been  known  in  America.  About 
two  years  ago  I  was  shown,  by  one  of  the  house 
of  HARPER  and  BROTHERS,  the  publishers,  some 
verses  by  a  girl  but  eight  years  of  age,  the  daughter 
of  a  gentleman  in  Connecticut — that  seemed  supe- 
rior to  any  composed  by  the  DAVIDSONS  ;  and  I 
have  heard  of  other  prodigies  no  less  remarkable. 
Greatness  is  not  often  developed  in  childhood,  and 
where  a  strange  precocity  is  observable,  it  is  gene- 
rally but  a  premature  blossoming  of  the  mind, 
We  cannot  always  decide  to  even  our  own  satis- 
faction, whether  it  is  so,  but  as  the  writings  of  the 
subjects  of  this  notice,  when  they  were  from  nine 
to  fifteen  years  of  age,  exhibited  no  progress,  it  is 
not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that,  like  the  won- 
derful boy  ZERAH  COLBURN,  of  Vermont,  whose 
arithmetical  calculations  many  years  ago  astonish- 
ed the  world,  they  would  have  possessed  in  their 
physical  maturity  no  high  intellectual  qualities. 

The  father  of  LUCRETIA  and  MARGARET  DAVID- 
SON- was  a  physician.  Their  mother's  maiden  name 
was  MARGARET  MILLER.  She  was  a  woman  of 
an  ardent  temperament  and  an  affectionate  dispo- 
sition, and  had  been  carefully  educated.  LUCRETIA 
was  born  in  the  village  of  Plattsburgh,  in  New 
York,  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  September,  1808. 
In  her  infancy  she  was  exceedingly  fragile,  but  she 
grew  stronger  when  about  eighteen  months  old, 
and  though  less  vigorous  than  most  children  of 
her  age,  suffered  little  for  several  years  from 
sickness.  She  learned  the  alphabet  in  her  third 
year,  and  at  four  was  sent  to  a  public  school, 
where  she  was  taught  to  read  and  to  form  letters 
in  sand,  after  the  Lancasterian  system.  As  soon 
as  she  could  read,  her  time  was  devoted  to  the  little 
books  that  were  given  to  her,  and  to  composition. 
Her  mother  at  one  time  wishing  to  write  a  letter, 
found  that  a  quire  or  more  of  paper  had  disappear- 
ed from  the  place  where  writing  implements  were 
kept,  and  when  she  made  inquiries  in  regard  to  it, 
the  child  came  forward,  and  acknowledged  that 


she  had  "used  it."  As  Mrs.  DAVIDSON  knew  she 
had  not  been  taught  to  write,  she  vv;is  surprised, 
and  inquired  in  what  manner  it  had  been  destroy- 
ed. LUCRETIA  burst  into  tears,  and  replied  that 
she  did  "not  like  to  tell."  The  question  was  not 
urged.  From  that  time  the  paper  continued  to 
disappear,  and  she  was  frequently  observed  with 
little  blank  books,  and  pens,  and  ink,  sedulously 
shunning  observation.  At  length,  when  she  was 
about  six  years  old,  her  mother  found  hidden  in 
a  closet,  rarely  opened,  a  parcel  of  papers  which 
proved  to  be  her  manuscript  books.  On  one  side 
of  each  leaf  was  an  artfully  sketched  picture,  and 
on  the  other,  in  rudely  formed  letters,  were  poetical 
explanations. 

From  this  time  she  acquired  knowledge  very 
rapidly,  studying  intensely  at  school,  and  reading 
in  every  leisure  moment  at  home.  When  about 
twelve  years  of  age  she  accompanied  her  father 
to  a  celebration  of  the  birth-night  of  Washington. 
She  had  studied  the  history  of  the  father  of  his 
country,  and  the  scene  awakened  her  enthusiasm. 
The  next  day  an  older  sister  found  her  absorbed 
in  writing.  She  had  drawn  an  urn,  and  written 
two  stanzas  beneath  it.  They  were  shown  to  her 
mother,  who  expressed  her  delight  with  such  ani- 
mation that  the  child  immediately  added  the  con- 
cluding verses,  and  returned  with  the  poem  as  it 
is  printed  in  her  "  Remains" — 

And  does  a  Hero's  dust  lie  here1! 
Columbia!  gaze  and  drop  a  tear! 
His  country's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 
See  thousands  o'er  his  ashes  bend! 

Among  the  heroes  of  the  age, 
He  was  the  warrior  and  the  sage ! 
He  left  a  train  of  glory  bright 
Which  never  will  be  hid  in  night. 

The  toils  of  war  and  danger  past, 

He  reaps  a  rich  reward  at  last ; 

His  pure  soul  mounts  on  cherub's  wings> 

And  now  with  saints  and  angels  sings. 

The  brightest  on  the  list  of  fame, 

In  golden  letters  shines  his  namo; 

Her  trump  shall  sound  it  through  the  world, 

And  the  striped  banner  ne'er  be  furl'd! 

And  every  sex,  and  every  age, 
From  lisping  boy,  to  learned  ease, 
The  widow,  and  her  orphan  son, 
Revere  the  name  of  WASHINGTON. 

She  continued  to  write  with  much  industry  from 
this  period.  In  the  summer  of  1823,  her  health 
being  very  feeble,  she  was  withdrawn  from  school, 
and  sent  on  a  visit  to  some  friends  in  Canada.  In 
Montreal  she  was  delighted  with  the  public  build- 
ings, martial  parades,  pictures,  and  other  novel 
sights,  and  she  returned  to  Plattsburgh  with  reno- 
vated health.  Her  sister  MARGATIET  was  born 
on  the  twenty -sixth  of  March,  1823,  and  a  few 

506 


LUCRETIA   AND    MARGARET   DAVIDSON. 


507 


days  afterward,  while  holding  the  infant  in  her 
lap,  she  wrote  the  following  lines : 

Sweet  babe !  I  cannot  hope  that  thou  'It  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all  since  earliest  time  decreed; 
But  may'st  thou  be  with  resignation  bless'd, 
To  bear  each  evil  howsoe'er  distress'd. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form ; 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace. 
To  the  rude  whirlwind  softly  whisper — cease ! 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  that  world  of  wo, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 

And  when  this  vale  of  years  is  safely  pass'd, 
When  death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 

In  the  summer  of  1824  she  finished  her  longest 
poem,  "  Amir  Khan,"  and  in  the  autumn  of  the 
same  year  was  sent  to  the  seminary  of  Mrs.  WIL- 
LAnn,  at  Troy,  where  she  remained  during  the 
winter.  In  May,  1825,  after  spending  several 
weeks  at  home,  she  was  transferred  to  a  boarding- 
school  at  Albany,  and  here  her  health,  which  had 
before  been  slightly  affected,  rapidly  declined.  In 
company  with  her  mother,  and  Mr.  Moss  KEST, 
a  gentleman  of  fortune,  who  had  undertaken  to 
defray  the  costs  of  her  education,  she  returned  to 
Plattsburgh  in  July,  and  died  there  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  August,  one  month  before  her  seven- 
teenth birth-day.  She  retained,  until  her  death, 
the  purity  and  simplicity  of  childhood,  and  died  in 
the  confident  hope  of  a  blissful  immortality. 

Soon  after  her  death,  her  poems  and  prose  writ- 
ings were  published,  with  a  memoir  by  Mr.  S.  F. 
B.  MOUSE,  of  New  York,  and  an  elaborate  biogra- 
phy of  her  life  and  character  has  since  been  written 
by  Miss  C.  M.  SEDGWICK,  the  author  of  "  Hope 
Leslie,"  etc.  The  following  verses  are  among  the 
most  perfect  she  produced.  They  were  addressed 
to  her  sister,  Mrs.  TOWJISEND,  in  her  fifteenth 
year: 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given ; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye; 

When  Nature,  soften'd  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie ; 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give: 

O,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And  hovering,  trembles,  half-afraid; 

O,  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 
Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'T  were  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day  ; 
Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 

And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 


In  her  sixteenth  year  she  wrote  three  "  prophe- 
cies," of  which  the  following  is  one : 

Let  me  gaze  awhile  on  that  marble  brow, 

On  that  full,  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow; 

Let  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 

I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 

That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile  ; 

That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile  ; 

That  full,  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 

In  life's  gay  morn,  in  hope's  young  dream; 

But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 

And  sorrow  blight  thy  bosom's  glow. 

I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 

I  know  by  that  brightly-flashing  eye, 

That,  maiden,  there  's  that  within  thy  breast, 

Which  hath  mark'd  thee  out  for  a  soul  unbless'd: 

The  strife  of  love  with  pride  shall  wring 

Thy  youthful  bosom's  tenderest  string ; 

And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 

Shall  be  drain'd  to  the  dregs  in  agony. 

Yes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye 

A  dark,  and  a  doubtful  prophecy. 

Thou  shall  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse; 

Thou  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shall  feel  no  worse. 

I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near ; 

The  voice  of  the  iroubled  lide  I  hear; 

The  lorrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  grief, 

The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life ; 

Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 

And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee. 

Not  a  slar  in  the  heavens,  nol  a  light  on  the  wave ! 

Maiden,  I  've  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 

When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand 'of  Death 

Hath  crovvn'd  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath; 

When  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip; 

When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long,  last  sleep, 

Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high, 

And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 

MARGARET  DAVIDSON,  at  the  time  of  the  death 
of  LUCHETIA,  was  not  quite  two  years  old.  The 
event  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  her 
mind.  She  loved,  when  but  three  years  old,  to  sit 
on  a  cushion  at  her  mother's  feet,  listening  to 
anecdotes  of  her  sister's  life,  and  details  of  the 
events  which  preceded  her  death,  and  would  often 
exclaim,  wfcile  her  face  beamed  with  mingled  emo- 
tions, "  O,  I  will  try  to  fill  her  place — teach  me  to 
be  like  her!"  She  needed  little  teaching.  In  in- 
telligence, and  in  literary  progress,  she  surpassed 
LUCRETIA.  When  six  years  of  age,  she  could 
read  with  fluency,  and  would  sit  by  the  bedside  of 
her  sick  mother,  reading  with  enthusiastic  delight, 
and  appropriate  emphasis,  the  poetry  of  MILTOJT, 
COWPER,  THOMSON,  and  other  great  authors,  and 
marking,  with  discrimination,  the  passages  with 
which  she  was  most  pleased.  Between  the  sixth 
and  seventh  year  of  her  age  she  entered  on  a 
general  course  of  education,  studying  grammar, 
geography,  history,  and  rhetoric ;  but  her  constitu- 
tion had  already  begun  to  show  symptoms  of  decay, 
which  rendered  it  expedient  to  check  her  applica- 
tion. In  her  seventh  summer  she  was  taken  to  the 
Springs  of  Saratoga,  the  waters  of  which  seemed 
to  have  a  beneficial  effect,  and  she  afterward  ac- 
companied her  parents  to  New  York,  with  which 
city  she  was  highly  delighted.  On  her  return  to 
Plattsburgh,  her  strength  was  much  increased,  and 
she  resumed  her  studies,  with  great  assiduity.  In 
the  autumn  of  1830,  however,  her  health  began  to 
fail  again,  and  it  was  thought  proper  for  her  and 


508 


LUCRETIA  AND    MARGARET   DAVIDSON. 


her  mother  to  join  Mrs.  Tows  SEND,  an  elder  sister, 
in  an  inland  town  of  Canada.  She  remained  here 
until  1833,  when  she  had  a  severe  attack  of  scarlet 
fever,  and  on  her  slow  recovery  it  was  determined 
to  go  again  to  New  York.  Her  residence  in  the 
city  was  protracted  until  the  summer  heat  became 
oppressive,  and  she  expressed  her  yearnings  for 
the  banks  of  the  Saranac,  in  the  following  lines, 
which  are  probably  equal  to  any  ever  written  by 
so  young  an  author: 

I  would  fly  from  the  city,  would  fly  from  its  care, 

To  my  own  native  plants  and  my  flowerets  so  fair, 

To  the  cool  grassy  shade  and  the  rivulet  bright, 

Which  reflects  the  pale  moon  in  its  bosom  of  light; 

A»ain  would  I  view  the  old  cottage  so  dear, 

Where  I  sported  a  babe,  without  sorrow  or  fear; 

I  would  leave  this  great  city,  so  brilliant  and  gay, 

For  a  peep  at  my  home  on  this  fair  summer  day. 

I  have  friends  whom  I  love,  and  would  leave  with  regret, 

But  the  love  of  my  home,  O !  't  is  tenderer  yet ; 

There  a  sister  reposes  unconscious  in  death, 

'T  was  there  she  first  drew,  and  there  yielded  her  breath, 

A  father  I  love  is  away  from  me  now, 

O!  could  I  but  print  a  sweet  kiss  on  his  brow, 

Or  smooth  the  gray  locks  to  my  fond  heart  so  dear, 

How  quickly  would  vanish  each  trace  of  a  tear. 

Attentive  I  listen  to  pleasure's  gay  call, 

But  my  own  happy  home  it  is  dearer  than  all. 

The  family  soon  after  became  temporary  resi- 
dents of  the  village  of  Ballston,  near  Saratoga; 
and  in  the  autumn  of  1835  of  Ruremont,  on  the 
Sound,  or  East  River,  about  four  miles  from  New 
York.  Here  they  remained,  except  at  short  inter- 
vals, until  the  summer  of  1837,  when  they  returned 
to  Ballston.  In  the  last  two  years  MARGARET  had 
suffered  much  from  illness  herself,  and  had  lost  by 
death  her  sister  Mrs.  TOWNSEND,  and  two  brothers ; 
and  now  her  mother  became  alarmingly  ill.  As 
the  season  advanced,  however,  health  seemed  to 
revisit  all  the  surviving  members  of  the  family, 
and  MARGARET  was  as  happy  as  at  any  period  of 
her  life.  Early  in  1828,  Doctor  DAVIDSON  took  a 
house  in  Saratoga,  to  which  he  removed f  n  the  first 
of  May.  Here  she  had  an  attack  of  bleeding  from 
the  lungs,  but  recovered,  and  when  her  brothers 
visited  home  from  New  York  she  returned  with 
them  to  the  city,  and  remained  there  several 
weeks.  She  reached  Saratoga  again  in  July ;  the 
bloom  had  for  the  last  time  left  her  cheeks;  and 
she  decayed  gradually  until  the  twenty-fifth  of 
November,  when  her  spirit  returned  to  GOD.  She 
was  then  but  fifteen  years  and  eight  months  old. 

Her  later  poems  do  not  seem  to  me  superior  to 
some  written  in  her  eleventh  year,  and  the  prose 
compositions  included  in  the  volume  of  her  remains 
edited  by  Mr.  IRVING,  are  not  better  than  those  of 
many  girls  of  her  age.  One  of  her  latest  and  most 


perfect  pieces  is  the  dedication  of  a  poem  entitled 
"Leonora"  to  the  "Spirit  of  her  Sister  Lucretia:" 

O,  thou,  so  early  lost,  so  long  deplored! 

Pure  spirit  of  my  sister,  be  thou  near! 
And  while  I  touch  this  hallow'd  harp  of  thine, 

Bend  from  the  skies,  sweet  sister,  bend  and  hear! 

For  thee  I  pour  this  unaffected  lay ; 

To  thee  these  simple  numbers  all  belong : 
For  though  thine  earthly  form  has  pass'd  away, 

Thy  memory  still  inspires  my  childish  song. 

Take  then  this  feeble  tribute : — 'tis  thine  own — 
Thy  fingers  sweep  my  trembling  heart-strings  o'er, 

Arouse  to  harmony  each  buried  tone, 
And  bid  its  waken'd  music  sleep  no  more! 

Long  has  thy  voice  been  silent,  and  thy  lyre 
Hung  o'er  thy  grave,  in  death's  unbroken  rest; 

But  when  its  last  sweet  tones  were  borne  away 
One  answering  echo  linger'd  in  my  bretst. 

O!  thou  pure  spirit!  if  thou  hoverest  near, 
Accept  these  lines,  unworthy  though  they  be, 

Faint  echoes  from  thy  fount  of  song  divine, 
By  thee  inspired,  and  dedicate  to  thee ! 

The  following  lines  addressed  to  her  mother,  a  few 
days  before  her  death,  were  the  last  she  ever  wrote : 

O,  mother,  would  the  power  were  mine 
To  wake  the  strain  thou  lovest  to  hear, 

And  breathe  each  trembling  new-born  thought 
Within  thy  fondly-listening  ear, 

As  when  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

My  hopes  and  fancies  wander'd  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  hath  pass'd 
Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here  ; 

A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  hath  wrapp'd 
The  remnant  of  my  brief  career; 

No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, 

The  sparkling  fount  hath  dried  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 

And  fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more, 
And  O,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 

The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before ; 
My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 

Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife; 
O,  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 

The  pathway  to  eternal  life! 
Then  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I  '11  sing  thee  as  in  "days  of  yore." 

I  said  that  Hope  had  pass'd  from  earth, 
'Twas  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  fieaven, 

To  whisper  of  the  soul's  ne\v  birth, 
Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven; 

When  mine  are  wash'd  in  tears  away, 

Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  my  lay. 

When  GOD  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  chords  of  heavenly  love — 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart — 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise, 
And  all  not  ofter'd  at  His  shrine, 
Dear  mother,  1  will  place  on  thine. 


POEMS  BY  VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


Su2  500 


VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


EDWARD  EVERETT,  LL.D. 


DIRGE  OF  ALARIC,  THE  VISIGOTH, 

Who  stormed  and  spoiled  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was 
afterward  buried  in  the  channel  of  the  river  Busentius, 
the  water  of  which  had  been  diverted  from  its  course 
that  the  body  might  be  interred. 

WHE:V  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 

Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose ; 
Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 

In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes ; 
Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 
Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest ; 

W^ere  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  "the  scourge  of  GOD." 

But  ye  the  mountain-stream  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there : 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  king  of  kings ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said, 
Until  the  deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth ; 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
TJie  ransom  of  a  conquer'd  earth : 

For,  e'en  though  dead,  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  the  capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain-tide 
Ve  've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 

Ve  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 
Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 

For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 

Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look ; 

And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 

The  astonish'd  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 


My  course  was  like  a  river  deep, 
And  from  the  northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep, 
And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  cursed, 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  ALARIC  and  his  hosts  had  been. 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  the  Goth, 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth, 

And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels, 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot-wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 
In  judgment  my  triumphal  car; 

'Twas  GOD  alone  on  high  did  send 
The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 

To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 

The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  rear'd 
O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm ; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steer'd, 

And  vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
When,  launch'd  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  plough'd  my  ways  through  seas  of  blood, 
And,  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt, 
Wash'd  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  pour'd  the  torrent  of  my  powers, 

And  feeble  Caesars  shriek'd  for  help 

In  vain  within  their  seven-hill'd  towers ; 

I  quench'd  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 

That  glitter'd  in  their  diadem, 

And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  dye 

In  the  purple  of  their  majesty ; 

And  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 

Upon  the  conquer'd  Palatine. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done ; 

I  go  to  Him  from  whence  I  came ; 
But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name ; 
And  Roman  hearts  shall*long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  ALARIC. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  clone — 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate, 
Impatient,  round  the  eternal  throne, 

And  in  the  caves  of  vengeance  wait; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  ATTILA. 

511 


512 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS,  LL.  D. 


TO  A  BEREAVED  MOTHER. 

SURE,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest 

When  infant  innocence  ascends, 
Some  angel,  brighter  than  the  rest, 

The  spotless  spirit's  flight  attends. 
On  wings  of  ecstasy  they  rise, 

Beyond  where  worlds  material  roll ; 
Till  some  fair  sister  of  the  skies 

Receives  the  unpolluted  soul. 

That  inextinguishable  beam, 

With  dust  united  at  our  birth, 
Sheds  a  more  dim,  discolour'd  gleam 

The  more  it  lingers  upon  earth. 
Closed  in  this  dark  abode  of  clay, 

The  stream  of  glory  faintly  burns : — 
Not  unobserved,  the  lucid  ray 

To  its  own  native  fount  returns. 

But  when  the  LORD  of  mortal  breath 

Decrees  his  bounty  to  resume, 
And  points  the  silent  shaft  of  death 

Which  speeds  an  infant  to  the  tomb — 
No  passion  fierce,  nor  low  desire, 

Has  quench'd  the  radiance  of  the  flame ; 
Back  to  its  GOB  the  living  fire 

Reverts,  unclouded  as  it  came. 

Fond  mourner !  be  that  solace  thine ! 

Let  hope  her  healing  charm  impart, 
And  soothe,  with  melodies  divine, 

The  anguish  of  a  mother's  heart. 
0,  think !  the  darlings  of  thy  love, 

Divested  of  this  earthly  clod, 
Amid  unnumber'd  saints  above, 

Bask  in  the  bosom  of  their  GOD. 

Of  their  short  pilgrimage  on  earth 

Still  tender  images  remain  : 
Still,  still  they  bless  thee  for  their  birth, 

Still  filial  gratitude  retain. 
Each  anxious  care,  each  rending  sigh, 

That  wrung  for  them  the  parent's  breast, 
Dwells  on  remembrance  in  the  sky, 

Amid  the  raptures  of  the  blest. 

O'er  thce,  with  looks  of  love,  they  bend  ; 

For  thee  the  LonD  of  life  implore ; 
And  oft  from  sainted  bliss  descend, 

Thy  wounded  quiet  to  restore. 
Oft,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

They  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  bed ; 
Oft,  till  the  morn's  returning  light, 

Still  watchful  hover  o'er  thy  head. 

Hark !  in  such  strains  as  saints  employ, 

They  whisper  to  thy  bosom  peace  ; 
Calm  the  perturbed  heart  to  joy, 

And  bid  the  streaming  sorrow  cease. 
Then  dry,  henceforth,  the  bitter  tear: 

Their  part  and  thine  inverted  see : — 
Thou  wert  their  guardian  angel  here, 

They  guardian  angels  now  to  thee. 


HENRY  PICKERING. 


TO  THE  FRINOILLA  MELODIA.* 

Jot  fills  the  vale, 

With  joy  ecstatic  quivers  every  wing, 
As  floats  thy  note  upon  the  genial  gale, 

Sweet  bird  of  spring ! 

The  violet 

Awakens  at  thy  song,  and  peers  from  out 
Its  fragrant  nook,  as  if  the  season  yet 

Remain'd  in  doubt. 

While,  from  the  rock, 
The  columbine  its  crimson  bell  suspends, 
That  careless  vibrates,  as  its  slender  stalk 

The  zephyr  bends. 

Say  !  when  the  blast 

Of  winter  swept  our  whiten'd  plains,  what  clime, 
What  sunnier  realm  thou  charm'dst, — and  how 

Thy  joyous  time  1  [was  past 

Did  the  green  isles 

Detain  thee  long?  or,  mid  the  palmy  groves 
Of  the  bright  south,  where  liberty  now  smiles, 

Didst  sing  thy  loves  ? 

0,  well  T  know 

Why  thou  art  here  thus  soon,  and  why  the  bowers 
So  near  the  sun  have  lesser  charms  than  now 

Our  land  of  flowers. 

Thou  art  return'd 

On  a  glad  errand, — to  rebuild  thy  nest. 
And  fan  anew  the  gentle  fire  that  burn'd 

Within  thy  breast. 

And  thy  wild  strain, 

Pour'd  on  the  gale,  is  love's  transporting  voice — 
That,  calling  on  the  plumy  choir  again, 

Bids  them  rejoice. 

Nor  calls  alone 

To  enjoy,  but  bids  improve  the  fleeting  hour — 
Bids  all  that  ever  heard  love's  witching  tone, 

Or  felt  his  power. 

The  poet,  too, 

It  soft  invokes  to  touch  the  trembling  wire; 
Yet,  ah,  how  few  its  sounds  shall  list,  how  few 

His  song  admire  ! 

But  thy  sweet  lay, 

Thou  darling  of  the  spring  !  no  ear  disdains ; 
Thy  sage  instructress,  Nature,  snys,  "Be  gay!" 

And  prompts  thy  strains. 

O,  if  I  knew 

Like  thee  to  sing,  like  thee  the  heart  to  fire, — 
Youth  should  enchanted  throng,  and  beauty  sue 

To  hear  my  lyre. 

Oft  as  the  year 

In  gloom  is  wrapp'd,  thy  exile  I  shall  mourn, — 
Oft  as  the  spring  returns  shall  hail  sincere 

Thy  glad  return. 

*  The  song-sparrow. 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


513 


KATHERINE  A.  WARE.* 


MARKS  OF  TIME. 

AN  infant  boy  was  playing  among  flowers, 
Old  Time,  that  unbribecl  register  of  hours, 
Came  hobbling  on,  but  smoothed  his  wrinkled  face, 
To  mark  the  artless  joy  and  blooming  grace 
Of  the  young  cherub,  on  whose  cheek  so  fair 
He  smiled,  and  press'd  a  rosy  dimple  there. 

Next  Boyhood  follow'd,  with  his  shout  of  glee, 
Elastic  step,  and  spirit  wild  and  free 
As  the  young  fawn,  that  scales  the  mountain  height, 
Or  new-fledged  eaglet  in  his  sunward  flight; 
Time  cast  a  glance  upon  the  careless  boy, 
Who  frolicked  onward  with  a  bound  of  joy!    [eye 

Then  Youth  came  forward ;  his  bright  glancing 
Seem'd  a  reflection  of  the  cloudless  sky  ! 
The  dawn  of  passion,  in  its  purest  glow, 
Crimson'd  his  cheek,  and  beam'd  upon  his  brow, 
Giving  expression  to  his  blooming  face, 
And  to  his  fragile  form  a  manly  grace ; 
His  voice  was  harmony,  his  speech  was  truth — 
Time  lightly  laid  his  hand  upon  the  youth. 

Manhood  next  follow'd,  in  the  sunny  prime 
Of  life's  meridian  bloom  ;  all  the  sublime 
And  beautiful  of  nature  met  his  view, 
Brighten'd  by  Hope,  whose  radiant  pencil  drew 
The  rich  perspective  of  a  scene  as  fair 
As  that  which  smiled  on  Eden's  sinless  pair; 
Love,  fame,  and  glory,  with  alternate  sway, 
Thrill'd  his  warm  heart,  and  with  electric  ray 
Illumed  his  eye,  yet  gtill  a  shade  of  care, 
Like  a  light  cloud  that  floats  in  summer  air, 
Would  shed  at  times  a  transitory  gloom, 
But  shadow'd  not  one  grace  of  manly  bloom. 
Time  sigh'd,  as  on  his  polish'd  brow  he  wrought 
The  first  impressive  line  of  care  and  thought. 

Man  in  his  proud  maturity  came  next ; 
A  bold  review  of  life,  from  the  broad  text 
Of  nature's  ample  volume  !     Ho  had  scann'd 
Her  varied  page,  and  a  high  course  had  plann'd ; 
Humbled  ambition,  wealth's  deceitful  smile, 
The  loss  of  friends,  disease,  and  mental  toil, 
Had  blanch'd  his  cheek,  and  dimm'd  his  ardent  eye, 
But  spared  his  noble  spirit's  energy! 
Gon's  proudest  stamp  of  intellectual  grace 
Still  shone  unclouded  on  his  care-worn  face  ! 
On  his  high  brow  still  sate  the  firm  resolve 
Of  judgment  deep,  whose  issue  might  involve 
A  nation's  fate.     Yet  thoughts  of  milder  glow 
Would  oft,  like  sunbeams  o'er  a  mound  of  snow, 
Upon  his  cheek  their  genial  influence  cast, 
While  musing  o'er  the  bright  or  shadowy  past: 
Time,  as  he  mark'd  his  noblest  victim,  shed 
The  frost  of  years  upon  his  honour'd  head. 

Last  came,  with  trembling  limbs  and  bending 

form, 
Like  the  old  oak  scathed  by  the  wintry  storm, 

*  Mrs.  KATHEIUXE  AITGUST\  WARE  is  a  native  of  Mas- 
sach'isetts,  and  was  at  one  time  editor  ol'a  periodical  pub- 
lish-il  in  Boston,  railed  "The  Bower  of  Taste.''  Sh"  tins 
for  s  'Veral  years  resided  in  Enshnil,  and  a  collection  of 
h:>r  u-ritiiiL's,  riititlt'd  "  Power  of  the  !'a<sions,  and  other 
Pui'iu-!,''  appeared  in  London  since  the  commencement 
of  the  present  year,  (1842.) 

05 


Man,  in  the  last  frail  stage  of  human  life — 
Nigh  pass'd  his  every  scene  of  peace  or  strife. 
Reason's  proud  triumph,  passion's  wild  control, 
No  more  dispute  their  mastery  o'er  his  soul ; 
As  rest  the  billows  on  the  sea-beat  shore, 
The  war  of  rivalry  is  heard  no  more ; 
Faith's  steady  light  alone  illumes  his  eye, 
For  Time  is  pointing  to  Eternity! 


HENRY  ROWE  SCHOOLCRAFT/ 


GEEHALE.     AN  INDIAN  LAMENT. 

THE  blackbird  is  singing  on  Michigan's  shore 
As  sweetly  and  gayly  as  ever  before; 
For  he  knows  to  his  mate  he,  at  pleasure,  can  hie, 
And  the  dear  little  brood  she  is  teaching  to  fly. 
The  sun  looks  as  ruddy,  and  rises  as  bright, 
And  reflects  o'er  the  mountains  as  beamy  a  light 
As  it  ever  reflected,  or  ever  express'd,      [the  best. 
When  my  skies  were  the  bluest,  my  dreams  were 
The  fox  and  the  panther,  both  beasts  of  the  night, 
Retire  to  their  dens  on  the  gleaming  of  light, 
And  they  spring  with  a  free  and  a  sorrowless  track, 
For  they  know  that  their  mates  are  expecting  them 

back. 

Each  bird,  and  each  beast,  it  is  bless'd  in  degree : 
All  nature  is  cheerful,  all  happy,  but  me. 

I  will  go  to  my  tent,  and  lie  down  in  despair ; 
I  will  paint  me  with  black,  and  will  sever  my  hair ; 
I  will  sit  on  the  shore,  where  the  hurricane  blows, 
And  reveal  to  the  god  of  the  tempest  my  woes ; 
I  will  weep  for  a  season,  on  bitterness  fed, 
For  my  kindred  are  gone  to  the  hills  of  the  dead ; 
But  they  died  not  by  hunger,  or  lingering  decay; 
The  steel  of  the  white  man  hath  swept  them  away. 

This  snake-skin,  that  once  I  so  sacredly  wore, 
I  will  toss,  with  disdain,  to  the  storm-beaten  shore: 
Its  charms  I  no  longer  obey  or  invoke, 
Its  spirit  hath  left  me,  its  spell  is  now  broke. 
I  will  raise  up  my  voice  to  the  source  of  the  light; 
I  will  dream  on  the  wings  of  the  bluebird  at  night; 
I  will  speak  to  the  spirits  that  whisper  in  loaves, 
And  that  minister  balm  to  the  bosom  that  grieves ; 
And  will  take  a  new  Manito — such  as  shall  seem 
To  be  kind  and  propitious  in  every  dream. 

0,  then  I  shall  banish  these  cankering  sighs, 
And  tears  shall  no  longer  gush  salt  from  my  eyes; 
I  shall  wash  from  my  face  every  cloud-colour'd  stain ; 
Red — red  shall,  alone,  on  my  visage  remain ! 
I  will  dig  up  my  hatchet,  and  bend  my  oak  bow; 
By  night  and  by  day  I  will  follow  the  foe; 
Nor  lakes  shall  impede  me,  nor  mountains,  nor 

snows ; 
His  blood  can,  alone,  give  my  spirit  repose. 

They   came   to   my   cabin   when   heaven    was 

black  : 

I  heard  not  their  coming,  I  knew  not  their  track ; 
But  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  their  blazing  fusees. 
They  were  people  engenderM  beyond  the  bi^  seas: 
My  wife  and  my  children. — O.  spare  me  the  tale!— 
For  who  is  there  left  that  is  kin  to  GKF.HALK  ? 


*  Amhorof  "  Alsic  Reip:ivli''s."  '•  Expedition  to  Itasca 
Lake,"  "  Alhalla,  or  the  Lord  of  Talladcgii  "  etc. 


514 


VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


J.  K.  MITCHELL.* 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

O !  FLY  to  the  prairie,  sweet  maiden,  with  me, 
'Tis  as  green  and  as  wide  and  as  wild  as  the  sea: 
O'er  its  soft  silken  bosom  the  summer  winds  glide, 
And  wave  the  wild  grass  in  its  billowy  pride. 

The  city 's  a  prison  too  narrow  for  thee — 

Then  away  to  the  prairies  so  boundless  and  free  : 

Where  the  sight  is  not  check'd  till  the  prairie  and 

skies, 

In  harmony  blending,  commingle  their  dyes. 
The  fawns  in  the  meadow-fields  fearlessly  play — 
Away  to  the  chase,  lovely  maiden,  away ! 
Bound,  bound  to  thy  courser,  the  bison. is  near, 
And  list  to  the  tramp  of  the  light-footed  deer. 
Let  England  exult  in  her  dogs  and  her  chase — 
O !  what 's  a  king's  park  to  this  limitless  space ! 
No  fences  to  leap  and  no  thickets  to  turn, 
No  owners  to  injure,  no  furrows  to  spurn. 
But,  softly  as  thine  on  the  carpeted  hall, 
Is  heard  the  light  foot  of  the  courser  to  fall ; 
And  close-matted  grass  no  impression  receives, 
As  ironless  hoofs  bound  aloft  from  the  leaves. 

O,  fly  to  the  prairie  !  the  eagle  is  there : 
He  gracefully  wheels  in  the  cloud-speckled  air; 
And,  timidly  hiding  her  delicate  young, 
The  prairie-hen  hushes  her  beautiful  song. 

O,  fly  to  the  prairie,  sweet  maiden,  with  me ! 
The  vine  and  the  prairie-rose  blossom  for  thee ; 
And,  hailing  the  moon  in  the  prairie-propp'd  sky, 
The  mocking-bird  echoes  the  katydid's  cry. 

Let  Mexicans  boast  of  their  herds  and  their  steeds, 
The  free  prairie-hunter  no  shupherd-boy  needs ; 
The  bison,  like  clouds,  overshadow  the  place, 
And  the  wild,  spotted  coursers  invite  to  the  chase. 
The  farmer  may  boast  of  his  grass  and  his  grain — 
He  sows  them  in  labour,  and  reaps  them  in  pain ; 
But  here  the  deep  soil  no  exertion  requires, 
Enrich'd  by  the  ashes,  and  clear'd  by  the  fires. 

The  woodman  delights  in  his  trees  and  his  shade; 
But  sec !  there 's  no  sun  on  the  cheek  of  his  maid ; 
His  flowers  are  faded,  his  blossoms  are  pale, 
And  mildew  is  riding  his  vapourous  gale. 

Then  fly  to  the  prairie !  in  wonder  there  gaze, 
As  sweeps  o'er  the  grass  the  magnificent  blaze, 
The  land  is  o'erwhclm'd  in  an  ocean  of  light, 
Whose  flame-surges  break  in  the  breeze  of  the  night. 

Sublime  from  the  north  comes  the  wind  in  his  wrath, 
And  scatters  the  reeds  in  his  desolate  path ; 
Or,  loaded  with  incense,  steals  in  from  the  west, 
As  bees  from  the  prairie-rose  fly  to  their  nest. 

O,  fly  to  the  prairie  !  for  freedom  is  there  ! 

Love  lights  not  that  home  with  the  torch  of  despair ! 


*  Doctor  MITCHELL,  Professor  of  the  Practice  of  Medi- 
cine in  tin;  Jefferson  Medical  Colli-i:.'.  ;U  Pliilud -Iphin,  is 
a  nnlivn  of  Shepherdstowtf,  in  Virginia.  He  was  edu- 
cated iit  one  of  Hie  universities  of  Scotland,  ;tnd  studied 
lii>  profession  in  Philadelphia.  In  1839,  he  published  a 
volume,  entitled  "  Indecision,  and  other  Poems." 


No  wretch  to  entreat,  and  no  lord  to  deny, 
No  gossips  to  slander,  110  neighbour  to  pry. 

But,  struggling  not  there  the  heart's  impulse  to  hide, 
Love  leaps  like  the  fount  from  the  crystal-rock  side, 
And  strong  as  its  adamant,  pure-  us  its  spring, 
Waves  wildly  in  sunbeams  his  rose-colour'd  wing. 


ELIZABETH  TOWNSEND.' 


THE  INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OF  GOD. 

WHEIIE  art  thoul    Thou!  Source  and  Support 
That  is  or  seen  or  felt ;  Thyself  unseen,        [of  all 
Unfelt,  unknown — alas  !  unknowable  ! 
I  look  abroad  among  thy  works:  the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns, 
Life-giving  earth,  and  ever-moving  main, 
And  speaking  winds,  and  ask  if  these  are  Thee ! 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on,  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — 
Though  hail'd  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less — 
Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;  are  thine,  not  Thee ! 
I  ask  Thee  from  the  past ;  if,  in  the  years 
Since  first  intelligence  could  search  its  source, 
Or  in  some  former,  unremember'd  being, 
(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine,)  did  they  behold 
And  next  interrogate  futurity —  [Thee] 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 
Than  e'er  experience  own'd — but  both  are  mute; 
And  past  and  future,  vocal  on  all  else, 
So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 
Are  deaf  and  speechless  here !    Fatigued,  I  turn 
From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements,       [ward. 
And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  in- 
From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  guest, 
If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 
He  may  vouchsafe  himself,  Spirit  to  spirit ! 
O,  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 
Pavilion'd  still  in  darkness,  wilt  Thou  hide  Thee] 
What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate, 
Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  ? 
Welcome  the  penalty !  let  that  come  now, 
Which  soon  or  late  must  come.  For  light  like  this 
Who  would  not  dare  to  die  7 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 

And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  His  will,  who  hath  appointed  this 
With  every  other  trial.    Be  that  will 
Done  now  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search, 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unreveal'd — learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts, 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  holiest  of  all ;  as  erst  disclosing 
A  brighter  dispensation  ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 
E'en  to  the  perfecting  thyself,  thy  kind, 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 

*  Of  Boston. 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


515 


REVEREND  R.  C.  WATERSTON.* 


THE  DYING  ARCHER. 

Tiir.  day  has  near  ended,  the  light  quivers  through 
The  leaves  of  the  forest,  which  bend  with  the  dew, 
The  flowers  bow  in  beauty,  the  smooth-flowing 

stream 

Is  gliding  as  softly  as  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  low  room  is  darkened,  there  breathes  not  a  sound, 
While  friends  in  their  sadness  are  gathering  round ; 
Now  out  speaks  the  Archer,  his  course  well  nigh 

done, 
"  Throw,  throw  back  the  lattice,  and  let  in  the  sun." 

The  lattice  is  open'd  ;  and  now  the  blue  sky 
Brings  joy  to  his  bosom,  and  fire  to  his  eye  ;      [year, 
There  stretches  the  greenwood,  where,  year  after 
He  "  chased  the  wild  roe-buck  and  follow'd  the  deer." 
He  gazed  upon  mountain,  and  forest,  and  dell, 
Then  bow'd  he,  in  sorrow,  a  silent  farewell : 
"  And  when  we  are  parted,  and  when  thou  art  dead, 
O,  where  shall  we  lay  theel"  his  followers  said. 

Then  up  rose  the  Archer,  and  gazed  once  again 
On  far-reaching  mountain,  and  river,  and  plain ; 
"  Now  bring  me  my  quiver,  and  tighten  my  bow, 
And  let  the  winged  arrow  my  sepulchre  show !" 
Out,  out  through  the  lattice  the  arrow  has  pass'd, 
And  in  the  far  forest  has  lighted  at  last ; 
And  there  shall  the  hunter  in  slumber  be  laid, 
Where  wild  deer  are  bounding  beneath  the  green 
shade. 

His  last  words  are  finish'd :  his  spirit  has  fled, 
And  now  lies  in  silence  the  form  of  the  dead. 
The  lamps  in  the  chamber  are  flickering  dim, 
And  sadly  the  mourners  are  chanting  their  hymn; 
And  now  to  the  greenwood,  and  now  on  the  sod, 
Where  lighted  the  arrow,  the  mourners  have  trod; 
And  thus  by  the  river,  where  dark  forests  wave, 
That  noble  old  Archer  hath  found  him  a  grave ! 


JAMES  T.  FIELDS.t 


THE  VILLAGER'S  WINTER  EVENING  SONG. 

NOT  a  leaf  on  the  tree,  not  a  bud  in  the  hollow, 
Where  late  s-.vung  the  blue-bell  and  blossom'd 
the  rose ; 

And  hush'd  is  the  cry  of  the  swift-darting  swallow 
That  circled  the  lake  in  the  twilight's  dim  close. 

Gone,  gone  are  the  woodbine  and  sweet-scented  brier 
That  bloom'd  o'er  the  hillock  and  gladden'd  the 
vale ; 

And  the  vine  that  uplifted  its  green-pointed  spire 
Hangs  drooping  and  sere  on  the  frost-cover'd  pale. 

*Of  B  >s!'m. 

t  Mr.  FIKI.DS  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth,  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, but  has  far  several  years  resided  in  Boston.  Ilia 
principal  poem,  entitled  "Commerce,"  was  published  in 
1939.  His  writing  are  distinguished  for  a  natural  sim- 
plicity and  elegance,  and  generally  relate  to  rural  or  do- 
mestic subjects. 


And  hark  to  the  gush  of  the  deep-welling  fountain 
That  prattled  and  shone  in  the  light  of  the  moon ; 

Soon,  soon  shall  its  rushing  be  still  on  the  mountain, 
And  lock'd  up  in  silence  its  frolicksome  tune. 

Then   heap  up  the  hearth-stone  with  dry  forest 
branches, 

And  gather  about  me,  my  children,  in  glee ; 
For  cold  on  the  upland  the  stormy  wind  launches, 

And  dear  is  the  home  of  my  loved  ones  to  nie ! 


DIRGE  FOR  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 

UNDERNEATH  the  sod,  low  lying, 

Dark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 

Sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they  're  ever-bending  o'er  her, 

Eyes  that  weep ; 
Forms  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 

Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 

Soft  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining 

Chaplets  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 

Throned  above ; 
Souls  like  thine  with  GOD  inherit 

Life  and  love ! 


SACO  FALLS. 

RUSH  on,  bold  stream  !  thou  sendest  up 

Brave  notes  to  all  the  woods  around, 

When  morning  beams  are  gathering  fast, 

And  hush'd  is  every  human  sound  ; 
I  stand  beneath  the  sombre  hill, 
The  stars  are  dim  o'er  fount  and  rill, 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away  ; 
Dash  on,  bold  stream  !  I  love  the  roar 
Thou  sendest  up  from  rock  and  shore. 

'T  is  night  in  heaven — the  rustling  leaves 

Are  whispering  of  the  coming  storm, 
And,  thundering  down  the  river's  bed, 
I  see  thy  lengthen'd,  darkling  form ; 
No  voices  from  the  vales  are  heard, 
The  winds  are  low,  each  little  bird 
Hath  sought  its  quiet,  rocking  nest, 
Folded  its  wings,  and  gone  to  rest: 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away. 

O !  earth  hath  many  a  gallant  show — 
Of  towering  peak  and  glacier  height, 
But  ne'er,  beneath  the  glorious  moon, 
Hath  nature  framed  a  lovelier  sight 
Than  thy  fair  tide  with  diamonds  fraught, 
When  every  drop  with  light  is  caught, 
And,  o'er  the  bridge,  the  village  girls 
Reflect  below  their  waving  curls, 
While  merrily  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away  ! 


516 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


PROSPER  M.  WETMORE. 


"TWELVE  YEARS  HAVE  FLOWN." 

TWELVE  years  have  flown  since  last  I  saw 

My  birth-place,  and  my  home  of  youth : 
How  oft  its  scenes  would  Memory  draw, 

Her  tints  the  pencillings  of  truth  ; 
Unto  that  spot  I  come  once  more, 

The  dearest  life  hath  ever  known : 
And  still  it  wears  the  look  it  wore, 

Although  twelve  weary  years  have  flown. 

Again  upon  the  soil  I  stand 

Where  first  my  infant  footsteps  stray'd ; 
Again  I  view  my  "  father-land," 

And  wander  through  its  pleasant  shade ; 
I  gaze  upon  the  hills,  the  skies, 

The  verdant  banks,  with  flowers  o'ergrown, 
And  while  I  look  with  glistening  eyes, 

Almost  forget  twelve  years  have  flown. 

Twelve  years  are  flown !  those  words  are  brief, 

Yet  in  their  sound  what  fancies  dwell ! 
The  hours  of  bliss,  the  days  of  grief, 

The  joys  and  woes  remember'd  well ; 
The  hopes  that  fill'd  the  youthful  breast, 

Alas  !  how  many  a  one  o'erthrown  ! 
Deep  thoughts,  that  long  have  been  at  rest, 

Wake  at  the  words,  twelve  years  have  flown ! 

The  past !  the  past !  a  saddening  thought, 

A  withering  spell  is  in  the  sound  ! 
It  comes  with  memories  deeply  fraught 

Of  youthful  pleasure's  giddy  round ; 
Of  forms  that  roved  life's  sunniest  bowers, 

The  cherish'd  few,  forever  gone : 
Of  dreams  that  fill'd  life's  morning  hours, 

Where  are  they  now  1  Twelve  years  have  flown ! 

A  brief  but  eloquent  reply ! 

Where  are  youth's  hopes — life's  morning  dream? 
Seek  for  the  flowers  that  floated  by 

Upon  the  rushing  mountain  stream ! 
Yet  gems  beneath  that  wave  may  sleep, 

Till  after  years  shall  make  them  known : 
Thus,  golden  thoughts  the  heart  will  keep, 

That  perish  not,  though  years  have  flown. 


THE  BANNER  OF  MURAT. 

FOREMOST  among  the  first, 

And  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 
Where'er  the  battle's  fury  burst, 

Or  roll'd  its  purple  wave, — 
There  flash'd  his  glance,  like  a  meteor, 

As  he  charged  the  foe  afar ; 
And  the  snowy  plume  his  helmet  bore 

Was  the  banner  of  Murat ! 


*  PROSPER  MONTGOMERY  WETMORE  was  horn  at  Strat- 
ford, in  Connecticut,  in  1799.  In  1830,  he  published  a  vo- 
lume entitled  "Lexington,  and  other  Fugitive  Poems." 
He  is  now  one  of  the  regents  of  the  university  of  Xew 
York,  to  whom  are  confided  the  various  interests  of  edu- 
cation and  literature  in  that  state. 


Mingler  on  many  a  field 

Where  rung  wild  victory's  peal ! 
That  fearless  spirit  was  like  a  shield — 

A  panoply  of  steel ; 
For  very  joy  in  a  glorious  name 

He  rush'd  where  danger  stood  ; 
And  that  banner-plume,  like  a  winged  flame, 

Stream'd  o'er  the  field  of  blood ! 

His  followers  loved  to  gaze 

On  his  form  with  a  fierce  delight, 
As  it  tower'd  above  the  battle's  blaze, 

A  pillar  midst  the  fight; 
And  eyes  look'd  up,  ere  they  closed  in  death, 

Through  the  thick  and  sulphury  air — 
And  lips  shriek'd  out,  with  their  parting  breath, 

"  The  lily  plume  is  there  !" 

A  cloud  is  o'er  him  now — 

For  the  peril-hour  hath  come — 
And  he  stands  with  his  high,  unshaded  brow, 

On  the  fearful  spot  of  doom  ! 
Away  !  no  screen  for  a  soldier's  eye — 

No  fear  his  soul  appals : 
A  rattling  peal,  and  a  shuddering  cry, 

And  bannerless  he  falls  ! 


MRS.  LYDIA  M.  CHILD.* 


MARIUS  AMID  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE. 

PILLAHS  are  fallen  at  thy  feet, 

Fanes  quiver  in  the  air, 
A  prostrate  city  is  thy  seat, 

And  thou  alone  art  there. 

No  change  comes  o'er  thy  noble  brow, 

Though  ruin  is  around  thee ; 
Thine  eyebeam  burns  as  proudly  now, 

As  when  the  laurel  crown'd  thee. 

It  cannot  bend  thy  lofty  soul 

Though  friends  and  fame  depart ; 

The  car  of  fate  may  o'er  thee  roll, 
Nor  crush  thy  Roman  heart. 

And  genius  hath  electric  power, 

Which  earth  can  never  tame ; 
Bright  suns  may  scorch,  and  dark  clouds  lower, 

Its  flash  is  still  the  same. 

The  dreams  we  loved  in  early  life, 

May  melt  like  mist  away; 
High  thoughts  may  seem,  mid  passion's  strife, 

Like  Carthage  in  decay ; 

And  proud  hopes  in  the  human  heart 

May  be  to  ruin  hurl'd ; 
Like  mouldering  monuments  of  art 

Heap'd  on  a  sleeping  world  : 

Yet,  there  is  something  will  not  die, 

Where  life  hath  once  been  fair ; 
Some  towering  thoughts  still  rear  on  high, 

Some  Roman  lingers  there ! 


*  Author  of  "Ph.lothea,"     "Fact    and   Fiction, 
'Letters  from  New  York,"  etc. 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS.                                                    517 

REVEREND  WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN-* 

Go  !  lie  upon  the  ..Egean's  breast, 

^Vhere  sparkle  emerald  isles 

THE  TWENTY  THOUSAND   CHILDREN  OF  THE 

Go  !  seek  the  lawless  Suliote's  nest, 

SABBATH    SCHOOLS    IN    NEW    YORK,    CELE- 

And spoil  his  cruel  wilc.s. 

BRATING  TOGETHER  THE  4TH  OF  JULY,  1839. 

And  keep,  where  sail  the  merchant  ships, 

0,  SIOHT  sublime!  O,  sight  of  fear! 
The  shadowing  of  infinity  ! 
Numbers,  whose  murmur  rises  here 
Like  whisperings  of  the  mighty  sea  ! 

Stern  watch  on  their  highway, 
And  promptly,  through  thine  iron  lips, 
When  urged,  our  tribute  pay  ; 
Yea,  show  thy  bristling  teeth  of  power, 
Wherever  tyrants  bind, 

Ye  bring  strange  visions  to  my  gaze  ; 

In  pride  of  their  own  little  hour, 

Earth's  dreamer,  heaven  before  me  swims  ; 

A  freeborn,  noble  mind. 

The  sea  of  glass,  the  throne  of  days, 
Crowns,  harps,  and  the  melodious  hymns. 

Spread  out  those  ample  wings  of  thine  !  — 
While  crime  doth  govern  men, 

Ye  rend  the  air  with  grateful  songs 

'T  is  fit  such  bulwark  of  the  brine 

For  freedom  by  old  warriors  won  : 

Should  leave  the  shores  of  PENK  ; 

0,  for  the  battle  which  your  throngs 

For  hid  within  thy  giant  strength 

May  wage  and  win  through  DAVID'S  son  ! 

Are  germs  of  welcome  peace, 

Wealth  of  young  beauty  !  that  now  blooms 

And  such  as  thou,  shall  cause  at  length 

Before  me  like  a  world  of  flowers  ; 

Man's  feverish  strife  to  cease. 

High  expectation  !  that  assumes 

From  every  vale,  from  every  crag, 

The  hue  of  life's  serenest  hours  ; 

Word  of  thy  beauty's  past, 

Are  ye  decaying?     Must  these  forms, 
So  agile,  fair,  and  brightly  gay, 

And  joy  we  that  our  country's  flag 
Streams  from  thy  towering  mast  — 
Assured  that  in  thy  prowess,  thou 

Hidden  in  dust,  be  given  to  worms 

For  her  wilt  win  renown, 

And  everlasting  night,  the  prey  1 

Whose  sons  can  die,  but  know  not  how 

Are  ye  immortal  1     Will  this  mass 

To  strike  that  pennon  down. 

Of  life,  be  life,  undying  still, 

When  all  these  sentient  thousands  pass 

.  | 

To  where  corruption  works  its  will  1 

JAMES  NACK.* 

Thought  !  that  takes  hold  of  heaven  and  hell, 

QT>PTlVr*    Tfil    OOHfTTOr* 

Be  in  each  teacher's  heart  to-day  ! 

orlvli^Vjr    lo    ^UlHllKur. 

So  shall  eternity  be  well 
With  these,  when  time  has  fled  away. 

SPRIJJG  is  coming,  spring  is  coming, 
Birds  are  chirping,  insects  humming  ; 

Flowers  are  peeping  from  their  sleeping, 

Streams  escaped  from  winter's  keeping. 

TO  THE  SHIP  OF  THE  LINE  PENNSYLVANIA. 

In  delighted  freedom  rushing, 

— 

Dance  along  in  music  gushing, 

"LEAP  forth  to  the  careering  seas," 

Scenes  of  late  in  deadness  sadden'd, 

O,  ship  of  lofty  name  ! 

Smile  in  animation  gladden'd  ; 

And  toss  upon  thy  native  breeze 

All  is  beauty,  all  is  mirth, 

The  stars  and  stripes  of  fame  ! 

All  is  glory  upon  earth. 

And  bear  thy  thunders  o'er  the  deep 

Shout  we  then  with  Nature's  voice, 

Where  vaunting  navies  ride  ! 

Welcome  Spring  !  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

Thou  hast  a  nation's  gems  to  keep  — 
Her  honour  and  her  pride  ! 

Spring  is  coming,  come,  my  brother, 

0  !  holv  is  the  covenant  made 

Let  us  rove  with  one  another, 

With  thee  and  us  to-day; 

To  our  well-remembcr'd  wild-wood, 

None  from  the  compact  shrinks  afraid, 
No  traitor  utters  nay  ! 

Flourishing  in  nature's  childhood  ; 
Where  a  thousand  flowers  are  springing, 

We  pledge  our  fervent  love,  and  thou 
Thy  glorious  ribs  of  oak, 
Alive  with  men  who  cannot  bow 

And  a  thousand  birds  are  singing; 
Where  the  golden  sunbeams  quiver 
On  the  verdure-girdled  river; 

To  kings,  nor  kiss  the  yoke  ! 

Let  our  youth  of  feeling  out, 

To  the  youth  of  nature  shout, 

Speed  lightnings  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 

While  the  waves  repeat  our  voice, 

Which  deeds  of  hell  deform  ; 
And  look  !  her  hands  are  spread  to  thee 

Welcome  Spring  !  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

Where  Afric's  robbers  swarm. 

*Mr.  NACK  is  deaf  and  dumb,  and  has  been  so  from 

lii^  childhon'l  *   v^t  hi**  noetirnl  writings,  in  almost  every 

*The  Reverend  WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN  is  a  native  of 

variety  of  mcaslir-viro  distiniruishH  for  more  than  com- 

Beverly, in  Massachusetts,  and  now  resides  in  Boston. 

mon  melody  of  versification.     A  volume  of   his  poems, 

He  is  the  author  of  eiaht  or  nine  volumes  of  verses,  most 

with  a  memoir  byl'RospER  M.  WETMORE,  was  published 

of  which  are  of  a  religious  character.  , 

in  New  York,  in  1S30. 

,  1         • 

•JX 

518 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


REVEREND  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER.* 


TO  MY  SICK  AND  SUFFERING   BROTHER,  ON 
HIS  FIFTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

I  WISH,  dear  N.,  my  heart  could  weave 

A  strain  of  simple  melody, 
Where  love  in  every  line  should  leave 

Its  own  dear  tones  for  thee. 

And,  sooth,  if  love  could  teach  the  soul 

The  language  of  APOLLO'S  lyre, 
My  thoughts  would  all  be  musical, 

My  words  all  wing'd  with  fire. 

The  wish,  I  know,  is  sadly  vain : 

Thoughts  rise,  and  fond  affections  throng, 

But  with  the  sweetest,  white-stoled  train 
There  comes  no  tone  of  song. 

I  would  chain  down  the  airy  crowds, 

And  keep  them  while  I  seek  sweet  words; 

Alas  !  they  change  like  summer-clouds, 
They  droop  like  prison'd  birds. 

How  can  I  paint  their  changeful  dyes, 

Or  stay  them  in  their  flight  ? 
They  come  like  birds  from  Paradise, 

They  fly  away  as  light. 

The  simplest  birthday  wish  is  shy ; 

All  Love's  best  thoughts,  of  the  same  race ; 
For,  while  I  'm  sure  I  have  them  nigh, 

They  've  fled,  and  left  no  trace. 

Dear  brother,  thou  wilt  then  forgive, 

Nor  think  me  less  affectionate, 
If,  while  to  meet  thy  wish  I  strive, 

It  comes  a  day  too  late. 

For,  were  my  soul  all  melody, 

My  words  the  same  they  use  in  heaven, 

This  earnest  heart  could  never  be 
More  freely  to  thee  given. 

We  're  one ;  our  mother's  equal  care ; 

One  in  our  mutual  sympathies, — 
And,  more  than  all,  in  mutual  prayer, 

By  endless,  holy  ties. 

I  've  rock'd  thee  in  thy  cradle, — play'd 
With  thee  in  childhood's  frolic  hours, 

With  thee  have  roam'd  through  grove  and  glade, 
And  pluck'd  the  vernal  flowers. 

We've  shared  old  winter's  wild  delight, 
We've  gather'd  nuts  in  summer-woods, 

We've  proudly  watch'd  our  breeze-borne  kite 
Among  the  sailing  clouds. 

But  not  in  such  gay  sympathy 

Our  mutual  love  has  tenderest  grown, — 

For  oft  must  grief's  sad  harmony 
Interpret  its  deep  tone. 

When  sickness  blanch'd  thy  rosy  cheek, 
And  brought  thy  buoyant  spirit  low, 

How  dear  thou  wast  from  week  to  week, 
I  trembled  then  to  know. 

*  Author  of"  God's  Hand  in  America,"  "  Wanderintrs 
of  a  Pilerim  in  the  Shadow  of  Mont  Blanc,"  "Lectures 
on  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  etc. 


Our  youngest,  brightest  household  flower  ! 

It  was  a  melancholy  thing 
To  see  thee  droop  from  hour  to  hour, 

In  patient  suffering. 

0,  then  I  felt  the  privilege 

To  breathe  my  silent,  humble  prayer ; — 
We  wept  o'er  pains  whose  wasting  edge 

My  frame  could  better  bear. 

I  watch'd  thy  restless  sleep, — I  tried 
To  woo  thee  to  thy  wonted  smile, 

And  every  way,  when  by  thy  side, 
Thy  sufferings  to  beguile. 

These  duties  were  love's  natural  sphere: 
Our  drooping  flower  I  cherish'd  so, 

That  still  the  more  it  ask'd  my  care, 
The  dearer  still  it  grew. 

This  day,  did  fancy  paint  what's  true, 
I  'm  with  thee  in  our  own  dear  home, 

To  talk  of  such  scenes  past,  and  view 
The  heavenly  life  to  come. 

This  day — 'tis  yet  thy  being's  dawn, 
But,  ah,  how  full  the  mingled  scene, 

On  memory's  pictured  tablets  drawn, 
Calm  now,  and  all  serene: 

Serene,  because  a  blessed  faith 
Throws  o'er  each  melancholy  line 

That  marks  affliction's  rugged  path, 
The  gleam  of  Love  Divine. 

Through  all  it  sees  thy  Father's  form, 
His  gracious,  guiding  hand  beholds ; 

And,  in  the  gloomiest  of  the  storm, 
Some  bright  design  unfolds. 

Amidst  the  sufferings  of  years 

Thou  seest  thou  didst  not  walk  alone ; 

Where  all  was  agony  and  tears, 
There  most  His  mercy  shone. 

'Twas  thus  he  drew  thy  careless  heart 

Up  to  a  holier  world  above. 
And  bade  thee  choose  that  better  part, 

A  Saviour's  wondrous  love 


There  is  a  gayer-colour'd  scene 

Of  laughing  health,  and  dimpled  ease, 

Thy  bounding  heart,  that  knew  no  pain, 
Was  wild  as  any  breeze. 

The  house  was  merry  with  thy  song, 

Thy  fawn-like  step  danced  free  and  wild ; 

And  of  the  happy  schoolboy  throng 
Thou  wast  the  happiest  child. 

All  elements  to  thee  look'd  gay, 
All  seasons  minister'd  delight ; — 

'Twas  constant  motion  every  day, 

'T  was  gentle  sleep  at  night. 

How  soon  a  cloud  of  dreary  hue 

Chased  the  bright  jubilee  away ! 
Yet,  wast  thou  happier  then  than  now? 

Dear,  patient  brother,  say. 
I  know  thine  answer  well.     In  vain 

Are  youth,  and  health,  and  spirits  given, 
If,  strangers  still  to  care  and  pain, 

We  never  think  of  Heaven. 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


519 


What  soothes  the  soul,  betrays ; — select 
The  best  possessions  earth  can  grant, 

Our  thankless  heart  may  still  reject 
Its  heavenly  Visitant. 

A  life  all  ease  is  all  abused ; — 

O,  precious  grace  !  that  made  thee  wise 
To  know, — affliction,  rightly  used, 

Is  mercy  in  disguise. 

The  pleasures  of  the  happiest  boy 
Are  not  so  bright  as  fugitive ; — 

But,  O  !  the  endless,  heavenly  joy 
Thy  Saviour's  smile  can  give ! 

For  this  my  fervent  thanks  I  raise, 
That  He,  whose  love  is  wisdom  too, 

Makes  thee  partaker  of  his  grace, 
By  trials  here  below. 

Should  health  and  active  power  return, 
And  life  put  on  a  brighter  glow, 

Be  often  at  his  cross,  and  learn 
His  goodness  best  to  show. 

'T  is  only  He  who  gives  the  boon 
By  grace  can  make  it  truly  good ; 

And  I  would  have/thy  life  be  one 
Of  ceaseless  gratitude. 

In  active  health  or  sad  disease, 

0,  ne'er  forget  that  precious  word — 

"  He  shall  be  kept  in  perfect  peace, 
Whose  soul  is  stay'd  on  GOD." 

If  still  thy  feeble  frame  decay, 

Thou  art  beyond  its  weak  control, — 

The  vision  of  eternal  day 

Lifts  up  thy  strengthen'd  soul. 

CHRIST  holds  thee  in  his  powerful  hand ; 

Soon,  every  foe  and  fear  subdued, 
Thy  feet  shall  press  the  shining  land, 

Beyond  Death's  narrow  flood. 

Yet,  if  his  blessed  will  reserve 
Thy  faith  for  {.rials  long  and  late, 

Remember  then,  "they  also  serve, 
Who  only  stand  and  wait." 


ALEXANDER  H.  BOGART.* 


ANACREONTIC. 

THE  flying  joy  through  life  we  seek 
For  once  is  ours — the  wine  we  sip 
Blushes  like  beauty's  glowing  cheek, 
To  meet  our  eager  lip. 

Round  with  the  rinain?  glass  once  more ! 
Friends  of  my  youth  and  of  my  heart ; 
No  magic  can  this  hour  restore — 

Then  crown  it  ere  we  part. 

Ye  are  my  friends,  my  chosen  ones — 
Whose  blood  would  flow  with  fervour  true 
For  nie — and  free  as  this  wine  runs 

Would  mine,  by  heaven !  for  you. 

*  Born,  1804.     Died  in  the  city  of  Albany,  1826. 


Yet,  mark  me !    When  a  few  short  years 
Have  hurried  on  their  journey  fleet, 
Not  one  that  now  my  accents  hears 

Will  know  me  when  we  meet. 

Though  now,  perhaps,  with  proud  disdain, 
The  startling  thought  ye  scarce  will  brook, 
Yet,  trust  me,  we  '11  be  strangers  then 
In  heart  as  well  as  look. 

Fame's  luring  voice,  and  woman's  wile, 
Will  soon  break  youthful  friendship's  chain — 
But  shall  that  cloud  to-night's  bright  smile  1 
No — pour  the  wine  again  ! 


CATHERINE  II.  ESLING.* 


BROTHER,  COME  HOME. 

COME  home ! 

Would  I  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the  deep, 
Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee, 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unwearying  words  of  melody ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home ! 
Come  to  the  hearts  that  love  thee,  to  the  eyes 

That  beam  in  brightness  but  to  gladden  thine, 
Come  where  fond  thoughts,  like  holiest  incense  rise, 
Where  cherish'd  memory  rears  her  altar's  shrine ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home ! 
Come  to  the  hearth-stone  of  thy  earlier  days, 

Come  to  the  ark,  like  the  o'er-wearied  dove, 
Come  with  the  sunlight  of  thy  heart's  warm  rays, 
Come  to  the  fireside  circle  of  thy  love ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home ! 
It  is  not  home  without  thee,  the  lone  seat 

Is  still  unclaim'd  where  thou  wert  wont  to  be, 
In  every  echo  of  returning  feet, 

In  vain  we  list  for  what  should  herald  thee ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home ! 

We'  ve  nursed  for  thee  the  sunny  buds  of  spring, 
Watch'd  every  germ  the  full-blown  flowers  rear, 
Seen  o'er  their  bloom  the  chilly  winter  bring 
Its  icy  garlands,  and  thou  art  not  here ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home ! 

Would  I  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the  deep, 
Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee, 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unwearying  words  of  melody ; 
Brother,  come  home. 


*  The  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  ESLING  was  CATHERINE  IT. 
WATERMAN.  .She  reside?  in  Philadelphia,  and  has  been 
for  several  years  a  frequent  contributor  to  tin-  periodicals 
of  that  city.  Slu'  h  is  also  edited  two  or  three  annuariea. 
No  collection  of  her  metrical  compositions  has  been  pub- 
lished. 


520 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


JOHN  B.  VAN  SCHAICK.* 

JOSHUA  COMMANDING  THE  SUN  AND  MOON 
TO  STAND  STILL. 

THE  day  rose  clear  on  Gibeon.    Her  high  towers 
Flash'd  the  red  sunbeams  gloriously  back, 
And  the  wind-driven  banners,  and  the  steel 
Of  her  ten  thousand  spears  caught  dazzlingly 
The  sun,  and  on  the  fortresses  of  rock 
Play'd  a  soft  glow,  that  as  a  mockery  seem'd 
To  the  stern  men  who  girded  by  its  light. 
Beth-Horon  in  the  distance  slept,  and  breath 
Was  pleasant  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon, 
Where  armed  heels  trod  carelessly  the  sweet, 
Wild  spices,  and  the  trees  of  gum  were  shook 
By  the  rude  armour  on  their  branches  hung. 
Suddenly  in  the  camp,  without  the  walls, 
Rose  a  deep  murmur,  and  the  men  of  war 
Gather'd  around  their  kings,  and  " JOSHUA! 
From  Gilgal,  JOSHUA  !"  was  whisper'd  low, 
As  with  a  secret  fear,  and  then,  at  once, 
With  the  abruptness  of  a  dream,  he  stood 
Upon  the  rock  before  them.     Calmly  then 
Raised  he  his  helm,  and  with  his  temples  bare, 
And  hands  uplifted  to  the  sky,  he  pray'd : 
«  God  of  this  people  hear !  and  let  the  sun 
Stand  upon  Gibeon,  still ;  and  let  the  moon 
Rest  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon!"     He  ceased  : 
And,  lo !  the  moon  sits  motionless,  and  earth 
Stands  on  her  axis  indolent.     The  sun 
Pours  the  unmoving  column  of  his  rays 
In  undiminish'd  heat ;  the  hours  stand  still ; 
The  shade  hath  stopp'd  upon  the  dial's  face ; 
The  clouds  and  vapours,  that  at  night  are  wont 
To  gather  and  enshroud  the  lower  earth, 
Are  straggling  with  strange  rays,  breaking  them 
Scattering  the  misty  phalanx  like  a  wand,       [up, 
Glancing  o'er  mountain-tops,  and  shining  down 
In  broken  masses  on  the  astonish'd  plains. 
The  fever'd  cattle  group  in  wondering  herds ; 
The  weary  birds  go  to  their  leafy  nests, 
But  find  no  darkness  there,  and  wander  forth 
On  feeble,  fluttering  wing,  to  find  a  rest ; 
The  parch'd,  baked  earth,  undamp'd  by  usual  dews, 
Has  gaped  and  crack'd,  and  heat,  dry,  midday  heat, 
Comes  like  a  drunkard's  breath  upon  the  heart. 
On  with  thy  armies,  JOSHUA  !     The  LORD 
GOD  of  Sabaoth  is  the  avenger  now ! 
His  voice  is  in  the  thunder,  and  his  wrath 
Poureth  the  beams  of  the  retarded  sun, 
With  the  keen  strength  of  arrows,  on  their  sight. 
The  unwearied  sun  rides  in  the  zenith  sky ; 
Nature,  obedient  to  her  Maker's  voice, 
Stops  in  full  course  all  her  mysterious  wheels. 
On !  till  .avenging  swords  have  drunk  the  blood 
Of  all  JKKOVAH'S  enemies,  and  till 
Thy  banners  in  returning  triumph  wave ; 
Then  yonder  orb  shall  set  mid  golden  clouds, 
And,  while  a  dewy  rain  falls  soft  on  earth, 
Show  in  the  heavens  the  glorious  bow  of  GOD, 
Shining,  the  rainbow-banner  of  the  skies. 

*  For  many  years  editor  rtf  "The  Daily  Advertiser," 
of  Albany,  New  York.  He  died  in  1839,  at  the  age  of( 
thirty-six  years. 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER.' 


THE  DEVOTED.f 

STERN  faces  were  around  her  bent, 

And  eyes  of  vengeful  ire, 
And  fearful  were  the  words  they  spake, 

Of  torture,  stake,  and  fire : 
Yet  calmly  in  the  midst  she  stood, 

With  eye  undimm'd  and  clear, 
And  though  her  lip  and  cheek  were  white, 

She  wore  no  sign  of  fear. 

"Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse 7"  they  said; 

A  half-form'd  smile  of  scorn, 
That  curl'd  upon  her  haughty  lip, 

Was  back  for  answer  borne ; — 
"Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse?"  again, 

In  fiercer  tones  they  said, 
And  sternly  pointed  to  the  rack, 

All  rusted  o'er  with  red ! 

Her  heart  and  pulse  beat  firm  and  free, 

But  in  a  crimson  flood, 
O'er  pallid  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 

Rush'd  up  the  burning  blood ; 
She  spake,  but  proudly  rose  her  tones, 

As  when  in  hall  or  bower, 
The  haughtiest  chief  that  round  her  stood 

Had  meekly  own'd  their  power. 

"  My  noble  lord  is  placed  within 

A  safe  and  sure  retreat" — 
"  Now  tell  us  where,  thou  lady  bright, 

As  thou  wouldst  mercy  meet, 
Nor  deem  thy  life  can  purchase  his — 

He  cannot  'scape  our  wrath, 
For  many  a  warrior's  watchful  eye 

Is  placed  o'er  every  path. 
«  But  thou  mayst  win  his  broad  estates, 

To  grace  thine  infant  heir, 
And  life  and  honour  to  thyself, 

So  thou  his  haunts  declare." 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart ; 

Her  eye  flash'd  proud  and  clear, 
And  firmer  grew  her  haughty  tread — 

"  My  lord  is  hidden  here ! 

"  And  if  ye  seek  to  view  his  form, 

Ye  first  must  tear  away, 
From  round  his  secret  dwelling-place, 

These  walls  of  living  clay !" 
They  quail'd  beneath  her  haughty  glance, 

They  silent  turn'd  aside, 
And  left  her  all  unharm'd  amidst 

Her  loveliness  and  pride  ! 

*  Born  in  Wilmington,  Delaware,  in  1807,  and  died  in 
Michigan,  in  1834.  She  was  a  member  of  the  Society  of 
Friends.  A  volume  of  her  writings  was  published  in  1836. 

f  It  was  a  beautiful  turn  given  by  a  great  lady,  who  being 
asked  where  her  husband  was,  when  he  lay  concealed  for 
having  been  deeply  concerned  in  a  conspiracy,  resolutely 
answen-d  that  she  had  hidden  him.  This  confession  caused 
her  to  be  carried  before  the  governor,  who  told  her  that 
naught  but  confessing  where  she  had  hidden  him,  could 
save  her  from  the  torture.  "And  will  that  do?"  said  she. 
"Yes,"  replied  the  governor,  "I  will  pass  my  word  for 
your  saf.'ty,  on  that  condition."  "Then,"  replied  sln>, 
'•  I  have  hidden  him  in  my  heart,  where  you  may  find  him." 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS.                                                   521 

HUGH  PETERS.* 

They  'd  scorn  to  share  a  monarch's  bed, 

And  sooner  lay  their  angel  head 

A  GOOD-NIGHT  TO  CONNECTICUT. 

Deep  in  their  humble  grave. 

THE  boat  swings  from  the  pebbled  shore, 
And  proudly  drives  her  prow; 
The  crested  waves  roll  up  before  : 
Yon  dark-gray  land,  I  see  no  more, 
How  sweet  it  seemeth  now  ! 
Thou  dark-gray  land,  my  native  land, 
Thou  land  of  rock  and  pine, 
I  'm  speeding  from  thy  golden  sand  ; 
But  can  I  wave  a  farewell  hand 
To  such  a  shore  as  thine  1 

And  I  have  left  thee,  home,  alone, 
A  pilgrim  from  thy  shore  ; 
The  wind  goes  by  with  hollow  moan, 
I  hear  it  sigh  a  warning  tone, 
"You  see  your  home  no  more." 
I  'm  cast  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 
Torn  like  an  ocean  weed  ; 
I  'm  cast  away,  far,  far  from  thee, 
I  feel  a  thing  I  cannot  be, 
A  bruised  and  broken  reed. 

I've  gazed  upon  the  golden  cloud 
Which  shades  thine  emerald  sod  ; 
Thy  hills,  which  Freedom's  share  hath  plough'd, 
Which  nurse  a  race  that  have  not  bow'd 
Their  knee  to  aught  but  GOD  ; 
Thy  mountain  floods  which  proudly  fling 
Their  waters  to  the  fall 

Farewell,  my  native  land,  farewell  ! 
That  wave  has  hid  thee  now  — 
My  heart  is  bow'd  as  with  a  spell. 
This  rending  pang  !  —  would  I  could  tell 
What  ails  my  throbbing  brow  ! 
One  look  upon  that  fading  streak 
Which  bounds  yon  eastern  sky; 

Thy  birds,  which  cut  with  rushing  wing 
The  sky  that  greets  thy  coming  spring, 
And  thought  thy  glories  small. 

One  tear  to  cool  my  burning  cheek  ; 
And  then  a  word  I  cannot  speak  — 
"My  native  land  —  Good-bye." 

But  now  ye've  shrunk  to  yon  blue  line 

•  

Between  the  sky  and  sea, 

FREDERICK  W.  THOMAS.' 

I  feel,  sweet  home,  that  thou  art  mine, 

I  feel  my  bosom  cling  to  thine  — 

'TIS  SAID  THAT  ABSENCE  CONQUERS  LOVE. 

That  I  am  part  of  thee. 

— 

I  see  thee  blended  with  the  wave, 

'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love  ! 

As  children  see  the  earth 

But,  O  !  believe  it  not  ; 

Close  up  a  sainted  mother's  grave  : 

I've  tried,  alas!  its  power  to  prove, 

They  weep  for  her  they  cannot  save, 

But  thou  art  not  forgot 

And  feel  her  holy  worth. 

Lady,  though  fate  has  bid  us  part, 

Thou  mountain  land  —  thou  land  of  rock, 
I  'm  proud  to  call  thee  free  ; 
Thy  sons  are  of  the  pilgrim  stock, 

Yet  still  thou  art  as  dear, 
As  fix'd  in  this  devoted  heart 
As  when  I  clasp'd  thee  here. 

And  nerved  like  those  who  stood  the  shock 

I  plunge  into  the  busy  crowd, 

At  old  Thermopylae. 

And  smile  to  hear  thy  name  ; 

The  laurel  wreaths  their  fathers  won, 

And  yet,  as  if  I  thought  aloud, 

The  children  wear  them  still  — 

They  know  me  still  the  same. 

Proud  deeds  those  iron  men  have  done, 

And  when  the  wine-cup  passes  round, 

They  fought  and  won  at  Bennington, 

I  toast  some  other  fair,  — 

And  bled  at  Bunker  Hjll. 

But  when  I  ask  my  heart  the  sound, 

There's  grandeur  in  the  lightning  stroke 

Thy  name  is  echo'd  there. 

That  rives  thy  mountain  ash  ; 

And  when  some  other  name  I  learn, 

There's  glory  in  thy  giant  oak, 

And  try  to  whisper  love. 

And  rainbow  beauty  in  the  smoke 

Still  will  my  heart  to  thee  return, 

Where  crystal  waters  dash  : 

Like  the  returning  dove. 

There's  music  in  thy  winter  blast 

In  vain  !  I  never  can  forget, 

That  sweeps  the  hollow  glen  ; 

And  would  not  be  forgot  ; 

Less  sturdy  sons  would  shrink  aghast 

For  I  must  bear  the  same  regret, 

From  piercing  winds  like  those  thou  hast 

Whate'er  may  be  my  lot. 

To  nurse  thine  iron  men. 

E'en  as  the  wounded  bird  will  seek 

And  thou  hast  goms;  ay,  living  pearls; 

Its  favourite  bower  to  die, 

Anil  flowers  of  Eden  hue  : 

So,  lady,  I  would  hear  thee  speak, 

Thy  loveliest  arc  thy  bright-eyed  girls, 

And  yield  my  parting  sigh. 

Of  fairy  forms  and  elfin  curls. 

'T  is  said  that  absence  conquers  love  ! 

And  smiles  like  Hermon's  dew: 

But,  O,  believe  it  not  ; 

They  've  hearts  like  those  they  're  born  to  wed, 

I've  tried,  alas!  its  power  to  prove, 

Too  proud  to  nurse  a  slave  ;                                               But  thou  art  not  forgot. 

"HUGH  PETEUS  was  ;i  unlive  of  Connecticut.    He  was   •»     *  Author  of  "  East  and  \$est,"  "Clinton  Bradshaw," 

drowned,  near  Cincinnati,  in  1832,  aged  about  thirty  years.    '    "The  Beechen  Tree,  a  Talc  told  in  Rhyme,"  etc. 

<;<;                                                                       2x2 

522 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


ROBERT  MONTGOMERY  BIRD.* 


THE  WHIPPOORWILL. 

SLEEP,  sleep !  be  thine  the  sleep  that  throws 
Elysium  o'er  the  soul's  repose, 
Without  a  dream,  save  such  as  wind, 
Like  midnight  angels,  through  the  mind ; 
While  I  am  watching  on  the  hill, 
I,  and  the  wailing  whippoorwill. 

O  whippoorwill,  O  wliippoorwill. 

Sleep,  sleep !  and  once  again  I'll  tell 
The  oft-pronounced,  yet  vain,  farewell : 
Such  should  his  word,  0  maiden,  be, 
Who  lifts  the  fated  eye  to  thee; 
Such  should  it  be,  before  the  chain 
That  wraps  his  spirit,  binds  his  brain. 

O  whippoorwill,  0  whippoorwill. 

Sleep,  sleep !  the  ship  has  left  the  shore, 

The  steed  awaits  his  lord  no  more ; 

His  lord  still  madly  lingers  by 

The  fatal  maid  he  cannot  fly, 

And  thrids  the  wood,  and  climbs  the  hill, 

He  and  the  vailing  whippoorwill. 

O  whippoorwill,  O  whippoorwill. 

Sleep,  sleep !  the  morrow  hastens  on ; 
Then  shall  the  wailing  slave  be  gone, 
Flitting  the  hill-top  far,  for  fear 
The  sounds  of  joy  may  reach  his  ear ; 
The  sounds  of  joy ! — the  hollow  knell 
Peal'd  from  the  mocking  chapel-bell. 

O  whippoorwill,  0  whippoorwill. 


SAMUEL  GILMAN.t 


THE  SILENT  GIRL. 

SHE  seldom  spake ;  yet  she  imparted 

Far  more  than  language  could — 
So  birdlike,  bright,  and  tender  hearted, 

So  natural  and  good ! — 
Her  air — her  look — her  rest — her  actions — 

Were  voice  enough  for  her ; 
Why  need  a  tongue,  when  tho?e  attractions 

Our  inmost  hearts  could  stir  1 

She  seldom  talked — but,  uninvited, 

Would  cheer  us  with  a  song  ; 
And  oft  her  hands  our  ears  delighted, 

Sweeping  the  keys  along. 
And  oft,  when  converse  round  would  languish, 

Ask'd  or  unask'd,  she  read 
Some  tale  of  gladness  or  of  anguish, 

And  so  our  evenings  sped. 

She  seldom  spake  ;  but  she  would  listen 

With  all  the  signs  of  soul ; 
Her  cheek  would  change — her  eye  would  glisten ; 

The  sigh — the  smile — upstole. 

*  Dr.  BIRD  is  author  of  "  Calavar,  a  Romance  of  Mexi- 
co," "The  Infidel,"  "Hawks  of  Hawk-Hollow,"  "Nick 
of  the  Woods,"  "Robin  Day,"  ;t  Peter  Pilgrim,"  "  Shep- 
pard  Lee,"  etc.  He  resides  in  New  Castle,  Delaware. 

tRev.  SAMUEL  GILMAN,  D.  D.,  of  Charleston,  8.  C.,  au- 
thor of  "Memoirs  of  a  New  England  Village  Choir,"  etc. 


Who  did  not  understand  and  love  her, 
With  meaning  thus  o'erfraught  ? 

Though  silent  as  the  sky  above  her, 
Like  that,  she  kindled  thought. 

Little  she  spake ;  but  dear  attentions 

From  her  would  ceaseless  rise, 
She  check'd  our  wants  by  kind  preventions, 

Slie  hush'd  the  children's  cries. 
And,  twining,  she  would  give  her  mother 

A  long  and  loving  kiss ; 
The  same  to  father,  sister,  brother, 

All  round — nor  one  would  miss. 

She  seldom  spake ;  she  speaks  no  longer ; 

She  sleeps  beneath  yon  rose ; 
'Tis  well  for  us  that  ties  no  stronger 

Awaken  memory's  woes. 
For  oh,  our  hearts  would  sure  be  broken, 

Already  drain'd  of  teats, 
If  frequent  tones,  by  her  outspoken, 

Still  linger'd  in  our  ears. 


SARAH  LOUISA  P.  SMITH.* 


THE  HUMA.t 

FLY  on !  nor  touch  thy  wing,  bright  bird, 

Too  near  our  shaded  earth, 
Or  the  warbling,  now  so  sweetly  heard, 

May  lose  its  note  of  mirth. 
Fly  on — nor  seek  a  place  of  rest 

In  the  home  of  «  care-worn  things ;" 
'T  would  dim  the  light  of  thy  shining  crest 

And  thy  brightly  burnish'd  wings, 
To  dip  them  where  the  waters  glide 
That  flow  from  a  troubled  earthly  tide. 

The  fields  of  upper  air  are  thine, 

Thy  place  where  stars  shine  free ;    ' 
I  would  thy  home,  bright  one,  were  mine, 

Above  life's  stormy  sea. 
I  would  never  wander,  bird,  like  thee, 

So  near  this  place  again, 
With  wing  and  spirit  once  light  and  free, 

They  should  wear  no  more  the  chain 
With  which  they  are  bound  and  fetter'd  here, 
For  ever  struggling  for  skies  more  clear. 

There  are  many  things  like  thee,  bright  bird, 

Hopes  as  thy  plumage  gay  ; 
Our  air  is  with  them  for  ever  stirr'd, 

But  still  in  air  they  stay. 
And  happiness,  like  thee,  fair  one, 

Is  ever  hovering  o'er, 
But  rests  in  a  land  of  brighter  sun, 

On  a  waveless,  peaceful  shore, 
And  stoops  to  lave  her  weary  wings 
Where  the  fount  of  "  living  waters''  springs. 


*  Mrs.  SMITH  was  born  at  Detroit,  in  June,  1811.  Her 
maiden  name  was  HICKMAN.  In  1828  she  was  married  to 
the  late  SAMUEL  JENKS  SMITH,  then  editor  of  a  literary 
journal  in  Providence.  A  collection  of  her  poems  was  pub- 
lished in  thai  city  in  1830.  She  died  in  February,  1832. 

t  A  bird  peculiar  to  the  East.  It  is  supposed  to  fly  con- 
stantly in  the  air  and  never  touch  the  ground. 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


523 


JOHN  SHAW,  M.  D.* 


SOXG. 

WHO  has  robb'd  the  ocean  cave, 

To  tinge  thy  lips  with  coral  hue  1 
Who,  from  India's  distant  wave, 

For  thee,  those  pearly  treasures  drew  ? 
Who,  from  yonder  orient  sky, 
Stole  the  morning  of  thine  eye ! 

Thousand  charms,  thy  form  to  deck, 

From  sea,  and  earth,  and  air  are  torn ; 
Roses  bloom  upon  thy  cheek, 

On  thy  breath  their  fragrance  borne. 
Guard  thy  bosom  from  the  day, 
Lest  thy  snows  should  melt  away. 

But  one  charm  remains  behind, 

Which  mute  earth  can  ne'er  impart ; 
Nor  in  ocean  wilt  thou  find, 
Nor  in  the  circling  air  a  heart ; 
Fairest,  wouldst  thou  perfect  be, 
Take,  O,  take  that  heart  from  me. 

ELIZABETH  BOGERT.t 


HE  CAME  TOO  LATE! 

HE  came  too  late ! — Neglect  had  tried 

Her  constancy  too  long ; 
Her  love  had  yielded  to  her  pride, 

And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 
She  scorn'd  the  offering  of  a  heart 

Which  linger'd  on  its  way, 
Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 

He  came  too  late ! — At  once  he  felt 

That  all  his  power  was  o'er  ! 
Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt, 

She  thought  of  him  no  more. 
Anger  and  grief  had  pass'd  away, 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free ; 
She  met  him,  and  her  words  were  gay, 

No  spell  had  memory. 

He  came  too  late ! — The  subtle  chords 

Of  love  were  all  unbound, 
Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound. 
She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay, 
\  ct  she  disdain'd  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turn'd  away. 

He  came  too  late ! — Her  countless  dreams 

Of  hope  had  long  since  flown ; 
No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whisper'd  tone. 

*  Doctor  SHAW  was  born  in  Maryland,  in  1778,  and  died 
at  sea,  near  the  West  India  Island?,  in  1809.  lie  was 
secretary  to  General  EATON,  at  Tunis,  in  1S09;  and  in 
1S03,  accompaniod  Lord  SF.I.KIRK  on  his  expedition  to 
form  a  settlement  on  St.  John's  Island  in  Upper  Canada. 
A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  Philadelphia, 
in  the  year  after  his  death. 

t  .Miss  BOGEHT,  of  New  York,  is  a  daughter  of  the  late 
Reverend  Doctor  BOOERT,  of  that  city.  Her  poems  have 
been  published  under  the  signature  of  "ESTELLE." 


And  when,  with  word  and  smile  he  tried 

Affection  still  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  spurn'd  his  fickle  love. 

THOMAS  MACKELLAR.* 


THE  SLEEPING  WIFE. 

MT  wife !  how  calmly  sleepest  thou ! 

A  perfect  peace  is  on  thy  brow: 

Thine  eyes  beneath  their  fringed  lid, 

Like  stars  behind  a  cloud,  are  hid ; 

Thy  voice  is  mute,  and  not  a  sound 

Disturbs  the  tranquil  air  around : 

I'll  watch,  and  mark  each  line  of  grace 

That  GOD  hath  drawn  upon  thy  face. 

My  wife !  thy  breath  is  low  and  soft ; 

To  catch  its  sound  I  listen  oft ; 

The  lightest  leaf  of  Persian  rose 

Upon  thy  lips  might  find  repose ; — 

So  deep  thy  slumber,  that  I  press'd 

My  trembling  hand  upon  thy  breast,    . 

In  sudden  fear  that  envious  death 

Had  robb'd  thee,  sleeping,  of  thy  breath. 

My  wife !  my  wife !  thy  face  now  seems 

To  show  the  tenor  of  thy  dreams : — 

Methinks  thy  gentle  spirit  plays 

Amid  the  scenes  of  earlier  days ; 

Thy  thoughts,  perchance,  now  dwell  on  him 

Whom  most  thou  lov'st ;  or  in  the  dim 

And  shadowy  future  strive  to  pry, 

With  woman's  curious,  earnest  eye. 

Sleep  on !  sleep  on  !  my  dreaming  wife  ! 

Thou  livest  now  another  life, 

With  beings  fill'd,  of  fancy's  birth  ; — 

I  will  not  call  thee  back  to  earth  ; 

Sleep  on,  until  the  car  of  morn 

Above  the  eastern  hills  is  borne ; 

Then  thou  wilt  wake  again,  and  bless 

My  sight  with  living  loveliness. 


THE  HYMNS  MY  MOTHER  SUNG. 

THEHE  are  to  me  no  hymns  more  sweet 

Than  those  my  mother  sung, 
When  joyously  around  her  feet 

Her  little  children  clung. 
The  babe  upon  his  pillow  slept— 

My  mother  sang  the  while  ; — 
What  wonder  if  there  softly  crept 

Across  his  lips  a  smile  1 
And  I,  a  sick  and  pensive  boy, — 

Oppressed  with  many  pains, — 
Oft  felt  my  bosom  thrill  with  joy 

Beneath  her  soothing  strains. 
The  stealing  tear  mine  eye.bedims, 

My  heart  is  running  o'er, — 
The  music  of  a  mother's  hymns 

Shall  comfort  me  no  more ! 


*Mr.  MACKELLAR  was  born  in  New  York  in  1812,  and 
is  now  a  partner  in  the  extensive  stereotyping  house  of 
L.  JOHNSON  and  Co.,  of  Philadelphia.  He  is  the  author  of 
"Droppings  from  the  Heart,"  a  collection  of  character- 
istic poems,  pervaded  by  a  spirit  of  piety  and  hopeful- 
ness, published  in  1844. 


524                                                  VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 

CHARLES  WEST  THOMPSON.* 

'Tis  only  he,  when  fate  shall  close 

His  pack  of  chequer'd  joys  and  woes 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  WHIST. 

Has  fairly  won  the  game. 

THE  road  of  life  is  but  a  game, 

*  

Where  some  a  thirst  for  power  and  fame, 

ROBERT  M.  CHARLTON.' 

And  some  for  pleasure  feel  — 

But  every  player  does  not  win, 

TO  THE  RIVER  OGEECHEE. 

Although  he  fairly  may  begin, 

— 

And  make  a  proper  deal. 
Some  men  assume  the  part  of  trade, 
Some  turn  the  soil  with  active  spade, 
While  some  to  wealth  incline, 
And  making  into  earth  their  way, 
Bring  up,  before  the  light  of  day, 
The  diamond  of  the  mine. 
In  clubs  some  take  an  active  part  — 
While  some  the  dictates  of  the  heart 
With  eager  zeal  pursue  ; 
And,  given  to  wine,  their  ruin  prove, 
Or,  trusting  else  in  faithless  love, 
Their  disappointment  rue. 

O  WAVE  that  glidest  swiftly 
On  thy  bright  and  happy  way, 
From  the  morning  until  evening, 
And  from  twilight  until  day,  — 
Why  leapest  thou  so  joyously, 
While  coldly  on  thy  shore 
Sleeps  the  noble  and  the  gallant  heart, 
For  aye  and  evermore] 
Or  dost  thou  weep,  0  river, 
And  is  this  bounding  wave 
But  the  tear  thy  bosom  sheddeth 
As  a  tribute  o'er  his  grave  ] 
And  when,  in  midnight's  darkness, 
The  winds  above  thee  moan, 

All  have  their  different  parts  assign'd, 

Are  they  mourning  for  our  sorrows, 

And  ranks  throughout  the  world  we  find, 

Do  they  sigh  for  him  that's  gone  T 

Mid  people  red  and  black, 
Each  on  the  one  below  him  leans  — 
Some  rise  aloft  to  kings  and  queens, 
Some  sink  to  humble  Jack. 

Keep  back  thy  tears,  then,  river, 
Or,  if  they  must  be  shed, 
Let  them  flow  but  for  the  living, 
They're  needless  for  the  dead. 

But,  whether  station'd  high  or  low, 

His  soul  shall  dwell  in  glory, 

He  who  his  honest  heart  can  know 

Where  bounds  a  brighter  wave, 

Free  from  reproving  thumps, 

But  our  pleasures,  with  his  troubles, 

E'en  though  he  own  nor  house,  nor  lands, 

Are  buried  in  the  grave. 

That  man  in  native  glory  stands 

The  very  ace  of  trumps. 

* 

Some  men  will  shuffle  through  their  day, 

HORATIO  HALE. 

Unmindful  how  their  partners  play; 

Unmoved  they  seem  to  stand, 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  WITIILACOCHEE. 

And  throw  their  cards  with  a  most  bold 
And  tranquil  face,  although  they  hold 
A  miserable  hand. 

HOLLOW  ye  the  lonely  grave, 
Make  its  caverns  deep  and  wide  ; 

In  the  soil  thev  died  to  save 

The  daring  spirits  take  the  lead, 
While  those  that  in  the  game  succeed 
Seem  bound  to  follow  suit  ; 

Lay  the  brave  men  side  by  side. 
Side  by  side  they  fought  and  fell, 
Hand  to  hand  they  met  the  foe  ; 

Such  play  the  very  deuse  at  last, 
Their  fortune,  character  they  blast, 

Who  has  heard  his  graudsire  tell 
Braver  strife  or  deadlier  blow] 

And  reap  the  bitter  fruit 

Wake  no  mournful  harmonies, 

How  oft,  alas  !  it  is  the  fate 
Of  jarring  comrades,  wise  too  late, 

Shed  no  earthly  tear  for  them; 
Summer  dew  and  sighing  breeze 

To  play  a  luckless  club, 
And  sadly  finding  out  at  last 
The  time  for  meditation  past, 
A  heart  had  gain'd  the  rub. 

Shall  be  wail  and  requiem. 
Pile  the  grave-mound  broad  and  high, 
Where  the  martyr'd  brethren  sleep; 
It  shall  point  the  pilgrim's  eye 

By  honour  some  their  fortunes  win, 

Here  to  bend  —  but  not  to  weep. 

And  some  by  trick,  nor  deem  it  sin 
To  profit  as  they  may,  — 
But  time  will  oft  the  wretch  expose 

Not  to  weep  !  O,  no  !  the  grief 
Springing  from  a  blow  like  this, 
May  not  seek  a  fond  relief 

To  merited  contempt,  who  chose 
Dishonourable  play. 

In  the  drops  that  mothers  kiss. 
But  the  kindling  heart  shall  bear 

'Tis  only  he,  who,  void  6f  guile, 

Hence  the  lesson  stern  and  high 

Knows  that  he  has  a  right  to  smile, 

With  as  proud  a  flame  to  dare  — 

And  tells  his  heart  the  same  — 

With  as  calm  a  throb  to  die. 

"Author  of  "The  Sylph,  and  Other  Poems,"  Phila- 

* Judge  CHARLTON,  of  Georjria.  A  volume  of  his  poems 

delphia. 

was  published  in  Boston,  in  1833. 

VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


525 


REVEREND  CHARLES  W.  EVEREST.* 


AGRICULTURE. 

How  blest  the  farmer's  simple  life ! — 

How  pure  the  joy  it  yields  ! 
Far  from  the  world's  tempestuous  strife, 

Free,  mid  the  scented  fields ! 
When  morning  woos,  with  roseate  hue, 

O'er  the  far  hills  away, 
His  footsteps  brush  the  silvery  dew, 

To  greet  the  welcoming  day. 
When  Sol's  first  beam  in  glory  glows, 

And  blithe  the  skylark's  song, 
Pleased,  to  his  toil  the  farmer  goes, 

With  cheerful  steps  along. 
While  noon  broods  o'er  the  sultry  sky, 

And  sunbeams  fierce  are  cast, 
Where  the  cool  streamlet  wanders  by, 

He  shares  his  sweet  repast. 
When  twilight's  gentlest  shadows  fall 

Along  the  darkening  plain, 
He  lists  his  faithful  watch-dog's  call 

To  warn  the  listening  train. 
Down  the  green  lane  young  hurrying  feet 

Their  eager  pathway  press ; 
His  loved  ones  come  in  joy  to  greet, 

And  claim  their  sire's  caress. 
Then,  when  the  evening  prayer  is  said, 

And  Heaven  with  praise  is  blest, 
How  sweet  reclines  his  weary  head 

On  slumber's  couch  of  rest ! 
Nor  deem  that  fears  his  dreams  alarm, 

Nor  cares,  with  carking  din: 
Without,  his  dogs  will  guard  from  harm, 

And  all  is  peace  within. 
O  ye,  who  run  in  folly's  race, 

To  win  a  worthless  prize, 
Learn,  from  the  simple  tale  we  trace, 

Where  true  contentment  lies ! 
Ho!  monarch!  flush'd  with  glory's  pride! 

Thou  painted,  gilded  thing! 
Hie  to  the  free-born  farmer's  side, 

And  learn  to  be  a  king ! 

MINSTREL,  SING  THAT  SONG  AGAIN. 

Mi?rsTiiF,L,  sing  that  song  again, 

Plaintive  in  its  solemn  flow; 
Memory  owns  its  magic  strain, 

Loved  and  cherish'd  long  ago  : 
Lo  !  the  past,  the  mystic  past, 

Rises  through  the  vista  dim — 
Just  as  twilight's  shades  are  cast 

At  the  day's  departing  hymn ! 
Minstrel,  'twas  an  eve  like  this: 

Stars  were  spangling  all  the  sky: 
Every  zephyr  spoke  of  bliss, 

Floating  in  its  fragrance  by; 
Then,  within  our  moon-lit  bower, 

One,  with  voice  like  music's  own, 
Sweetly  charm'd  the  lingering  hour, 

To  the  soft  lute's  silvery  tone. 

*  Of  Meriden,  Connecticut.    Author  of  "  Babylon,"  &c. 


As  the  witching  cadence  fell 

Wild  within  our  bower  of  love, 
Angel  bands  might  prove  the  spell, 

Bending  from  the  courts  above  ! 
Minstrel,  chant  once  more  the  air, 

Soft  as  spring's  departing  breath : 
She  who  sang  its  numbers  there 

Slumbers  as  the  bride  of  Death  ! 
Minstrel,  chide  thou  not  my  tears — 

Thou  hast  waked  a  mournful  theme; 
Memory  roves  the  slumbering  years, 

Like  some  dear,  forgotten  dream: 
Day  will  come,  with  joy  and  gladness — 

Cares  once  more  will  fling  their  blight ; 
Chide  not,  then,  my  spirit's  sadness — 

Minstrel,  let  me  weep  to-night ! 

GEORGE  W.  PATTEN.* 


TO  S.  T.  P. 

SHADOWS  and  clouds  are  o'er  me ; 

Thou  art  not  here,  my  bride ! 
The  billows  dash  before  me 

Which  bear  me  from  thy  side ; 
On  lowering  waves  benighted, 

Dim  sets  the  weary  day; 
Thou  art  not  here,  my  plighted, 

To  smile  the  storm  away. 
Where  nymphs  of  ocean  slumber, 

I  strike  the  measured  stave, 
With  wild  and  mournful  number, 

To  charm  the  wandering  wave. 
Hark  to  the  words  of  sorrow 

Along  the  fading  main  ! 
"  'T  is  night — but  will  the  morrow 

Restore  that  smile  again]" 
Mid  curtain'd  dreams  descending, 

Thy  gentle  form  I  trace ; 
Dimly  with  shadows  blending, 

I  gaze  upon  thy  face  ; 
Thy  voice  comes  o'er  me  gladly, 

Thy  hand  is  on  my  brow ; 
I  wake — the  wave  rolls  madly 

Beneath  the  ploughing  prow ! 
Speed  on,  thou  surging  billow! 

O'er  ocean  speed  away ! 
And  bear  unto  her  pillow 

The  burden  of  my  lay: 
Invest  her  visions  brightly 

With  passion's  murmur'd  word, 
And  bid  her  bless  him  nightly — 

Him  of  the  lute  and  sword. 
And  her,  of  dreams  unclouded, 

With  tongue  of  lisping  tale, 
Whose  eye  I  left  soft  shrouded 

'Neath  slumber's  misty  veil, — 
When  morn  at  length  discloses 

The  smile  I  may  not  see, 
Bear  to  her  cheek  of  roses 

A  father's  kiss  for  me. 

*  A  lieutenant  in  the  United  StrU«>s  army,  formerly  of 
Rhode  Island.  He  is  the  author  of  numerous  metrical 
pieces  in  the  periodicals. 


526                                                    VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 

MICAII  P.  FLINT.* 

WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON.* 

LINES  ON  PASSING  THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  SISTER. 

THE  FREE  MIND. 

ON  yonder  shore,  on  yonder  shore, 
Now  verdant  with  tiie  depths  of  shade, 

HIRH  walls  and  huge  the  lor);/  may*  confine, 
And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 

Beneath  the  white-arm'd  sycamore, 
There  is  a  little  infant  laid. 

And  massive  bolts  may  bailie  his  design, 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways  : 

Forgive  this  tear.  —  A  brother  weeps.  — 
'T  is  there  the  faded  floweret  sleeps. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone, 

Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control  ! 
No  chains  can  -bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose  : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole. 
And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes  ! 

And  summer's  forests  o'er  her  wave  ; 

It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount  ;  from  vale  to  vale 

And  sighing  winds  at  autumn  moan 
Around  the  little  stranger's  grave, 
As  though  they  murmur'd  at  the  fate 
Of  one  so  lone  and  desolate. 

It  wanders,  plucking  honey  'd  fruits  and  flowers; 
It  visits  home,  to  heat  the  firoside  talc, 
Or,  in  sweet  converse*  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'Tis  up  before'  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 

In  sounds  that  seem  like  sorrow's  own, 

And,  in  its  watches,  Wearies  every  star  ! 

Their  funeral  dirges  faintly  creep  ; 

Then  deepening  to  an  organ  tone,                  '"^ 

* 

In  all  their  solemn  cadence  sweep,           «• 

OTWAY  CURRY.t 

And  pour,  unheard,  along  the  wild, 

Their  desert  anthem  o'er  a  child. 

THE  ARMIES  OF  TIIE  EVE. 

She  came,  and  pass'd.     Can  I  forget, 

— 

How  we  whose  hearts  had  hail'd  her  birth, 

NOT  in  the  golden  morning 

Ere  three  autumnal  suns  had  set, 

Shall  faded  forms  return, 

Consign'd  her  to  her  mother  earth  ! 
Joys  and  their  memories  pass  away  ; 

For  languidly  and  dimly  then 
The  lights  of  memory  burn  : 

But  griefs  are  deeper  plough'd  than  they. 

Nor  when  the  noon  unfoldeth 

We  laid  her  in  her  narrow  cell, 

Its  sunny  light  and  smile, 

We  heap'd  the  soft  mould  on  her  breast  ; 
And  parting  tears,  like  rain-drops,  fell 

For  these  unto  their  bright  repose 
The  wondering  spirit  wile  : 

Upon  her  lonely  place  of  rest. 

But  when  the  stars  are  wending 

May  angels  guard  it  ;  may  they  bless 

Their  radiant  way  on  high, 

Her  slumbers  in  the  wilderness. 

And  gentle  winds  are  whispering  back 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone  ; 

The  music  of  the  sky  ; 

For,  all  unheard,  on  yonder  shore, 

0,  then  those  starry  millions 

The  sweeping  flood,  with  torrent  moan, 

Their  streaming  banners  weave, 

At  evening  lifts  its  solemn  roar, 

To  marshal  on  their  wildering  way 

As,  in  one  broad,  eternal  tide, 

The  Armies  of  the  Eve  : 

The  rolling  waters  onward  glide. 

The  dim  and  shadowy  armies 

There  is  no  marble  monument, 

Of  our  unquiet  dreams, 

There  is  no  stone,  with  graven  lie, 

Whose  footsteps  brush  the  feathery  fern 

To  tell  of  love  and  virtue  blent 

And  print  the  sleeping  streams. 

In  one  almost  too  good  to  die. 

"We  meet  them  in  the  calmness 

We  needed  no  such  useless  trace 
To  point  us  to  her  resting-place. 

Of  high  and  holier  climes  ; 
We  greet  them  with  the  blessed  names 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone  ; 

Of  old  and  happier  times. 

But,  midst  the  tears  of  April  showers, 
The  genius  of  the  wild  hath  strown 
His  germs  of  fruits,  his  fairest  flowers, 
And  cast  his  robes  of  vernal  bloom 
In  guardian  fondness  o'er  her  tomb. 

And,  marching  in  the  starlight 
Above  the  sleeping  dust, 
They  freshen  all  the  fountain-springs 
Of  our  undying  trust. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone  ; 
Yet  yearly  is  her  grave-turf  dress'd, 
And  still  the  summer  vines  are  thrown, 
In  annual  wreaths,  across  her  breast, 

Around  our  every  patlnvny, 
In  beauteous  ranks  they  roam, 
To  guide  us  to  the  dreamy  rest 
Of  our  eternal  home. 

And  still  the  sighing  autumn  grieves, 

*  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON,  author  of  a  volume  of 

And  strews  the  hallow'd  spot  with  leaves. 

"Poems,"   published  in  1845,  at  Boston.    The  Bonnet 

*  MICAH  P.  FLINT  was  a  son  of  the  late  Reverend 

nient  for  the  expression  of  opinions. 

TIMOTHY  FLINT.     He  was  the  author  of  a  volume  en- 

t Mr.  CURRY  was  formerly  associated  with  Mr.  GAL- 

titled "The  Hunter,  and  other  Poems,"  and  of  many 

LAGHER  in  the  editorship  of  "  The  Hesperian,"  at  Cin- 

brief pieces  in  the  magazines. 

cinnati. 

VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


527 


MRS.  LAURA  M.  THURSTON.* 
THE  QUEEN  HILLS  OF  MY  FATHER-LAND. 

THE  green  hills  of  my  father-land 

In  dreams  still  greet  my  view ; 
I  see  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand, 

The  ocean-depth  of  blue : 
The  sky,  the  glorious  sky,  outspread 

Above  their  calm  repose  : 
The  river,  o'er  its  rocky  bed 

Still  singing  as  it  flows ; 
The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pray ; 
The  sun-light  resting  on  the  flowers, 
The  birds  that  sing  among  the  bowers, 

Through  all  the  summer-day. 
Land  of  my  birth  !  mine  early  love ! 

Once  more  thine  airs  I  breathe ! 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  above, 

Thy  green  vales  sleep  beneath ; 
Thy  groves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring  rills, 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes, 
The  dawn  of  morning  on  thy  hills, 

Thy  gorgeous  sunset  skies, 
Thy  forests,  from  whose  deep  recess 

A  thousand  streams  have  birth, 
Gladdening  the  lonely  wilderness, 
And  filling  the  green  silentness 

With  melody  and  mirth. 

I  wonder  if  my  home  would  seem 

As  lovely  as  of  yore  ! 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain  stream 

Goes  singing  by  the  door ! 
And  if  the  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 

And  if  the  woodbines  climb, 
As  when  I  used  to  train  them  there, 

In  the  dear  olden  time ! 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  still  sing 

Upon  the  garden  tree, 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  spring 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me  ! 

I  know  that  there  hath  been  a  change, 

A  change  o'er  hall  and  hearth ! 
Faces  and  footsteps  new  and  strange, 

About  my  place  of  birth ! 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  bright 

As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
But  vanish'd  is  the  beacon  light 

That  cheer'd  my  morning  sky ! 
And  hill,  and  vale,  and  wooded  glen, 

And  rock,  and  murmuring  stream, 
That  wore  such  glorious  beauty  then, 
Would  seem,  should  I  return  again, 

The  record  of  a  dream  ! 

I  mourn  not  for  my  childhood's  hours, 

Since,  in  the  far-olF  west, 
'IVi'ath  sunnier  skies,  in  greener  bowers, 

My  heart  hath  found  its  rest. 
I  mourn  not  for  the  hills  and  streams 

That  chain'd  my  steps  so  long, 

*Born  iii  Norfolk,  Connecticut,  in  1812;  and  died  in 
New  Albany,  Indiana,  in  1842. 


Yet  still  I  see  them  in  my  dreams, 
And  hail  them  in  my  song; 

And  often  by  the  hearth-fire's  blaza, 
When  winter  eves  shall  come, 

We'll  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 

And  sing  the  well-remember'd  lays 
Of  my  green-mountain  home. 


F.  S.  ECKARD. 


MYSTERIOUS  MUSIC  OF  OCEAN. 

"And  the  people  of  this  place  say,  that,  at  certain  sea- 
sons, beautiful  sounds  are  heard  from  the  ocean." 

MAVOR'S  Voyages. 

LONELY  and  wild  it  rose, 
That  strain  of  solemn  music  from  the  sea, 
As  though  the  bright  air  trembled  to  disclose 

An  ocean  mystery. 

Again  a  low,  sweet  tone, 
Fainting  in  murmurs  on  the  listening  day, 
Just  bade  the  excited  thought  its  presence  own, 

Then  died  away. 

Once  more  the  gush  of  sound, 
Struggling  and  swelling  from  the  heaving  plain, 
Thrill'd  a  rich  peal  triumphantly  around, 

And  fled  again. 

O,  boundless  deep!  we  know 
Thou  hast  strange  wonders  in  thy  gloom  conceal'd, 
Gems,  flashing  gems,  from  whose  unearthly  glow 

Sunlight  is  seal'd. 

And  an  eternal  spring 

Showers  her  rich  colours  with  unsparing  hand, 
Where  coral  trees  their  graceful  branches  fling 

O'er  golden  sand. 

But  tell,  0,  restless  main  ! 
Who  are  the  dwellers  in  thy  world  beneath, 
That  thus  the  watery  realm  cannot  contain 

The  joy  they"  breathe  1 

Emblem  of  glorious  might! 
Are  thy  wild  children  like  thyself  array'd, 
Strong  in  immortal  and  uncheck'd  delight, 

Which  cannot  fade  1 

Or  to  mankind  allied, 
Toiling  with  wo,  and  passion's  fiery  sting, 
Like  their  own  home,  where  storms  or  peace  preside, 

As  the  winds  bring  1 

Alas  for  human  thought ! 
How  does  it  flee  existence,  worn  and  old, 
To  win  companionship  with  beings  wrought 

Of  finer  mould ! 

'Tis  vain — the  reckless  waves 
Join  with  loud  revel  the  dim  ages  flown, 
But  keep  each  secret  of  their  hidden  caves 

Dark  and  unknown. 


*This  poem  was  published  anonymously  in  WALSH'S 
Philadelphia  ".National  fJazi-lti-,"  ami  in  the  rirst  edition 
of  this  volume  was  erroneously  attributed  to  Mr.  CARTER 
MORRIS.  Dr.  Eckard  has  written  many  fugitive  pieces 
of  considerable  merit. 


628 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


ANONYMOUS.* 


"  GIVE  ME  THE  OLD." 

OLD  WINE  TO  DRINK,  OLD  WOOD  TO  BURN,  OLD  BOOKS  TO 
READ,  AND  OLD  FRIENDS  TO  CONVERSE  WITH. 

OLD  wine  to  drink ! 
Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice, 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose, 

Within  the  tun ; 
Pluck'd  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 
And  ripen'd  'neath  the  blink 

Of  India's  sun  ! 

Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Temper'd  with  well-boiled  water ! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter, — 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter ! 

Old  wood  to  burn  ! 
Ay,  bring  the  hill-side  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 

And  ravens  croak ; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet ; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  faggot  too,  perhap, 
Whose  bright  flame  dawning,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking ! 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

Old  books  to  read ! 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 
The  brazen-clasp'd,  the  vellum  writ, 

Time-honour'd  tomes ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 
The  well-earn'd  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes ; 

Old  HOMER  blind, 
Old  HORACE,  rake  ANACREOST,  by 
Old  TCLLT,  PLAUTDS,  TERENCE  lie; 
Mort  ARTHUR'S  olden  minstrelsie, 
Quaint  BURTON,  quainter  SPENSER,  ay, 
And  GKRTASE  MARKHAM'S  venerie — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

Old  friends  to  talk  ! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found ! 

Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain  walk ! 

Bring  WALTER  good: 
With  soulful  FRED  ;  and  learned  WILL, 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego,  (dearer  still 

For  every  mood.) 


*  In  earlier  editions,  the  above  poem  has  been  nttri- 
biitc-d  to  HENRY  CAREY,  the  elegant  essayist,  whose 
writings  are  published  under  the  sienature  of  "John 
Waters  ;"  but  I  learn  that  he  is  not  the  author  of  it. 


These  add  a  bouquet  to  my  wine ! 
These  add  a  sparkle  to  my  pine ! 

If  these  I  tine, 
Can  books,  or  fire,  or  wine  be  good  1 

MRS.  SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN.* 


A  SEPTEMBER  EVENING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF 
THE  MOSHASSUCK. 

"Now  to  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought, 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past." 

AGAIN  September's  golden  day, 

Serenely  still,  intensely  bright, 
Fades  on  the  umber'd  hills  away, 

And  melts  into  the  coming  night 
Again  Moshassuck's  silver  tide 
Reflects  each  green  herb  on  its  side, 
Each  tassell'd  wreath  and  tangling  vine 
Whose  tendrils  o'er  its  margin  twine. 

And,  standing  on  its  velvet  shore, 

Where  yesternight  with  thee  I  stood, 
I  trace  its  devious  course  once  more, 

Far  winding  on  through  vale  and  wood. 
Now  glimmering  through  yon  golden  mist, 
By  the  last  glinting  sunbeams  kiss'd, 
Now  lost  where  lengthening  shadows  fall 
From  hazel-copse  and  moss-fringed  wall. 

Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn 

The  lonely  gentian  blossoms  still, 
Still  wave  the  star-flower  and  the  fern 

O'er  the  soft  outline  of  the  hill ; 
While  far  aloft,  where  pine  trees  throw 
Their  shade  athwart  the  sunset  glow, 
Thin  vapours  cloud  the  illumined  air, 
And  parting  daylight  lingers  there. 

But,  ah,  no  longer  thou  art  near 

This  varied  loveliness  to  see, 
And  I,  though  fondly  lingering  here, 

To-night  can  only  think  on  thee ; — 
The  flowers  thy  gentle  hand  caress'd 
Still  lie  unwither'd  on  my  breast, 
And  still  thy  footsteps  print  the  shore 
Where  thou  and  I  may  rove  no  more. 

Again  I  hear  the  murmuring  fall 
Of  water  from  some  distant  dell, 

The  beetle's  hum,  the  cricket's  call, 
And,  far  away,  that  evening  bell, — 

Again,  again  those  sounds  I  hear, 

But,  O,  how  desolate  and  drear 

They  seem  to-night — how  like  a  knell 

The  music  of  that  evening  bell. 

Again  the  new  moon  in  the  west, 
Scarce  seen  upon  yon  golden  sky, 

Hangs  o'er  the  mountain's  purple  crest 
With  one  pale  planet  trembling  nigh, — 

And  beautiful  her  pearly  light 

As  when  we  bless'd  its  beams  last  night, 

But  thou  art  on  the  far  blue  sea, 

And  I  can  only  think  of  thee. 


*  Mrs.  WHITMAN,  formerly  Miss  POWER,  is  a  native 
of  Providence,  Khudu  Island,  in  which  city  she  now  re- 
sides. 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS.                                                   539 

REVEREND  BENJAMIN  D.  WINSLOW.* 

Others  are  gazing 

On  that  srlance  divine 

THE  LOVER  STUDENT. 

Others  are  praising  — 

— 

Are  their  words  like  mine? 

WITH  a  burning  brow  and  weary  limb, 
From  the  parting  glance  of  day, 
The  student  sits  in  his  study  dim, 
Till  the  east  with  dawn  is  gray  ; 

"  Heed  not  the  wooer 
With  soft  vows  express'd, 
One  heart  beats  truer  — 

O          J     7 

But  what  are  those  musty  tomes  to  him! 
His  spirit  is  far  away. 

Thou  know'st  in  whose  breast 
To  him  thou  hast  spoken 
Words  not  lightly  told; 

He  seeks,  in  fancy,  the  hall  of  light 

His  heart  would  be  broken 

Where  his  lady  leads  the  dance, 

If  thine  should  grow  cold  ! 

Where  the  festal  bowers  are  gleaming  bright, 
Lit  up  by  her  sunny  glance  ; 
And  he  thinks  of  her  the  livelong  night  — 
She  thinketh  of  him  —  perchance  ! 

"The  stars  faintly  glimmer 
And  fade  into  day, 
This  taper  burns  dimmer 
With  vanishing  ray; 

Yet  many  a  gallant  knight  is  by, 

0,  never  thus  fading. 

To  dwell  on  each  gushing  tone, 

May  fortune  grow  pale, 

To  drink  the  smile  of  that  love-lit  eye, 
Which  should  beam  on  him  alone; 

With  sorrow-clouds  shading, 
Or  plighted  faith  fail  ! 

To  woo  with  the  vow,  the  glance  and  sigh, 
The  heart  that  he  claims  his  own. 

"  Hush,  my  wild  numbers  ! 
Dawn  breaketh  above  — 

The  student  bends  o'er  the  snowy  page, 

Soft  be  thy  slumbers, 

And  he  grasps  his  well-worn  pen, 

Adieu  to  thee,  love  ! 

That  he  may  write  him  a  lesson  sage, 

Sad  vigils  keeping, 

To  read  to  the  sons  of  men  ; 

I  think  upon  thee, 

But  softer  lessons  his  thoughts  engage, 

And  dream  of  thee  sleeping, 

And  he  flings  it  down  again. 

My  own  MELAXIE  !" 

The  student's  orisons  must  arise 

t 

At  the  vesper's  solemn  peal, 

So  he  gazeth  up  to  the  tranquil  skies, 

C.  G.  EASTMAN.* 

Which  no  angel  forms  reveal, 

But  an  earthly  seraph's  laughing  eyes 

A  MID-SUMMER  DAY  SCENE. 

Mid  his  whisper'd  prayers  will  steal. 
In  vain  his  spirit  would  now  recur 

THE  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 
Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 

To  his  little  study  dim, 

While  his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy  care, 

In  vain  the  notes  of  the  vesper  stir 

Was  clearing  the  dinner  away  ; 

In  the  cloister  cold  and  grim; 

A  sweet  little  girl,  with  fine  blue  eyes, 

Through  the  livelong  night  he  thinks  of  her  — 

On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  the  flies. 

Doth  his  lady  think  of  him  ! 

The  old  man  placed  his  hand  on  her  head, 

Then  up  he  looks  to  the  clear,  cold  moon, 

With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face, 

But  no  calm  to  him  she  brings  ; 

He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 

His  troubled  spirit  is  out  of  tune, 

Had  sat  long  ago  in  that  place  ! 

And  loosen'd  its  countless  strings; 

As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 

Yet,  in  the  quiet  of  night's  still  noon, 

"  Don't  smoke,"  said  the  child,  "  how  it  makes  you 

To  his  lady-love  he  sings  : 

cry!" 

"Thou  in  thy  bower, 

The  house-dog  slumber'd  upon  the  floor, 

And  I  in  my  cell. 

Where  the  sun,  after  noon,  would  steal; 

Through  each  festal  hour 

The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  door, 

Divided  must  dwell  ; 

Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel  ; 

Yet  we're  united, 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantletree, 

Though  forms  are  apart, 

Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three  ; 

Since  love's  vows  plighted 
Have  bound  us  in  heart. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 
While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 

«  Proud  sons  of  fashion 

The  moisten'd  brow  and  the  head  so  fair 

Now  murmur  to  thee 

Of  his  dear  grandchild  were  press'd. 

Accents  of  passion, 

His  frosty  locks  mid  her  soft  hair  lay  — 

All  treason  to  me; 

Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  on  that  summer  day  ! 

*The,  "Sermons  and  Poetical  Remains  of  the  Reverend 

*Mr.  EASTMAX,  the  author  of  "Lyrical,  and    other 

B.  D.  WINSLOW,"  edited  by  Bishop  DOAXE,  were  pub- 

Poem?," is  a  nsitivn  of  Vermont,  and  m>\v  conducts  "The 

lished  in  1841.    He  died  in  1810,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year 

Patriot,"  the  leading  democratic  journal  of  the  state,  at 

of  his  age. 

Montpelier. 

67                                                                                       2  V 

630 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


EPHRAIM  PEABODY.* 


LAKE  ERIE. 

THESE  lovely  shores!  how  lone  and  still 

A  hundred  years,  ago, 
The  unbroken  forest  stood  above, 

The  waters  dash'd  below : 
The  waters  of  a  lonely  sea, 

Where  never  sail  was  furl'd, 
Embosom'd  in  a  wilderness, 

Which  was  itself  a  world. 

A  hundred  years !  go  back ;  and  lo ! 

Where,  closing  in  the  view, 
Juts  out  the  shore,  with  rapid  oar 

Darts  round  a  frail  canoe. — 
'Tis  a  white  voyager,  and  see, 

His  prow  is  westward  set 
O'er  the  calm  wave :  hail  to  thy  bold, 

World-seeking  bark,  MAR^UE-FTE  ! 

The  lonely  bird,  that  picks  his  food 

Where  rise  the  waves,  and  sink, 
At  their  strange  coming,  with  shrill  scream, 

Starts  from  the  sandy  brink ; 
The  fishhawk,  hanging  in  mid  sky. 

Floats  o'er  on  level  wing, 
And  the  savage  from  his  covert  looks, 

With  arrow  on  the  string. 

A  hundred  years  are  past  and  gone, 

And  all  the  rocky  coast 
Is  turreted  with  shining  towns, 

An  empire's  noble  boast. 
And  the  old  wilderness  is  changed 

To  cultured  vale  and  hill ; 
And  the  circuit  of  its  mountains 

An  empire's  numbers  fill. 

THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

THE  silent  wilderness  for  me ! 

Where  never  sound  is  heard, 
Save  the  rustling  of  the  squirrel's  foot, 

And  the  flitting  wing  of  bird, 
Or  its  low  and  interrupted  note, 

And  the  deer's  quick,  crackling  tread, 
And  the  swaying  of  the  forest  boughs, 

As  the  wind  moves  overhead. 

Alone,  (how  glorious  to  be  free !) 

My  good  dog  at  my  side, 
My  rifle  hanging  in  my  arm, 

I  range  the  forests  wide. 
And  now  the  regal  buffalo 

Across  the  plains  I  chase ; 
Now  track  the  mountain  stream,  to  find 

The  beaver's  lurking  place. 

I  stand  upon  the  mountain's  top, 

And  (solitude  profound !) 
Not  even  a  woodman's  smoke  curls  up 

Within  the  horizon's  bound. 

*  Mr.  PEAB:>DV  is  an  Unitarian  clergyman.  He  is  a 
native  of  New  Hampshire,  and  has  resided  several  years 
in  the  western  states. 


Below,  as  o'er  its  ocean  breadth 

The  air's  light  currents  run, 
The  wilderness  of  moving  leaves 

Is  glancing  in  the  sun. 

I  look  around  to  where  the  sky 

Meets  the  far  forest  line, 
And  this  imperial  domain — 

This  kingdom — all  is  mine. 
This  bending  heaven,  these  floating  clouds, 

Waters  that  ever  roll, 
And  wilderness  of  glory,  bring 

Their  offerings  to  my  soul. 

My  palace,  built  by  GOD'S  own  hand, 

The  world's  fresh  prime  hath  seen ; 
Wide  stretch  its  living  halls  away, 

Pillar'd  and  roof'd  with  green. 
My  music  is  the  wind  that  now 

Pours  loud  its  swelling  bars, 
Now  lulls  in  dying  cadences, 

My  festal  lamps  are  stars. 

Though  when  in  this,  my  lonely  home, 

My  star-watch'd  couch  I  press, 
I  hear  no  fond  "good-night" — think  not 

I  am  companionless. 
0,  no !  I  see  my  father's  house, 

The  hill,  the  tree,  the  stream, 
And  the  looks  and  voices  of  my  home 

Come  gently  to  my  dream. 

And  in  these  solitary  haunts, 

While  slumbers  every  tree 
In  night  and  silence,  GOD  himself 

Seems  nearer  unto  me. 
I  feel  His  presence  in  these  shades, 

Like  the  embracing  air ; 
And  as  my  eyelids  close  in  sleep, 

My  heart  is  hush'd  in  prayer. 


JOHN  M.  HARNEY,  M.D.* 


ON  A  FRIEND. 

DETOUT,  yet  cheerful ;  pious,  not  austere ; 

To  others  lenient,  to  himself  severe ; 

Though  honour'd,  modest;  diffident,  though  praised; 

The  proud  he  humbled,  and  the  humble  raised ; 

Studious,  yet  social ;  though  polite,  yet  plain  ; 

No  man  more  learned,  yet  no  man  less  vain. 

His  fame  would  universal  envy  move, 

But  envy 's  lost  in  universal  love. 

That  he  has  faults,  it  may  be  bold  to  doubt, 

Yet  certain  'tis  we  ne'er  have  found  them  out. 

If  faults  he  has,  (as  man,  'tis  said,  must  have,) 

They  are  the  only  faults  he  ne'er  forgave. 

I  flatter  not :  absurd  to  flatter  where 

Just  praise  is  fulsome,  and  offends  the  ear. 


*  Doctor  HARNEY,  I  believe,  was  a  native  of  Kentucky. 
His  principal  poetical  work,  "  Crystiilina,  a  Fairy  Tale," 
was  published  in  New  York  in  ISlfi.  He  was  the  author 
of  several  other  poems,  the  best  known  of  which  is  "The 
Fever  Dream." 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


531 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT.* 

MY  CHILD. 

THE  foot  of  Spring  is  on  yon  blue-topp'd  mountain, 

Leaving  its  green  prints  neath  each  spreading  tree; 
Her  voice  is  heard  beside  the  swelling  fountain, 

Giving  sweet  tones  to  its  wild  melody. 
From  the  warm  south  she  brings  unnumber'd  roses 

To  greet  with  smiles  the  eye  of  grief  and  care ; 
Her  balmy  breath  on  the  worn  brow  reposes, 

And  her  rich  gifts  are  scatter'd  everywhere : 
I  heed  them  not,  my  child ! 

In  the  low  vale  the  snow-white  daisy  springeth, 

The  golden  dandelion  by  its  side, 
The  eglantine  a  dewy  fragrance  flingeth 

To  the  soft  breeze  that  wanders  far  and  wide. 
The  hyacinth  and  polyanthus  render, 

From  their  deep  hearts,  an  offering-  of  love ; 
And  fresh  May-pinks,  and  half-blown  lilacs,  tender 

Their  grateful  homage  to  the  skies  above : 
I  heed  them  not,  my  child ! 

In  the  clear  brook  are  springing  water-cresses, 

And  pale,  green  rushes,  and  fair  nameless  flowers; 
While  o'er  them  dip  the  willow's  verdant  tresses, 

Dimpling  the  surface  with  their  mimic  showers. 
The  honeysuckle  stealthily  is  creeping 

Round  the  low  porch  and  mossy  cottage-eaves ; 
0,  Spring  hath  fairy  treasures  in  her  keeping, 

And  lovely  are  the  landscapes  that  she  weaves: 
'T  is  naught  to  me,  my  child ! 

Down  the  green  lane  come  pealsof  heartfelt  laughter; 

The  school  has  sent  its  eldest  inmates  forth ; 
And  now  a  smaller  band  comes  dancing  after, 

Filling  the  air  with  shouts  of  infant  mirth. 
At  the  rude  gate  the  anxious  dame  is  bending 

To  clasp  her  rosy  darling  to  her  breast ; 
Joy,  pride,  and  hope  are  in  her  bosom  blending ; 

Ah,  peace  with  her  is  no  unusual  guest ! 
Not  so  with  me,  my  child! 

All  the  day  long  I  listen  to  the  singing 

Of  the  gay  birds  and  winds  among  the  trees ; 
But  a  sad  under-string  is  ever  ringing 

A  tale  of  death  and  its  dread  mysteries. 
Nature  to  me  the  letter  is  that  killeth  : 

The  spirit  of  her  charms  has  pass'd  away ; 
A  fount  of  hli.«<$  no  more  my  bosom  filleth — 

Slumbers  its  idol  in  unconscious  clay! 

Thou  art  in  the  grave,  my  child ! 

For  thy  glad  voice  my  spirit  inly  pineth  ; 

I  languish  for  thy  blue  eyes'  holy  light ; 
Vainly  for  me  the  glorious  sunbeam  shineth ; 

Vainly  the  blessed  stars  come  forth  at  night ! 
I  v.'iilk  in  darkness,  with  the  tomb  Itofore  me, 

Longing  to  lay  my  dust  beside  thy  own ; 
O,  cast  the  mantle  of  thy  presence  o'er  me ! 

Beloved,  leave  me  not  so  deeply  lone ! 

Come  back  to  me,  my  child ! 

Upon  that  breast  of  pitying  love  thou  leanest, 
Which  oft  on  earth  did  pillow  such  as  thou ; 

*  The  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  SCOTT  was  KINNEY.  She 
died  in  Towan da,  Bradford  county,  Pennsylvania,  in  the 
soring  of  1812. 


Nor  turn'd  away  petitioner  the  meanest ; 

Pray  to  HIM,  sinless:  HE  will  hear  thee  now. 
Plead  for  thy  weak  and  broken-hearted  mother; 

Pray  that  thy  voice  may  whisper  words  of  peace ; 
Her  ear  is  deaf,  and  can  discern  no  other ; 

Speak,  and  her  bitter  sorrowings  shall  cease : 

Come  back  to  me,  my  child ! 
Come  but  in  dreams :  let  me  once  more  behold  thee, 

As  in  thy  hours  of  buoyancy  and  glee, 
And  one  brief  moment  in  my  arms  enfold  thee: 

Beloved,  I  will  not  ask  thy  stay  with  me! 
Leave  but  the  impress  of  thy  dove-like  beauty, 

Which  memory  strives  so  vainly  to  recall, 
And  I  will  onward  in  the  path  of  duty, 

Restraining  tears  that  ever  fain  would  fall ! 
Come  but  in  dreams,  my  child  ! 

CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER.' 
THE  WARRIOR'S  DIRGE. 

WAHRIOH,  rest!  thy  toils  are  ended: 

Life's  last  fearful  strife  is  o'er ; 
Clarion-calls,  with  death-notes  blended, 

Shall  disturb  thine  ear  no  more ! 
Peaceful  is  thy  dreamless  slumber ; 

Peaceful,  but  how  cold  and  stern ! 
Thou  hast  joined  that  silent  number 

In  the  land  whence  none  return ! 

Warrior,  rest !  thy  banner  o'er  thee 

Hangs  in  many  a  drooping  fold ; 
Many  a  manly  cheek  before  thee 

Stain'd  with  tear-drops  we  behold ! 
Thine  was  not  a  hand  to  falter 

When  thy  sword  should  leave  its  sheath ; 
Thine  was  not  a  cheek  to  alter, 

Though  thy  duty  led  to  death ! 

Warrior,  rest !  a  dirge  is  knelling 

Solemnly  from  shore  to  shore : 
'T  is  a  nation's  tribute,  telling 

That  a  patriot  is  no  more ! 
Thou  where  Freedom's  sons  have  striven, 

Firm  and  bold,  didst  foremost  stand ! 
Freely  was  thy  life-blood  given 

For  thy  home  and  father-land  ! 

Warrior,  rest !  our  star  is  vanish'd 

That  to  victory  led  the  way ; 
And  from  our  lone  heart  is  banish'd 

All  that  cheer'd  Life's  weary  day ! 
There  thy  young  bride  weeps  in  sorrow 

That  no  more  she  hears  thy  tread  ; 
That  the  night  which  knows  no  morrow 

Darkly  veils  thy  laurell'd  head ! 

Warrior,  rest !  we  smooth  thy  pillow, 

For  thy  last,  long  earthly  sleep; 
O  !  beneath  yon  verdant  willow 

Storms  unhenrd  will  o'er  thee  sweep! 
There,  't  is  done!  thy  couch  awaits  thee! 

Softly  down  thy  hend  we  lay ; 
Here  repose,  till  GOD  translates  thee 

From  the  dust  to  endless  day  ! 


*  Mrs.  SAWYER,  of  Now  York,  is  the  wife  of  the  Rev- 
erend T.  J.  SAWVKR,  of  tint  city.  *he  is  the  author  of 
two  or  three  volumes  of  tales,  sketches,  and  poems. 


532 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


W.  J.  SNELLING.* 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THUNDER.f 

LOOK,  white  man,  well  on  all  around, 

These  hoary  oaks,  those  boundless  plains; 
Tread  lightly ;  this  is  holy  ground : 

Here  Thunder,  awful  spirit !  reigns. 
Look  on  those  waters  far  below, 

So  deep  beneath  the  prairie  sleeping, 
The  summer  sun's  meridian  glow 

Scarce  warms  the  sands  their  waves  are  heaping; 
And  scarce  the  bitter  blast  can  blow 

In  winter  on  their  icy  cover ; 
The  Wind  Sprite  may  not  stoop  so  low, 

But  bows  his  head  and  passes  over. 
Perch'd  on  the  top  of  yonder  pine, 

The  heron's  billow-searching  eye 

Can  scarce  his  finny  prey  descry, 
Glad  leaping  where  their  colours  shine. 
Those  lakes,  whose  shores  but  now  we  trod, 

Scars  deeply  on  earth's  bosom  dinted, 
Are  the  strong  impress  of  a  god, 

By  Thunder's  giant  foot  imprinted. 
Nay,  stranger,  as  I  live,  'tis  truth ! 

The  lips  of  those  who  never  lied, 
Repeat  it  daily  to  our  youth. 

Famed  heroes,  erst  my  nation's  pride, 
Beheld  the  wonder ;  and  our  sages 
Gave  down  the  tale  to  after  ages. 
Dost  not  believe  1  though  blooming  fair 

The  flowerets  court  the  breezes  coy, 
Though  now  the  sweet-grass  scents  the  air, 
And  sunny  nature  basks  in  joy, 

It  is  not  ever  so. 

Come  when  the  lightning  flashes, 
Come  when  the  forest  crashes, 

When  shrieks  of  pain  and  wo 
Break  on  thine  ear-drum  thick  and  fast, 
From  ghosts  that  shiver  in  the  blast ; 
Then  shall  thou  know  and  bend  the  knee 
Before  the  angry  deity. 

But  now  attend,  while  I  unfold 

The  lore  my  brave  forefathers  taught : 
As  yet  the  storm,  the  heat,  the  cold, 

The  changing  seasons  had  not  brought, 
Famine  was  not ;  each  tree  and  grot 

Grew  greener  for  the  rain  ; 
The  wanton  doe,  the  buffalo, 

Blithe  bounded  on  the  plain. 

*  Mr.  SNELHNU,  I  believe,  is  a  native  of  Boston.  lie 
is  the  author  of  "Truth,"  a  satire;  and  of  numerous 
papers,  in  prose  and  verso,  in  the  magazines. 

f  Twenty 4B}gttt  miles  from  the  Bis  Stone  Lake,  near  the 
sources  of  the  St.  Peter's  River,  is  a  cluster  of  small  lakes 
or  ponds,  lying  much  below  the  level  of  the  surrounding 
prairie,  and  ornamented  with  an  oak  wood.  The  Dahco- 
tahs  cnl.  this  place  The  Nest  of  Thunder,  and  say  that 
here  Thunder  was  born.  As  soon  as  the  infant  spirit 
could  go  alone,  he  set  out  to  see  the  world,  and,  at  the 
first  step,  placed  his  foot  upon  a  hill  twenty-five  miles  dis- 
tant; a  rock  on  the  top  of  which  actually  seems  to  bear 
the  print  of  a  gigantic  human  foot.  The  Indians  call  the 
hill  Thunder's  Tracks.  The  Nest  of  Thunder  is,  to  this 
day,  visited  by  the  being  whose  birth  it  witnessed.  He 
comes  clad  in  a  mantle  of  storms,  and  lightnings  play 
round  his  head. 


In  mirth  did  man  the  hours  employ 

Of  that  eternal  spring  ; 
With  song  and  dance,  and  shouts  of  joy, 

Did  hill  and  valley  ring. 
No  death-shot  peal'd  upon  the  ear, 
No  painted  warrior  poised  the  spear, 
No  stake-doom'd  captive  shook  for  fear ; 

No  arrow  left  the  string, 
Save  when  the  wolf  to  earth  was  borne ; 
From  foeman's  head  no  scalp  was  torn ; 
Nor  did  the  pangs  of  hate  and  scorn 

The  red  man's  bosom  wring. 
Then  waving  fields  of  yellow  corn 
Did  our  bless'd  villages  adorn. 

Alas !  that  man  will  never  learn 

His  good  from  evil  to  discern. 

At  length,  by  furious  passions  driven, 

The  Indian  left  his  babes  and  wife, 
And  every  blessing  Gon  has  given, 

To  mingle  in  the  deadly  strife. 
Fierce  Wrath  and  haggard  Envy  soon 
Achieved  the  work  that  War  begun ; 
He  left,  unsought,  the  beast  of  chase, 
And  prey'd  upon  his  kindred  race. 
But  UK  who  rules  t'^e  earth  and  skies, 
Who  watches  every  bolt  that  flies ; 
From  whom  all  gifts,  all  blessings  flow, 
With  grief  beheld  the  scene  below. 
He  wept ;  and,  as  the  balmy  shower 

Refreshing  to  the  ground  descended, 
Each  drop  gave  being  to  a  flower, 

And  all  the  hills  in  homage  bended. 

"Alas!"  the  good  Great  Spirit  said, 

"  Man  merits  not  the  climes  I  gave  ; 
Where'er  a  hillock  rears  its  head, 

He  digs  his  brother's  timeless  grave  : 
To  every  crystal  rill  of  water, 
He  gives  the  crimson  stain  of  slaughter. 
No  more  for  him  my  brow  shall  wear 

A  constant,  glad,  approving  smile  ; 
Ah,  no  !  my  eyes  must  withering  glare 

On  bloody  hands  and  deeds  of  guile. 
Henceforth  shall  my  lost  children  know 
The  piercing  wind,  the  blinding  snow; 
The  storm  shall  drench,  the  sun  shall  burn, 
The  winter  freeze  them,  each  in  turn. 
Henceforth  their  feeble  frames  shall  feel 
A  climate  like  their  hearts  of  steel." 

The  moon  that  night  withheld  her  light. 
By  fits,  instead,  a  lurid  glare 
Illumed  the  skies ;  while  mortal  eyes 

Were  closed,  and  voices  rose  in  prayer. 
While  the  revolving  sun 
Three  times  his  course  might  run, 

The  dreadful  darkness  lasted. 
And  all  that  time  the  red  man's  eye 
A  sleeping  spirit  might  espy, 
Upon  a  tree-top  cradled  high, 

Whose  trunk  his  breath  had  blasted. 
So  long  he  slept,  he  grew  so  fast, 

Beneath  his  weight  the  gnarled  oak 
Snapp'd,  as  the  tempest  snaps  the  mast. 

It  fell,  and  Thunder  woke  ! 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS.                                                      533 

The  world  to  its  foundation  shook, 

If  cares  arise  —  and  cares  will  come  — 

The  grisly  bear  his  prey  forsook, 

Thy  bosom  is  my  softest  home, 

The  scowling  heaven  an  aspect  bore 

I  '11  lull  me  there  to  rest  ; 

That  man  had  never  seen  before  ; 

And  is  there  aught  disturbs  my  fair  1 

The  wolf  in  terror  fled  away, 

I  '11  bid  her  sigh  out  every  care, 

And  shone  at  last  the  light  of  day. 

And  lose  it  in  my  breast. 

'T  was  here  he  stood  ;  these  lakes  attest 

Have  I  a  wish?  —  'tis  all  her  own; 

Where  first  WAW-KEE-IX'S  footsteps  press'd. 

All  hers  and  mine  are  roll'd  in  one,  — 

About  his  burning  brow  a  cloud, 

Our  hearts  are  so  entwined, 

Black  as  the  raven's  wing,  he  wore  ; 

That,  like  the  ivy  round  the  tree, 

Thick  tempests  wrapt  him  like  a  shroud, 

Bound  up  in  closest  amity, 

Red  lightnings  in  his  hand  he  bore  ; 

'T  is  death  to  be  disjoin'd. 

Like  two  bright  suns  his  eyeballs  shone, 

«  

His  voice  was  like  the  cannon's  tone  * 

And,  where  he  breathed,  the  land  became, 

JOHN  RUDOLPH  SUTERMEISTER.* 

Prairie  and  wood,  one  sheet  of  flame. 

FADED  HOURS. 

Not  long  upon  this  mountain  height 

— 

The  first  and  worst  of  storms  abode, 

O  !  FOR  my  bright  and  faded  hours 

For,  moving  in  his  fearful  might, 
Abroad  the  Gon-begotten  strode. 

When  life  was  like  a  summer  stream, 
On  whose  gay  banks  the  virgin  flowers 

Afar,  on  yonder  faint  blue  mound, 
In  the  horizon's  utmost  bound, 
At  the  first  stride  his  foot  he  set  ; 

Blush'd  in  the  morning's  rosy  beam; 
Or  danced  upon  the  breeze  that  bare 
Its  store  of  rich  perfume  along, 

The  jarring  world  confess'd  the  shock. 

While  the  wood-robin  pour'd  on  air 

Stranger  !  the  track  of  Thunder  yet 

The  ravishing  delights  of  song. 

Remains  upon  the  living  rock. 

The  sun  look'd  from  his  lofty  cloud, 

The  second  step,  he  gain'd  the  sand 
On  far  Superior's  storm-beat  strand  : 
Then  with  his  shout  the  concave  rung, 
As  up  to  heaven  the  giant  sprung 
On  high,  beside  his  sire  to  dwell  ; 
But  still,  of  all  the  spots  on  earth, 
He  loves  the  woods  that  gave  him  birth.  — 

While  flow'd  its  sparkling  waters  fair, 
And  went  upon  his  pathway  proud, 
And  threw  a  brighter  lustre  there  ; 
And  smiled  upon  the  golden  heaven, 
And  on  the  earth's  sweet  loveliness, 
Where  light,  and  joy,  and  song  were  given, 
The  glad  and  fairy  scene  to  bless  ! 

Such  is  the  tale  our  fathers  tell. 

Ah  !  these  were  bright  and  joyous  hours, 

When  youth  awoke  from  boyhood's  dream, 

«  

To  see  life's  Eden  dress'd  in  flowers, 

LINDLEY  MURRAY.* 

While  young  hope  bask'd  in  morning's  beam  ! 
And  proffer'd  thanks  to  Heaven  above, 

While  glow'd  his  fond  and  grateful  breast, 

TO  MY  WIFE. 

Who  spread  for  him  that  scene  of  love, 

WHF.X  on  thy  bosom  I  recline, 

And  made  him  so  supremely  blest  ! 

Enraptured  still  to  call  thee  mine, 

That  scene  of  love  !  —  where  hath  it  gone? 

To  call  thee  mine  for  life, 

Where  have  its  charms  and  beauty  sped  ? 

I  glory  in  the  sacred  ties, 

My  hours  of  youth,  that  o'er  me  shone, 

Which  modern  wits  and  fools  despise, 

Where  have  their  light  and  splendour  fled? 

Of  husband  and  of  wife. 

Into  the  silent  lapse  of  years, 

And  I  am  left  on  earth  to  mourn; 

One  mutual  flame  inspires  our  bliss  ; 
The  tender  look,  the  melting  kiss, 

And  I  am  left  to  drop  my  tears 
O'er  memory's  lone  and  icy  urn  ! 

Even  years  have  not  destroyed; 
Some  sweet  sensation,  ever  new, 

Yet  why  pour  forth  the  voice  of  wail 

Springs  up  and  proves  the  maxim  true, 
That  love  can  ne'er  be  cloy'd. 

O'er  feeling's  blighted  coronal  ? 
Ere  many  gorgeous  suns  shall  fail, 
I  shall  be  gather'd  in  my  pall  ; 

Have  I  a  wish?  —  'tis  all  for  thee. 

O,  my  dark  hours  on  earth  are  few  — 

Hast  thou  a  wish?  —  'tis  all  for  me. 

My  hopes  are  crush'd,  my  heart  is  riven  ; 

So  soft  our  moments  move, 

And  I  shall  soon  bid  life  adieu, 

That  angels  look  with  ardent  gaze, 

To  seek  enduring  joys  in  heaven! 

Well  pleased  to  see  our  happy  days, 

" 

And  bid  us  live  —  and  love. 

Mr.   St'TERMElSTER   was    born    in  fnra^oa,   in  tile 

West  Indies,  and  came  to  New  York  with  his  parents, 

„  when  about  f.mr  vcars  cM.    lie  wrote  many  brief  poems 

*  I.lxnLEv  MURRAY,  author  of  the  "English  Grammar."     "white  a   law  stnilent,  but  no  collection  of  his  writines 

and  other  works,  was  a  native  of  New  York,  though  the       lias  been  published.    He  died  in  1836,  in  the  twenty-third 

greater  portion  of  his  life  was  passed  in  England.                 year  of  his  age. 

2  Y  2 

534 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


B.  B.  THATCHER.* 


THE  BIRD  OF  THE  BASTILE.j 

COME  to  my  breast,  thou  lone 

And  weary  bird  ! — one  tone 
Of  the  rare  music  of  my  childhood ! — dear 

Is  that  strange  sound  to  me ; 

Dear  is  the  memory 
It  brings  my  soul  of  many  a  parted  year. 

Again,  yet  once  again, 

0  minstrel  of  the  main ! 

Lo !  festal  face  and  form  familiar  throng 

Unto  my  waking  eye ; 

And  voices  of  the  sky 
Sing  from  these  walls  of  death  unwonted  song. 

Nay,  cease  not — I  would  call, 

Thus,  from  the  silent  hall 
Of  the  unlighted  grave,  the  joys  of  old : 

Beam  on  me  yet  once  more, 

Ye  blessed  eyes  of  yore, 
Startling  life-blood  through  all  my  being  cold. 

Ah !  cease  not — phantoms  fair 

Fill  thick  the  dungeon's  air; 
They  wave  me  from  its  gloom — I  fly — I  stand 

Again  upon  that  spot, 

Which  ne'er  hath  been  forgot 
In  all  time's  tears,  my  own  green,  glorious  land ! 

There,  on  each  noon-bright  hill, 

By  fount  and  flashing  rill, 
Slowly  the  faint  flocks  sought  the  breezy  shade; 

There  gleam'd  the  sunset's  fire, 

On  the  tall  taper  spire, 
And  windows  low,  along  the  upland  glade. 

Sing,  sing! — I  do  not  dream — 
It  is  my  own  blue  stream, 
Far,  far  below,  amid  the  balmy  vale ; — 

1  know  it  by  the  hedge 
Of  rose-trees  at  its  edge, 

Vaunting  their  crimson  beauty  to  the  gale : 

There,  there,  mid  clustering  leaves, 

Glimmer  my  father's  eaves, 
And  the  worn  threshold  of  my  youth  beneath; — 

I  know  them  by  the  moss, 

And  the  old  elms  that  toss  [wreath. 

Their  lithe  arms  up  where  winds  the  smoke's  gray 

Sing,  sing ! — I  am  not  mad — 
Sing!  that  the  visions  glad  [now; — 

May  smile  that  smiled,  and  speak  that  spake  but 

*  BENJAMIN  B.  THATCHER,  author  of  "Indian  Biogra- 
phy," "Indian  Traits,"  and  numerous  contributions  to 
our  periodical  literature,  died  in  Boston  on  the  14th  of 
July,  1840,  in  the  thirty-second  year  of  his  ape.  He  was 
a  native  of  Maine,  and  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College, 
in  that  state. 

t  One  prisoner  I  saw  there,  who  had  been  imprisoned 
from  his  youth,  and  was  said  to  be  occasionally  insane  in 
consequence.  He  enjoyed  no  companionship  (the  keeper 
told  me)  but  that  of  a  beautiful  tamed  bird.  Of  what « 
name  or  clime  it  was,  I  know  not — only  that  he  called  it 
fondly,  his  dove,  and  seemed  never  happy  but  when  it 
sang  to  him. — JUS.  of  a  Tour  through  France. 


Sing,  sing ! — I  might  have  knelt 

And  pray'd ;  I  might  have  felt 
Their  breath  upon  my  bosom  and  my  brow. 

I  might  have  press'd  to  this 

Cold  bosom,  in  my  bliss, 
Each  long-lost  form  that  ancient  hearth  beside ; 

O  heaven!  I  might  have  heard, 

From  living  lips,  one  word, 
Thou  mother  of  my  childhood, — and  have  died. 

Nay,  nay,  'tis  sweet  to  weep, 

Ere  yet  in  death  I  sleep ; 
It  minds  me  I  have  been,  and  am  again, — 

And  the  world  wakes  around ; 

It  breaks  the  madness  bound, 
While  I  have  dream'd,  these  ages,  on  my  brain. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  love 

Even  this  gentle  dove, 
This  breathing  thing  from  all  life  else  apart: — 

Ah !  leave  me  not  the  gloom 

Of  my  eternal  tomb 
To  bear  alone — alone ! — come  to  my  heart, 

My  bird! — Thou  shalt  go  free; 

And  come,  O  come  to  me 
Again,  when  from  the  hills  the  spring-gale  blows; 

So  shall  I  learn,  at  least, 

One  other  year  hath  ceased, 
And  the  long  woe  throbs  lingering  to  its  close. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING.* 


THE  ARCHED  STREAM 

IT  went  within  my  inmost  heart, 

The  overhanging  Arch  to  see, 
The  liquid  stream  became  a  part 

Of  my  internal  harmony. 

So  gladly  rush'd  the  full  stream  through, 
Pleased  with  the  measure  of  its  flow, 

So  burst  the  gladness  on  the  view, 
It  made  a  song  of  mirth  below. 

Yet  gray  were  those  o'erarching  stones, 
And  sear  and  dry  the  fringing  grass, 

And  mournful  with  remember'd  tones 
That  out  of  Autumn's  bosom  pass. 

And  over  it  the  heavy  road, 

Where  creaks  the  wain  with  burden'd  cheer, 
But  gaily  from  this  low  abode 

Leapt  out  the  merry  brook  so  clear. 

Then  Nature  said :  My  child,  to  thee, 
From  the  gray  arch  shall  beauty  flow, 

Thou  art  a  pleasant  thing  to  me, 
And  freely  in  my  meadows  go. 

Thy  verse  shall  gush  thus  freely  on, 

Some  poet  yet  may  sit  thereby, 
And  cheer  himself  within  the  sun 

My  life  has  kindled  in  thine  eye. 


*  Mr.  CHAXMNG  is  a  nephew  of  the  late  Dr.  W.  E. 
CHANXIXG.  He  published  a  volume  of  Poems  in  1843, 
and  another  in  IsST. 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


535 


JAMES  WILLIAM  MILLER.* 


TO  A  SHOWER. 

THE  pleasant  rain ! — the  pleasant  rain ! 

By  fits  it  plashing  falls 
On  twangling  leaf  and  dimpling  pool — 

How  sweet  its  warning  calls  ! 
They  know  it — all  the  bosomy  vales, 

High  slopes,  and  verdant  meads; 
The  queenly  elms  and  princely  oaks 

Bow  down  their  grateful  heads. 

The  withering  grass,  and  fading  flowers, 

And  drooping  shrubs  look  gay; 
The  bubbly  brook,  with  gladlier  song, 

Hies  on  its  endless  way ; 
All  things  of  earth — the  grateful  things! 

Put  on  their  robes  of  cheer, 
They  hear  the  sound  of  the  warning  burst, 

And  know  the  rain  is  near. 

It  comes !  it  comes !  the  pleasant  rain ! 

I  drink  its  cooler  breath ; 
It  is  rich  with  sighs  of  fainting  flowers, 

And  roses'  fragrant  death ; 
It  hath  kiss'd  the  tomb  of  the  lily  pale, 

The  beds  where  violets  die, 
And  it  bears  their  life  on  its  living  wings — 

I  feel  it  wandering  by. 

And  yet  it  comes !  the  lightning's  flash 

Hath  torn  the  lowering  cloud, 
With  a  distant  roar,  and  a  nearer  crash, 

Out  bursts  the  thunder  loud. 
It  comes  with  the  rush  of  a  god's  descent 

On  the  hush'd  and  trembling  earth, 
To  visit  the  shrines  of  the  hallow'd  groves 

Where  a  poet's  soul  had  birth. 

With  a  rush,  as  of  a  thousand  steeds, 

Is  the  mighty  god's  descent ; 
Beneath  the  weight  of  his  passing  tread, 

The  conscious  groves  are  bent. 
His  heavy  tread — it  is  lighter  now — 

And  yet  it  passeth  on; 
And  now  it  is  up,  with  a  sudden  lift — 

The  pleasant  rain  hath  gone. 

The  pleasant  rain ! — the  pleasant  rain ! 

It  hath  passed  above  the  earth, 
I  see  the  smile  of  the  opening  cloud, 

Like  the  parted  lips  of  mirth. 
The  golden  joy  is  spreading  wide 

Along  the  blushing  west, 
And  the  happy  earth  gives  back  her  smiles, 

Like  the  glow  of  a  grateful  breast. 

As  a  blessing  sinks  in  a  grateful  heart, 

That  knoweth  all  its  need, 
So  came  the  good  of  the  pleasant  rain, 

O'er  hill  and  verdant  mead. 
It  shall  breathe  this  truth  on  the  human  eai, 

In  hall  and  cotter's  home, 
That  to  bring  the  gift  of  a  bounteous  Heaven, 

The  pleasant  rain  hath  come. 

*  J.  W.  MILLEJI  was  a  native  of  Bogton,  and  at  one 
period  connected  with  JOHN  NEAL  in  the  editorship  of 
"The  Yankee."  I  believe  he  died  in  1826. 


WILLIAM  B.  WALTER.* 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

AWD  art  thou  here,  sweet  boy,  among 
The  crowds  that  come  this  world  to  throng  1 
The  loveliest  dream  of  waking  life ! 
Hope  of  the  bosom's  secret  strife ! 
Emblem  of  all  the  heart  can  love! 
Vision  of  all  that's  bright  above ! 
Pledge,  promise  of  remember'd  years ! 
Seal  of  pure  souls,  yet  bought  with  tears! 

Hail !  child  of  love ! — I  linger  yet 
Around  thy  couch,  where  slumber  sweet 
Hangs  on  thine  eyelids'  living  shroud ; 
And  thoughts  and  dreamings  thickly  crowd 
Upon  the  mind  like  gleams  of  light 
Which  sweep  along  the  darksome  night, 
Lurid  and  strange,  all  fearful  sent 
In  flashings  o'er  the  firmament! 

O!  wake  not  from  that  tranquil  sleep! 
Too  soon  'twill  break,  and  thou  shalt  weep; 
Such  is  thy  destiny  and  doom, 
O'er  this  long  past  and  long  to  come; 
Earth's  mockery,  guilt,  and  nameless  woe; 
The  pangs  which  thou  canst  only  know ; 
All  crowded  in  a  little  span, 
The  being  of  the  creature  Man ! 

Ah !  little  deemest  thou,  my  child, 
The  way  of  life  is  dark  and  wild  ; 
Its  sunshine,  but  a  light  whose  play 
Serves  but  to  dazzle  and  betray  ; 
Weary  and  long — its  end,  the  tomb, 
Where  darkness  spreads  her  wings  of  gloom ! 
That  resting-place  of  things  which  live, 
The  goal  of  all  that  earth  can  give ! 

It  may  be  that  the  dreams  of  fame, 
Proud  Glory's  plume,  the  warrior's  name, 
Shall  lure  thee  to  the  field  of  blood ; 
There,  like  a  god,  war's  fiery  flood 
May  bear  thee  on !  while  far  above, 
Thy  crimson  banners  proudly  move, 
Like  the  red  clouds  which  skirt  the  sun, 
When  the  fierce  tempest-day  is  done ! 

Or  lead  thee  to  a  cloister'd  cell, 
Where  Learning's  votaries  lonely  dwell ; 
The  midnight  lamp  and  brow  of  care; 
The  frozen  heart  that  mocks  despair; 
Consumption's  fires  to  burn  thy  cheek; 
The  brain  that  throbs,  but  will  not  break; 
The  travail  of  the  soul,  to  gain 
A  name,  and  die — alas !  in  vain ! 

Thou  reckest  not,  sweet  slumberer,  there, 
Of  this  world's  crimes;  of  many  a  snare 
To  catch  the  soul ;  of  pleasures  wild, 
Friends  false — foes  dark — and  hearts  beguiled ; 
Of  Passion's  ministers  who  sway, 
With  iron  sceptre,  all  who  stray ; 

*  WILLIAM  B.  WALTER  was  born  in  Boston,  in  18—, 
and  was  educated  at  Bnwdnin  Cnlloffe.  He  wrote 
"Sukey,  a  poem,"  in  the  style  of  "Don  Juan,"  "Visions 
of  Romance,"  and  some  other  metrical  compositions, 
which  were  popular  in  their  time.  He  died  in  18—. 


536 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


Of  broken  hearts — still  loving  on, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  changed,  and  gone ! 

What  is  it  that  thou  wilt  not  prove  1 

Power,  Wealth,  Dominion,  Grandeur,  Love — 

All  the  soul's  idols  in  their  turn ! 

And  find  each  false,  yet  wildly  burn 

To  grasp  at  all — and  love  the  cheat ; 

Smile,  when  the  ravening  vultures  eat 

Into  thy  very  bosom's  core, 

And  drink  up  that — which  is  not  gore ! 

Thy  tears  shall  flow,  and  thou  shalt  weep 
As  he  has  wept  who  eyes  thy  sleep, 
But  weeps  no  more — his  heart  is  cold, 
Warp'd,  sicken'd,  sear'd,  with  woes  untold. 
And  be  it  so !  the  clouds  which  roll 
Dark,  heavy  o'er  my  troubled  soul, 
Bring  with  them  lightnings  which  illume, 
To  shroud  the  mind  in  deeper  gloom ! 

But  no!  dear  boy,  my  earnest  prayer 
Shall  call  on  Heaven  to  bless  thee  here ! 
Long  mayst  thou  live  to  love  thy  kind — 
Brave,  generous,  of  a  lofty  mind! 
Thy  father  live  again  in  thee, 
Thy  mother  long  her  virtues  see 
Brightly  reflected  forth  in  thine — 
Her  solace  in  life's  sad  decline. 

Sleep  on !  sleep  on !  but,  O  my  soul, 

This  is  not  slumber's  soft  contro'  ! 

Boy ! — boy !  awake — that  strug  ^ling  cry 

So  faint  and  low — that  agony ! 

The  long,  sunk,  heavy  gasp  and  groan ! 

And  O,  that  desolate,  last  moan ! — 

My  GOD  !  the  infant  spirit's  gone ! 

Are  there  no  tears'! — dark — dark — alone! 

'Tis  past!  farewell !     I  little  thought 
The  mockeries  which  my  fancy  wrought, 
From  fate's  dark  book  were  rudely  torn ! — 
That  clouds  would  darken  o'er  thy  morn ! 
That  death's  stern  hand  would  sweep  away 
The  flower  just  springing  to  the  day ! 
But  wounded  hearts  must  still  bleed  on! 
Enough,  enough — GOD'S  WILL  BE  DOME  ! 


JAMES  WALLIS  EASTBURN.* 


TO  PNEUMA. 

TEMPESTS  their  furious  course  may  sweep 
Swiftly  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
Darkness  may  lend  her  gloomy  aid, 
And  wrap  the  groaning  world  in  shade ; 
But  man  can  show  a  darker  hour, 
And  bend  beneath  a  stronger  power; — 
There  is  a  tempest  of  the  soul, 
A  gloom  where  wilder  billows  roll ! 

The  howling  wilderness  may  spread 
Its  pathless  deserts,  parch'd  and  dread, 
Where  not  a  blade  of  herbage  blooms, 
Nor  yields  the  breeze  its  soft  perfumes; 


*    Mr.   EASTBURN  was  associated  with    ROBERT    C. 
SANDS  in  writing  "Yamoyden."    See  page  243. 


Where  silence,  death,  and  horror  reign, 
Uncheck'd,  across  the  wide  domain; — 
There  is  a  desert  of  the  mind 
More  hopeless,  dreary,  undefined ! 

There  Sorrow,  moody  Discontent, 
And  gnawing  Care  are  wildly  blent; 
There  Horror  hangs  her  darkest  clouds, 
And  the  whole  scene  in  gloom  enshrouds ; 
A  sickly  ray  is  cast  around, 
Where  naught  but  dreariness  is  found ; 
A  feeling  that  may  not  be  told, 
Dark,  rending,  lonely,  drear,  and  cold. 

The  wildest  ills  that  darken  life 

Are  rapture  to  the  bosom's  strife; 

The  tempest,  in  its  blackest  form, 

Is  beauty  to  the  bosom's  storm; 

The  ocean,  lash'd  to  fury  loud, 

Its  high  wave  mingling  with  the  cloud, 

Is  peaceful,  sweet  serenity 

To  passion's  dark  and  boundless  sea. 

There  sleeps  no  calm,  there  smiles  no  rest, 
When  storms  are  warring  in  the  breast; 
There  is  no  moment  of  repose 
In  bosoms  lash'd  by  hidden  woes; 
The  scorpion  sting  the  fury  rears, 
And  every  trembling  fibre  tears; 
The  vulture  preys  with  bloody  beak 
Upon  the  heart  that  can  but  break ! 


JAMES  N.  BARKER.* 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING  HOOD. 

SHE  was,  indeed,  a  pretty  little  creature, 
So  meek,  so  modest;  what  a  pity,  madam, 
That  one  so  young  and  innocent  should  fall 
A  prey  to  the  ravenous  wolf. 

The  wolf,  indeed ! 

You've  left  the  nursery  to  but  little  purpose, 

If  you  believe  a  wolf  could  ever  speak, 

Though  in  the  time  of  ^Esop,  or  before. 

— Was't  not  a  wolf,  then  ?  I  have  read  the  story 

A  hundred  times ;  and  heard  it  told :  nay,  told  it 

Myself,  to  my  younger  sisters,  when  we've  shrank 

Together  in  the  sheets,  from  very  terror, 

And,  with  protecting  arms,  each  round  the  other, 

E'en  sobb'd  ourselves  to  sleep.     But  I  remember, 

I  saw  the  story  acted  on  the  stage, 

Last  winter  in  the  city,  I  and  my  school-mates, 

With  our  most  kind  preceptress,  Mrs.  Bazely, 

And  so  it  was  a  robber,  not  a  wolf, 

That  met  poor  little  Riding  Hood  i'  the  wood? 

— Nor  wolf  nor  robber,  child :  this  nursery  tale 

Contains  a  hidden  moral. 

Hidden:  nay, 

I'm  not  so  young  but  I  can  spell  it  out, 

And  thus  it  is:  children,  when  sent  on  errands, 

Must  never  stop  by  the  way  to  talk  with  wolves. 

*  Mr.  BARKER  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  and  is  now 
in  one  of  the  bureaus  of  the  Treasury  Department,  at. 
Washington.  He  is  the  author  of  '-Tears  and  Smiles," 
"How  to  try  a  Lover,"  and  several  other  dramatic 
compositions. 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


537 


— Tut !  wolves  again :  wilt  listen  to  me,  child  1 
— Say  on,  dear  grandma. 

Thus,  then,  dear,  my  daughter: 

In  this  young  person  culling  idle  flowers, 
You  see  the  peril  that  attends  the  maiden 
Who,  in  her  walk  through  life,  yields  to  temptation, 
And  quits  the  onward  path  to  stray  aside, 
Allured  by  gaudy  weeds. 

Nay,  none  but  children 

Could  gather  butter-cups  and  May-weed,  mother; 
But  violets,  dear  violets — methinks 
I  could  live  ever  on  a  bank  of  violets, 
Or  die  most  happy  there. 

You  die,  indeed, 

At  your  years  die ! 

Then  sleep,  ma'am,  if  you  please, 

As  you  did  yesterday  in  that  sweet  spot 
Down  by  the  fountain ;  where  you  seated  you 
To  read  the  last  new  novel — wh'at  d'ye  call't — 
The  Prairie,  was  it  not] 

It  was,  my  love, 

And  there,  as  I  remember,  your  kind  arm 
Pillow'd  my  aged  head :  'twas  irksome,  sure, 
To  your  young  limbs  and  spirit. 

No,  believe  me, 

To  keep  the  insects  from  disturbing  you 
Was  sweet  employment,  or  to  fan  your  cheek 
When  the  breeze  lull'd. 

You're  a  dear  child ! 

And,  then, 

To  gaze  on  such  a  scene !  the  grassy  bank, 

So  gently  sloping  to  the  rivulet, 

All  purple  with  my  own  dear  violet, 

And  sprinkled  o'er  with  spring  flowers  of  each 

tint. 

There  was  that  pale  and  humble  little  blossom, 
Looking  so  like  its  namesake,  Innocence ; 
The  fairy-form'd,  flesh-hued  anemone, 
With  its  fair  sisters,  called  by  country  people 
Fair  maids  o'  the  spring.    The  lowly  cinquefoil  too, 
And  statelier  marigold.     The  violet  sorrel 
Blushing  so  rosy  red  in  bashfulness, 
And  her  companion  of  the  season,  dress'd 
In  varied  pink.     The  partridge  ever-green, 
Hanging  its  fragrant  wax-work  on  each  stem, 
And  studding  the  green  sod  with  scarlet  berries — 
— Did  you  see  all  those  flowers  1    I  mark'd  them 

not. 

— O  many  more,  whose  names  I  have  not  learn'd. 
And  then  to  see  the  light  blue  butterfly 
Roaming  about,  like  an  enchanted  thing, 
From  flower  to  flower,  and  the  bright  honey-bee ; 
And  there,  too,  was  the  fountain,  overhung 
With  bush  and  tree,  draped  by  the  graceful  vine, 
Where  the  white  blossoms  of  the  dogwood  met 
The  crimson,  red-bud,  and  the  sweet  birds  sang 
Their  madrigals;  while  the  fresh  springing  waters, 
Just  stirring  the  green  fern  that  bathed  within  them, 
Lea |)'d  joyful  o'er  their  fiiry  mound  of  rock, 
And  fell  in  music — then  pass'd  prattling  on, 
Between  the  flowery  hanks  that  bent  to  kiss  them. 

1  dream'd  not  of  these  sights  or  sounds. 

Then  just 

Beyond  the  brook  there  lay  a  narrow  strip, 
Like  a  rich  riband,  of  enamell'd  meadow, 


Girt  by  a  pretty  precipice,  whose  top 

Was  crown'd  with  rose-bay.    Halfway  down  there 

stood, 

Sylph-like,  the  light  fantastic  columbine 
As  ready  to  leap  down  unto  her  lover 
Harlequin  Bartsia,  in  his  painted  vest 
Of  green  and  crimson. 

Tut!  enough,  enough, 

Your  madcap  fancy  runs  too  riot,  girl. 
We  must  shut  up  your  books  of  botany, 
And  give  you  graver  studies. 

Will  you  shut 

The  book  of  nature,  too  1 — for  it  is  that 
I  love  and  study.     Do  not  take  me  back 
To  the  cold,  heartless  city,  with  its  forms 
And  dull  routine;  its  artificial  manners 
And  arbitrary  rules;  its  cheerless  pleasures 
And  mirthless  masquing.     Yet  a  little  longer 

0  let  me  hold  communion  here  with  nature. 

— Well,  well,  we'll  see.    But  we  neglect  our  lecture 
Upon  this  picture — 

Poor  Red  Riding  Hood ! 

We  had  forgotten  her ;  yet  mark,  dear  madam, 
How  patiently  the  poor  thing  waits  our  leisure. 
And  now  the  hidden  moral. 

Thus  it  is: 

Mere  children  read  such  stories  literally, 

But  the  more  elderly  and  wise  deduce 

A  moral  from  the  fiction.     In  a  word, 

The  wolf  that  you  must  guard  against  is — LOVE. 

— I  thought  love  was  an  infant ;  "  toujours  enfant." 

— The  world  and  love  were  young  together,  child, 

And  innocent — alas!  time  changes  all  things. 

— True,  I  remember,  love  is  now  a  man. 

And,  the  song  says,  "  a  very  saucy  one," — 

But  how  a  wolf? 

In  ravenous  appetite, 

Unpitying  and  unsparing,  passion  is  oft 
A  beast  of  prey.     As  the  wolf  to  the  Iamb, 
Is  he  to  innocence. 

I  shall  remember, 

For  now  I  see  the  moral.     Trust  me,  madam, 
Should  I  e'er  meet -this  wolf-love  in  my  way, 
Be  he  a  boy  or  man,  I'll  take  good  heed, 
And  hold  no  converse  with  him. 

You'll  do  wisely. 

— Nor  e'er  in  field  or  forest,  plain  or  pathway, 
Shall  he  from  me  know  whither  I  am  going, 
Or  whisper  that  he'll  meet  me. 

That's  my  child. 

— Nor,  in  my  grandam's  cottage,  nor  elsewhere, 
Will  I  e'er  lift  the  latch  for  him  myself, 
Or  bid  him  pull  the  bobbin. 

Well,  my  dear, 

You've  learned  your  lesson. 

Yet  one  thing,  my  mother, 

Somewhat  perplexes  me. 

Say  what,  my  love, 

1  will  explain., 

This  wolf,  the  story  goes, 

Deceived  poor  grandam  first,  and  ate  her  up: 
What  is  the  moral  here  ?     Have  all  our  grandams 
Been  first  devour'd  by  love  1 

Let  us  go  in ; 

The  air  grows  cool ;  you  are  a  forward  chit. 


538 


VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


SARAH  JOSEPHA  HALE.* 


THE  LIGHT  OF  HOME. 

Mr  boy,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 
And  thou  must  go ; — but  never  when  there 

Forget  the  light  of  home. 

Though  pleasure  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray ; 
Like  the  meteor's  flash  it  will  deepen  the  night, 

When  thou  treadest  the  lonely  way. 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame 

And  pure  as  the  vestal  fire ; 
T  will  burn,  't  will  burn,  for  ever  the  same, 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest  toss'd, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam, 

But  when  sails  are  shiver'd  and  rudder  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home. 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  the  midnight  cloud, 

Thou  shalt  see  the  beacon  bright, 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud, 

Can  be  quench'd  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  fame,  't  will  gild  the  name, 

But  the  heart  ne'er  feels  its  ray ; 
And  fashion's  smiles,  that  rich  ones  claim, 

Are  like  beams  of  a  wintry  day 

And  how  cold  and  dim  those  beams  would  be, 
Should  life's  wretched  wanderer  come  : 

But  my  boy,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee, 
Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 


SEBA  SMITH.t 


THE  MOTHER  PERISHING  IN  A  SNOW-STORM.* 

THE  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And  mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 

A  mother  wander'd  with  her  child : 
As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  press'd, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 
And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow: 

Her  limbs  were  chill'd,  her  strength  was  gone ; 

"  0,  GOD  !"  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

"  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child !" 

She  stripp'd  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 

And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 
And  round  the  child  she  wrapp'd  the  vest, 

And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

*  Mrs.  HALE  is  a  native  of  Newport,  New  Hampshire 
She  is  the  author  of  "Northwood,"  "Sketches  of  Ameri- 
can Life,"  "  Alice  Ray,  a  Romance  in  Rhyme,"  etc. 

t  Author  of  "  Powhuttan,  a  Metrical  Romance,"  &c. 
He  resides  in  New  York. 

t  In  the  year  1821,  a  Mrs.  BLAKE  perished  in  a  snow- 
gtorm  in  the  night-time,  while  travelling  over  a  spur  of  the 
Green  Mountains,  in  Vermont.  She  had  an  infant  with 
her,  which  was  found  alive  and  well  in  the  morning,  being 
carefully  wrapped  in  the  mother's  clothing. 


With  one  cold  kiss,  one  tear  she  shed, 
And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a  traveller  passed  by, 
And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil ; 

The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale ; 

He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child, 

The  babe  look'd  up  and  sweetly  smiled ! 

JAMES  HALL.* 


WEDDED  LOVE'S  FIRST  HOME. 

'T  WAS  far  beyond  yon  mountains,  dear, 

We  plighted  vows  of  love ; 
The  ocean-wave  was  at  our  feet, 

The  autumn  sky  above; 
The  pebbly  shore  was  cover'd  o'er 

With  many  a  varied  shell, 
And  on  the  billow's  curling  spray 

The  sunbeams  glittering  fell. 
The  storm  has  vex'd  that  billow  oft, 

And  oft  that  sun  has  set, 
But  plighted  love  remains  with  us, 

In  peace  and  lustre  yet. 

I  wiled  thee  to  a  lonely  haunt, 

That  bashful  love  might  speak 
Where  none  could  hear  what  love  reveal'd, 

Or  see  the  crimson  cheek ; 
The  shore  was  all  deserted, 

And  we  wander'd  there  alone, 
And  not  a  human  step  impress'd 

The  sand-beach  but  our  own. 
Thy  footsteps  all  have  vanish'd 

From  the  willow-beaten  strand — 
The  vows  we  breathed  remain  with  us — 

They  were  not  traced  in  sand. 

Far,  far  we  left  the  sea-girt  shore, 

Endcar'd  by  childhood's  dream, 
To  seek  the  humble  cot,  that  smiled 

By  fair  Ohio's  stream; 
In  vain  the  mountain  cliff  opposed, 

The  mountain  torrent  roar'd, 
For  love  unfurl'd  her  silken  wing, 

And  o'er  each  barrier  soar'd ; 
And  many  a  wide  domain  we  pass'd 

And  many  an  ample  dome, 
But  none  so  bless'd,  so  dear  to  us, 

As  wedded  love's  first  home. 

Beyond  those  mountains  now  are  all 

That  e'er  we  loved  or  knew, 
The  long-remember'd  many, 

And  the  dearly -cherish'd  few : 
The  home  of  her  we  value, 

And  the  grave  of  him  we  mourn, 
Are  there ; — and  there  is  all  the  past 

To  which  the  heart  can  turn ; 
But  dearer  scenes  surround  us  here, 

And  lovelier  joys  we  trace, 
For  here  is  weakled  love's  first  home, 

Its  hallow'd  resting-place. 

*  Judge  HALL  resides  in  Cincinnati,  and  is  author  of 
"  Legends  of  the  West,"  and  several  other  volumes  of 
prose  fiction. 


VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


539 


ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH.* 


THE  IDEAL. 

A  SAD,  sweet  dream !     It  fell  upon  my  soul 

When  song  and  thought  first  woke  their  echoes 

Swaying  my  spirit  to  its  wild  control,  [there, 

And  with  the  shadow  of  a  fond  despair, 

Darkening  the  fountain  of  my  young  life's  stream, 

It  haunts  me  still,  and  yet  I  know  'tis  but  a  dream. 

Whence  art  thou,  shadowy  presence,  that  canst  hide 

From  my  charm'd  sight  the  glorious  things  of 
A  mirage  o'er  life's  desert  dost  thou  glide  1    [earth  1 

Or  with  those  glimmerings  of  a  former  birth, 
A  "  trailing  cloud  of  glory"  hast  thou  come 
From  some  bright  world  afar,  our  unremember'd 

home! 
I  know  thou  dwell' st  not  in  this  dull,  cold  Real, 

I  know  thy  home  is  in  some  brighter  sphere, 
I  know  I  shall  not  meet  thee,  my  Ideal, 

In  the  dark  wanderings  that  await  me  here ; 
Why  comes  thy  gentle  image  then,  to  me, 
Wasting  my  night  of  life  in  one  long  dream  of  thee  1 

The  city's  peopled  solitude,  the  glare 

Of  festal  halls,  moonlight,  and  music's  tone, 

All  breathe  the  sad  refrain — (hou  art  not  there; 
And  even  with  nature  I  am  still  alone ; 

With  joy  I  see  her  summer  bloom  depart ; 

I  love  stern  winter's  reign — 'tis  winter  in  my  heart 

And  if  I  sigh,  upon  my  brow  to  see 

The  deep'ning  shadow  of  Time's  restless  wing, 
'Tis  for  the  youth  I  might  not  give  to  thee, 

The  vanish'd  brightness  of  my  first  sweet  spring, 
That  I  might  give  thee  not  the  joyous  form 
Unworn  by  tears  and  cares,  unlighted  by  the  storm. 

And  when  the  hearts  I  should  be  proud  to  win, 
Breathe,  in  those  tones  that  woman  holds  so  dear, 

Words  of  impassion'd  homage  unto  mine, 
Coldly  and  harsh  they  fall  upon  my  ear, 

And  as  I  listen  to  the  fervent  vow 

My  weary  heart  replies,  "  Mas,  it  is  not  thou .'" 

Depart,  O  shadow !  fatal  dream,  depart ! 

Go,  I  conjure  thee,  leave  me  this  poor  life, 
And  I  will  meet  with  firm,  heroic  heart, 

Its  threat'ning  storms  and  its  tumultous  strife, 
And  with  the  poet-seer  will  see  thee  stand 
To  welcome  my  approach  to  thine  own  Spirit-land. 

And  when  the  thoughts  within  my  spirit  glow 
That  would  out-pour  themselves  in  words  of  fire, 

If  some  kind  influence  bade  the  music  flow 

Like  that  which  woke  the  notes  of  Memnon'slyre, 

Thou,  sunlight  of  my  life,  wak'st  not  the  lay, 

And  song  within  my  heart  unutter'd  dies  away. 


THE  IDEAL,  FOUND. 

I'VE  met  thee,  whom  I  dared  not  hope  to  meet 
Save  in  th'  enchanted  land  of  my  day  dreams ; 

Yes,  in  this  common  world,  this  waking  state, 
Thy  living  presence  on  my  vision  beams, 

Life's  dream  imbodied  in  reality ! 

And  in  thine  eyes  I  read  indifference  to  me! 

*  Of  Providence,  Rhode  Island. 


Yes,  in  those  star-like  eyes  I  read  my  fate, 
My  horoscope  is  written  in  their  gaze ; 

My  "  house  of  life"  henceforth  is  desolate ; 
But  the  dark  aspect  my  firm  heart  surveys, 

Nor  faints  nor  falters  even  for  thy  sake, — 

'Tis  calm  and  nerved  and  strong — no,  no,  it  shall 
not  break. 

For  I  am  of  that  mood  that  will  defy ; 

That  does  not  cower  before  the  gathering  storm ; 
That  face  to  face  will  meet  its  destiny, 

And  undismay'd  confront  its  ditrkest  form. 
Wild  energies  awaken  in  this  strife, 
This  conflict  of  the  soul  with  the  grim  phantom  Life. 

But  ah !  if  thou  hadst  loved  me !  had  I  been 
All  to  thy  dreams  that  to  mine  own  thou  art, 

Had  those  dark  eyes  beam'd  eloquent  on  mine, 
Press'd  for  one  moment  to  that  noble  heart 

In  the  full  consciousness  of  faith  unspoken, 

Life  could  have  given  no  more — then  had  my  proud 
heart  broken ! 

The  Alpine  glacier  from  its  height  may  mock 
The  clouds  and  lightnings  from  the  winter  sky, 

And  from  the  tempest  and  the  thunder's  shock 
Gather  new  strength  to  lift  its  summit  high ; 

But  kiss'd  by  sunbeams  of  the  summer  day, 

It  bows  its  icy  crest  and  weeps  itself  away. 

Thou  know'st  the  fable  of  the  Grecian  maid 
Woo'd  by  the  veil'd  immortal  from  the  skies, 

How  in  his  full  perfections,  once  she  pray'd, 
That  he  would  stand  before  her  longing  eyes, 

And  how  that  brightness,  too  intense  to  bless, 

Consumed  her  o'erwrought  heart  with  its  divine 
excess. 

To  me  there  is  a  meaning  in  the  tale. 

I  have  not  pray'd  to  meet  thee ;  I  can  brook 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  to  me  that  icy  veil ; 

I  can  give  back  that  cold  and  careless  look ; 
Yet  shrined  within  my  heart  still  thou  shall  seem, 
What  there  thou  ever  wert — a  beautiful,  bright 
dream! 

HENRY  B.  HIRST.* 
ASTARTE. 

THY  lustre,  heavenly  star !  shines  ever  on  me. 
I,  trembling  like  Endymion  over-bent 
By  dazzling  Dian,  when  with  wonderment 
He  saw  her  crescent  light  the  Latmian  lea : 
And  like  a  Naiad's  sailing  on  the  sea, 

Floats  thy  fair  form  before  me :  the  azure  air 
Is  all  ambrosial  with  thy  hyacinth  hair : 
While  round  thy  lips  the  moth  in  airy  glee 
Hovers,  and  hums  in  dim  and  dizzy  dreams, 

Drunken  with  odorous  breath :  thy  argent  eyes 
(Twin  planets  swimming  through  love's  lustrous 

skies) 

Are  mirror'd  in  my  heart's  serenest  streams — 
Such  eyes  saw  Shakspeare,  flashing,  bold  and  bright, 
When  Queenly  Egypt  rode  the  Nile  at  night. 

*  Author  of  "  Coining  of  the  Mammoth  and  other  Po- 
ems," "  End}  mion,"  etc.  He  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia, 
and  has  recently  published  several  volumes  of  poems. 


540                                                  VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 

JAMES   BAYARD   TAYLOR.* 

Away  with  fear  !  the  battle  has  begun  ; 
Who  falters  now,  must  bear  a  craven  heart; 

On  with  a  glorious  hope,  and  it  is  won, 

LIFE 

Though  the  foe's  serried  ranks  around  me  start, 

I  FEKL  the  rush  of  waves  that  'round  me  rise  — 
The  tossing  of  my  bark  upon  the  sea  ; 
Few  sunbeams  linger  in  the  stormy  skies, 

And  friends,  faint-hearted,  from  my  side  depart. 
How  vain  are  all  the  toils  we  meet  with  here  — 
The  scourge  of  wrong  and  care's  envenom'd  dart  — 
If  we  but  lecl  a  better  world  is  near 

And  youth's  bright  shore  is  lessening  on  the  lee  ! 
There,  when  I  dwelt,  I  wildly  long'd  to  be 

And  voices  from  the  loved  and  lost  our  weary 
spirits  cheer  ! 

Out  on  the  heaving  waters.     Now  my  heart 

Owns  cares  my  thoughtless  childhood  could  not  see, 

» 

Or,  seeing,  feared  not  ;  duties  round  me  start, 

And  toils  that  mark  the  brow  ere  boyhood's  years 

H.  R.  JACKSON.* 

depart. 

The  soul  needs  stronger  armour  for  the  fight, 

THE  FATHER'S  DEATH. 

Than  that  it  wore  in  morning's  idle  hours  ; 

Relying  on  its  own  unaided  might, 

As  die  the  embers  on  the  hearth, 

And,  God-sustain'd,  its  great  and  lofty  powers 

And  o'er  the  floor  the  shadows  fall, 

Will  bear  it  through  the  strife  that  threat'ning 

And  creeps  the  chirping  cricket  forth, 

lowers  ; 

And  ticks  the  death-watch  in  the  wall  — 

While  struggles  here  and  there  a  sunny  ray 

I  see  a  form  in  yonder  chair, 

From  brighter  skies  —  my  steps  are  not  on  flowers  — 

That  grows  beneath  the  waning  light  — 

A  Python  watches  near  Life's  entrance-way, 

There  are  the  wan,  sad  features  —  there 

And,  like  Hyperion  bold,  I  arm  me  for  the  Iray. 

The  pallid  brow,  and  locks  of  white  ! 

Sometimes  my  heart  will  sink  when  I  behold 

My  Father  !  when  they  laid  thee  down, 

What  toils,  what  trials  in  the  future  lie  ; 
I  fear  its  fiery  zeal  may  soon  grow  cold 

And  heap'd  the  clay  upon  thy  breast, 
And  left  thee  sleeping  all  alone 

To  the  pure  promptings  of  a  nature  high  — 

Upon  thy  narrow  couch  of  rest  — 

Born  of  that  flame  whose  glow  can  never  die  ; 

I  know  not  why,  I  could  not  weep  — 

That  the  cold  scorn  of  worldly  ones  and  proud, 

The  soothing  drops  refused  to  roll, 

Who  do  not  see  the  dust  in  which  they  lie, 

And  oh  !  that  grief  is  wild  and  deep, 

Will  check  the  impulse  of  a  spirit,  vow'd 

Which  settles  tearless  on  the  soul  ! 

To  feel  and  act  for  all,  whom  wrong  or  wo  hath 

bow'd. 

But  when  I  saw  thy  vacant  chair  — 

For  few  there  are  who  know  how  longs  the  soul 
To  grasp  at  higher  and  sublimer  things  ; 
What  dreams  of  glory  o'er  its  vision  roll  — 
What  heavenly  sunshine  glows  upon  its  wings! 
How,  soaring  up,  the  dross  of  earth  it  flings 
And  speaks  with  spirits  in  a  purer  sphere  ; 
Few  bend  to  drink  at  those  eternal  springs 

Thine  idle  hat  upon  the  wall  — 
Thy  book  —  the  pencil'd  passage  where 
Thine  eye  had  rested  last  of  all  ; 
The  tree  beneath  whose  friendly  shade 
Thy  trembling  feet  had  wander'd  forth  — 
The  very  prints  those  feet  had  made 
When  last  they  feebly  trod  the  earth  ; 

Where  Fancy,  Truth,  and  Feeling  linger  near, 
And  make  the  soul  forget  the  ill  it  suffers  here  ! 

And  thought,  while  countless  ages  fled, 
Thy  vacant  seat  would  vacant  stand  — 

Yet  there  are  times  when,  worn  by  wasting  strife, 
The  heart  forgets  its  duty  and  its  power  ; 
How  strange  seems  then  the  mystery  of  life  — 
How  drcamy-like  and  vague  the  present  hour! 
Though  black'ning  clouds  about  the  future  lower, 
We  heed  them  not,  by  toil  and  doubt  o'ercome, 

Unworn  thy  hat,  thy  book  unread, 
Effaced  thy  footsteps  from  the  sand  — 
And  widow'd  in  this  cheerless  world, 
The  heart  that  gave  its  love  to  thee  — 
Torn,  like  a  vine  whose  tendrils  curl'd 
More  closely  round  the  falling  tree  !  — 

While    on    our    minds    the    swift    forebodings 

Oh,  father  !  the  n  for  her  and  thee 

shower  — 
How  sped  the  spirit  from  its  distant  home, 
And  where,  when  life  is  o'er,  its  bolder  wing  will 

Gush'd  madly  forth  the  scorching  tears, 
And  oft,  and  long,  and  bitterly, 
Those  tears  have  gush'd  in  later  years  ; 

roam  ? 

For  as  the  world  grows  cold  around, 

And  things  take  on  their  real  hue, 

•Mr.  TAYLOR  is  a  native  of  Chester  County,  Pennsyl- 
vania.   Since  the  first  edition  of  this  work  was    pub- 

'Tis sad  to  learn  that  love  is  found 
Alone  above  the  stars,  with  you  ! 

lished  he  commenced  his  literary  life  with  a  volume  en- 

titled "  Ximena  and  other  Poems,"  and  in  184fi  he  gave 

to  the  public  "  Views  a-Foot,  or  Europe  Seen  with  Knap- 

* A  resident,  and,  I  believe,  a  native   of  Georgia. 

sack  and  Staff,"  in  two  volumes.  He  is  one  of  the  young- 

Some of  his   poems,  published  since   1840,  are  distin- 

est and  most  promising  authors  of  the  country. 

guished  for  much  simplicity  and  feeling. 

VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 


541 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ.* 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  HEART. 

THE  heart  is  a  city  teeming  with  life — 
Through  all  its  gay  avenues,  rife 

With  gladness 
And  innocent  madness, 
Bright  beings  are  passing  along, 
Too  fleeting  and  fair  for  the  eye  to  behold, 

While  something  of  Paradise  sweetens  their  song. 
They  are  gliding  away  with  their  wild  gushing  ditty, 

Out  of  the  city, 

Out  of  the  beautiful  gates  of  gold  ! 
Through  gates  that  are  ringing 
While  to  and  fro  swinging, 
Swinging  and  ringing  ceaselessly, 
Like  delicate  hands  that  are  clapp'd  in  glee, 
Beautiful  hands  of  infancy  ! 

The  heart  is  a  city — and  gay  are  the  feet 
That  dances  along 
To  the  joyous  beat 

Of  the  timbrel  that  giveth  a  pulse  to  song. 
Bright  creatures  enwreath'd 
With  flowers  and  mirth, 
Fair  maidens  bequeath'd 

With  the  glory  of  earth, 

Sweep  through  the  long  street,  and  singing  await, 
A  moment  await  at  the  wonderful  gate ; 
Every  second  of  time  there  comes  to  depart 
Some  form  that  no  more  shall  revisit  the  heart ! 
They  are  gliding  away  and  breathing  farewell — 
How  swiftly  they  pass 
Through  the  gates  of  brass — 
Through  gates  that  are  ringing 
While  to  and  fro  swinging, 

And  making  deep  sounds,  like  the  half-stifled  swell 
Of  the  far  away  ring  of  a  gay  marriage  bell ! 

The  heart  is  a  city  with  splendour  bedight, 
Where  tread  martial  hosts  array'd  for  the  fight, 
Under  banner-hung  arches, 
To  war-kindling  marches, 
To  the  fife  and  the  rattle 
Of  drums,  with  gay  colours  unfurl'd, 

On,  eager  for  battle, 
To  smite  their  bright  spears  on  the  spears  of  the 

world ! 
Through    noontime,   through    midnight,  list   and 

thoul't  hear 

The  gates  swing  in  front,  then  clang  in  the  rear. 
Like  a  bright  river  flowing, 
The  war-host  is  going ; 
And,  like  that  river, 
Returning,  ah,  never ! 

Through  daylight  and  darkness  low  thunder  is  heard 
From  the  city  that  flings 
Her  iron-wrought  wings, 
Flapping  the  air  like  the  wings  of  a  bird  ! 

*Mr.  READ  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  and  at  a  very- 
early  age  has  become  eminent  ns  an  artist.  Since  the 
beginning  of  1847  he  has  published  a  volume  of  Poems, 
which  cive  promise  of  his  alMinins;  still  higher  reputa- 
tion in  literature.  I  re«n-t  that  the:r  late  appearance  for- 
biiis  a  present  attempt  to  do  them  justice. 


The  heart  is  a  city — how  sadly  and  slow, 

To  and  fro, 

Cover'd  with  rust,  the  solemn  gates  go ! 
With  meek  folded  palms, 
With  heads  bending  lowly, 
Strange  beings  pass  slowly, 
Through  the  dull  avenues  chanting  their  psalms; 
Sighing  and  mourning  they  follow  the  dead 
Out  of  the  gates  that  fall  heavy  as  lead — 
Passing,  how  sadly,  with  echoless  tread, 

The  last  one  is  fled  ! 

No  more  to  be  open'd,  the  gates  softly  close, 
And  shut  in  a  stranger  who  loves  the  repose; 
With  no  sigh  for  the  past,  with  countenance  of  pity 
He  spreads  his  black  flag  o'er  the  desolate  city  ! 


CORNELIUS  MATHEWS.* 


THE  JOURNALIST. 

As  shakes  the  canvas  of  a  thousand  ships, 
Struck  by  a  heavy  land-breeze,  far  at  sea — 

Ruffle  the  thousand  broad-sheets  of  the  land, 
Fill'd  with  the  people's  breath  of  potency  ; 

A  thousand  images  the  hour  will  take,  [who  sings; 

From  him  who  strikes,  who  rules,  who  speaks, 
Many  within  the  hour  their  grave  to  make — 

Many  to  live,  far  in  the  heart  of  things. 

A  dark-eyed  spirit  he  who  coins  the  time, 
To  virtue  wrong,  in  base  disloyal  lies — 

Who  makes  the  morning's  breath,  the  evening's  tide, 
The  uttering  of  his  blighting  forgeries. 

How  beautiful  who  scatters,  wide  and  free, 

The  gold-bright  seeds  of  loved  and  loving  truth ! 

By  whose  perpetual  hand  each  day  supplied — 
Leaps  to  new  life  the  empire's  heart  of  youth. 

To  know  the  instant  and  to  speak  it  true — 
Its  passing  lights  of  joy,  its  dark,  and  cloud, 

To  fix  upon  the  unnumber'd  gazers'  view, 
Is  to  thy  ready  hand's  broad  strength  allow'd. 

There  is  an  in-wrought  life  in  every  hour, 
Fit  to  be  chronicled  at  large  and  told — 

'Tis  thine  to  pluck  to  light  its  secret  power, 
And  on  the  air  its  many-coloured  heart  unfold. 

The  angel  that  in  sand-dropped  minutes  lives, 
Demands  a  message  cautious  as  the  ages — 

Who  stuns,  with  dusk-red  words  of  hate,  his  ear, 
That  mighty  power  to  boundless  wrath  enrages. 

Hell  not  the  quiet  of  a  Chosen  Land, 

Thou  grimy  man  over  thine  engine  bending ; 

The  spirit  pent  that  breathes  the  life  into  its  limbs, 
Docile  for  love  is  tyrannous  in  rending. 

Obey,  Rhinoceros  !  an  infant's  hand, 

Leviathan  !  obey  the  fisher  mild  and  young, 

Vex'd  Ocean !  smile,  for  on  thy  broad-beat  sand 
The  little  curlew  pipes  his  shrilly  song. 

*  Mr.  MATHEWS  is  best  known  as  author  of  "The 
Motley  Book,"  "Behemoth,"  "Puffer  Hopkins,"  and 
other  prose  writing's.  .Since  the  appearance  of  the  first 
edition  of  this  work  he  has  published  two  volumes  ot 
poems,  entitled  "  Wakondah,  the  Master  of  Life,"  and 
"Man  in  the  Republic." 

2Z 


542 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


THEODORE  S.  FAY.' 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

COLUMBIA,  was  thy  continent  stretch'd  wild, 
In  later  ages,  the  huge  seas  above  1 
And  art  thou  Nature's  youngest,  fairest  child, 
Most  favour'd  by  thy  gentle  mother's  love  1 
Where  now  we  stand,  did  ocean  monsters  rove, 
Tumbling  uncouth,  in  those  dim,  vanish'd  years, 
When  through  the  Red  Sea  PHARAOH'S  thousands 

drove, 

When  struggling  JOSEPH  dropp'd  fraternal  tears, 
When  GOD  came  down  from  heaven,  and  mortal 
men  were  seers  1 

Or,  have  thy  forests  waved,  thy  rivers  run, 
Elysian  solitudes,  untrod  by  man, 
Silent  and  lonely,  since,  around  the  sun, 
Her  ever-wheeling  circle  earth  began  1 
Thy  unseen  flowers  did  here  the  breezes  fan, 
With  wasted  perfume  ever  on  them  flung  ? 
And  o'er  thy  showers  neglected  rainbows  span, 
When  ALEXANDER  fought,  when  HOMER  sung, 
And  the  old  populous  world  with  thundering  battle 
rung! 

Yet,  what  to  me,  or  when,  or  how  thy  birth, — 
No  musty  tomes  are  here  to  tell  of  thee  ; 
None  know,  if  cast  when  nature  first  the  earth 
Shaped  round,  and  clothed  with  grass,  and  flower, 

and  tree, 

Or  whether  since,  by  changes,  silently, 
Of  sand,  and  shell,  and  wave,  thy  wonders  grew; 
Or  if,  before  man's  little  memory, 
Some  shock  stupendous  rent  the  globe  in  two, 
And  thee,  a  fragment,  far  in  western  oceans  threw. 

I  know  but  that  I  love  thee.     On  my  heart, 
Like  a  dear  friend's,  are  stamp'd  thy  features  now; 
Though  there  the  Roman  or  the  Grecian  art 
Hath  lent,  to  deck  thy  plain  and  mountain  brow, 
No  broken  temples,  fain  at  length  to  bow,    [time. 
Moss-grown  and  crumbling  with  the  weight  of 
Not  these  o'er  thee  their  mystic  splendours  throw, 
Themes  eloquent  for  pencil  or  for  rhyme, 
As  many  a  soul  can  tell  that  pours  its  thoughts 
sublime. 

But  thou  art  sternly  artless,  wildly  free: 
We  worship  thee  for  beauties  all  thine  own : 
Like  damsel,  young  and  sweet,  and  sure  to  be 
Admired,  but  only  for  herself  alone. 
With  richer  foliage  ne'er  was  land  o'ergrown, 
No  mightier  rivers  run,  nor  mountains  rise, 
Nor  ever  lakes  with  lovelier  graces  shone, 
Nor  wealthier  harvests  waved  in  human  eyes, 
Nor  lay  more  liquid  stars  along  more  heavenly  skies. 

I  dream  of  thee,  fairest  of  fairy  streams, 
Sweet  Hudson !  Float  we  on  thy  summer  breast, 
Who  views  thy  enchanted  windings  ever  deems 
Thy  banks,  of  mortal  shores,  the  loveliest ! 
Hail  to  thy  shelving  slopes,  with  verdure  dress'd, 

*  Author  of  "  Norman  I.pslie,''  "The  Countess  Ida,1' 
etc.,  and  now  Secretary  of  Legation  at  Berlin.  lie  is  a 
native  of  New  York. 


Bright  break  thy  waves  the  varied  beach  upon; 
Soft  rise  thy  hills,  by  amorous  clouds  caress'd ; 
Clear  flow  thy  waters,  laughing  in  the  sun — 
Would  through  such  peaceful  scenes  my  life  might 
gently  run! 

And,  lo !  the  Catskilts  print  the  distant  sky, 
And  o'er  their  airy  tops  the  faint  clouds  driven, 
So  softly  blending,  that  the  cheated  eye 
Forgets  or  which  is  earth  or  which  is  heaven, — 
Sometimes,  like  thunder-clouds,  they  shade  the 

even, 

Till,  as  you  nearer  draw,  each  wooded  height 
Puts  off  the  azure  hues  by  distance  given; 
And  slowly  break  upon  the  enamour'd  sight 
Ravine,  crag,  field,  and  wood,  in  colouis  true  and 

bright. 

Mount  to  the  cloud-kiss'd  summit.     Far  below 
Spreads  the  vast  champaign  like  a  shoreless  sea. 
Mark  yonder  narrow  streamlet  feebly  flow, 
Like  idle  brook  that  creeps  ingloriously ; 
Can  that  the  lovely,  lordly  Hudson  be, 
Stealing  by  town  and  mountain!    Who  beholds, 
At  break  of  day  this  scene,  when,  silently, 
Its  map  of  field,  wood,  hamlet,  is  unroll'd, 
While,  in  the  east,  the  sun  uprears  his  locks  of  gold, 

Till  earth  receive  him  never  can  forget  1 
Even  when  return'd  amid  the  city's  roar, 
The  fairy  vision  haunts  his  memory  yet, 
As  in  the  sailor's  fancy  shines  the  shore. 
Imagination  cons  the  moment  o'er, 
When  first-discovcr'd,  awe-struck  and  amazed, 
Scarce  loftier  JOVE — whom  men  and  gods  adore — 
On  the  extended  earth  beneath  him  gazed, 
Temple,  and  tower,  and  town,  by  human  insect 
raised. 

Blow,  scented  gale,  the  snowy  canvass  swell, 
And  flow,  thou  silver,  eddying  current  on. 
Grieve  we  to  bid  each  lovely  point  farewell, 
That,  ere  its  graces  half  are  seen,  is  gone. 
By  woody  bluff  we  steal,  by  leaning  lawn, 
By  palace,  village,  cot,  a  sweet  surprise, 
At  every  turn  the  vision  freaks  upon; 
Till  to  our  wondering  and  uplifted  eyes        [rise. 
The  Highland  rocks  and  hills  in  solemn  grandeur 

Nor  clouds  in  heaven,  nor  billows  in  the  deep, 
More  graceful  shapes  did  ever  heave  or  roll, 
Nor  came  such  pictures  to  a  painter's  sleep,    • 
Nor  beam'd  such  visions  on  a  poet's  soul ! 
The  pent-up  flood,  impatient  of  control, 
In  ages  past  here  broke  its  granite  bound, 
Then  to  the  sou  in  broad  meanders  stole, 
While  ponderous  ruins  strew'd  the  broken  ground, 
And  these  gigantic  hills  forever  closed  around. 

And  ever-wakeful  echo  here  doth  dwell, 
The  nymph  of  sportive  mockery,  that  still 
Hides  behind  every  rock,  in  every  dell, 
And  softly  glides,  unseen,  from  hill  to  hill, 
No  sound  doth  rise  but  mimic  it  she  will, — 
The  sturgeon's  splash  repeating  from  the  shore, 
Aping  the  boy's  voice  with  a  voice  as  shrill, 
The  bird's  low  warble,  p.nd  the  thunder's  roar, 
Always  she  watches  there,  each  murmur  telling  o'er. 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


Awake,  my  lyre,  with  other  themes  inspired. 
Where  yon  bold  point  repels  the  crystal  tide, 
The  Briton  youth,  lamented  and  admired, 
His  country's  hope,  her  ornament  and  pride, 
A  traitor's  death  ingloriously  died, 
On  freedom's  altar  ofFer'd ;  in  the  sight 
Of  GOD,  by  men  who  will  their  act  abide, 
On  the  great  day,  and  hold  their  deed  aright, 

To  stop  the  breath  would  quench  young  freedom's 

holy  light. 

But  see  !  the  broadening  river  deeper  flows, 
Its  tribute  floods  intent  to  reach  the  sea, 
While,  from  the  west,  the  fading  sunlight  throws 
Its  softening  hues  on  stream,  and  field,  and  tree; 
All  silent  nature  bathing,  wondrously, 
In  charms  that  soothe  the  heart  with  sweet  desires, 
And  thoughts  of  friends  we  ne'er  again  may  see, 
Till,  lo  !  ahead  Manhatta's  bristling  spires, 

Above  her  thousand  roofs  red  with  day's  dying  fires. 

May  greet  the  wanderer  of  Columbia's  shore, 
Proud  Venice  of  the  west !  no  lovelier  scene. 
Of  thy  vast  throngs  now  faintly  comes  the  roar, 
Though  late  like  beating  ocean  surf  I  ween, — 
And  everywhere  thy  various  barks  are  seen, 
Cleaving  the  limpid  floods  that  round  thee  flow, 
Encircled  by  thy  banks  of  sunny  green, — 
The  panting  steamer  plying  to  and  fro, 
Or  the  tall  sea-bound  ship  abroad  on  wings  of  snow. 

And  radiantly  upon  the  glittering  mass 
The  god  of  day  his  parting  glances  sends, 
As  some  warm  soul,  from  earth  about  to  pass, 
Back  on  its  fading  scenes  and  mourning  friends 
Deep  words  of  love  and  looks  of  rapture  bends, 
More  bright  and  bright,  as  near  their  end  they  be. 
On,  on,  great  orb !  to  earth's  remotest  ends, 
Each  land  irradiate,  and  every  sea — 
But  O,  my  native  land,  not  one,  not  one  like  thee! 


C.  C.  MOORE/ 


FROM  A  FATHER  TO  HIS  CHILDREN, 

AFTER  HAVING  HAD  HIS  PORTRAIT  TAKEN  FOR  THE3I. 

THIS  semblance  of  your  parent's  time-worn  face 
Is  but  a  sad  bequest,  my  children  dear: 

Its  youth  and  freshness  gone,  and  in  their  place 
The  lines  of  care,  the  tracks  of  many  a  tear! 

Amid  life's  wreck,  we  struggle  to  secure 

Some  floating  fragment  from  oblivion's  wave: 

We  pant  for  something  that  may  still  endure, 
And  snatch  at  least  a  shadow  from  the  grave. 

Poor,  weak,  and  transient  mortals  !  why  so  vain 
Of  manly  vigour,  or  of  beauty's  bloom? 

An  empty  shade  for  ages  may  remain 

When  we  have  moulder'd  in  the  silent  tomb. 

But  no !  it  is  not  we  who  moulder  there, 
We,  of  essential  light  that  ever  burns ; 

We  take  our  way  through  untried  fields  of  air, 
When  to  the  earth  this  earth-born  frame  returns. 


*  CLEMENT  C.  MOORE,  formerly  one  of  the  professors 
in  Columbia  College,  resides  in  New  York.  A  collection 
of  his  "  Poems,"  in  one  volume,  was  published  in  1845. 


And  'tis  the  glory  of  the  master's  art 

Some  radiance  of  this  inward  light  to  find, 

Some  touch  that  to  his  canvass  may  impart 
A  breath,  a  sparkle  of  the  immortal  mind. 

Alas !  the  pencil's  noblest  power  can  show 
But  some  faint  shadow  of  a  transient  thought, 

Some  waken'd  feeling's  momentary  glow, 
Some  swift  impression  in  its  passage  caught 

0  that  the  artist's  pencil  could  portray 
A  father's  inward  bosom  to  your  eyes, 

What  hopes,  and  fears,  and  doubts  perplex  his  way, 
What  aspirations  for  your  welfare  rise. 

Then  might  this  unsubstantial  image  prove, 
When  I  am  gone,  a  guardian  of  your  youth, 

A  friend  for  ever  urging  you  to  move 
In  paths  of  honour,  holiness,  and  truth. 

Let  fond  imagination's  power  supply 

The  void  that  baffles  all  the  painter's  art; 

And  when  those  mimic  features  meet  your  eye, 
Then  fancy  that  they  speak  a  parent's  heart. 

Think  that  you  still  can  trace  within  those  eyes 
The  kindling  of  affection's  fervid  beam, 

The  searching  glance  that  every  fault  espies, 
The  fond  anticipation's  pleasing  dream. 

Fancy  those  lips  still  utter  sounds  of  praise, 
Or  kind  reproof  that  checks  each  wayward  will, 

The  warning  voice,  or  precepts  that  may  raise 
Your  thoughts  above  this  treacherous  world  of  ill. 

And  thus  shall  Art  attain  her  loftiest  power; 

To  noblest  purpose  shall  her  efforts  tend: 
Not  the  companion  of  an  idle  hour, 

But  Virtue's  handmaid  and  Religion's  friend 


F.  S.  KEY.* 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

O !  SAT,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hail'd  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming ; 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the 

perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watch'd,  were  so  gallantly 

streaming! 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 

there ; 

0 !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  1 

On  the  shore,diml y  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence 
reposes, 

What  U  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep 
As  it  fitfully  Mows,  half-conceals,  half-discloses  1 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam; 

Its  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 

'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner,  O !  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

*ThelateMr.  KEY  \va?  a  native  of  Baltimore.  This  songis 
siiimoM'il  to  h;ive  been  written  by  a  prisoner  on  board  the 
British  fleet,  on  the  morning  nfter  the  unsuccessful  bom- 
bardment of  Fort  McIIenry. 


544 


VARIOUS   AUTHORS. 


And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 
Mid  the  havoc  of  war  arid  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  they  'd  leave  us  no  more  7 
Their  blood  hath  wash'd  out  their  foul  footsteps' 

pollution ; 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and -slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

0  !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 
Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  deso- 
lation ; 

Bless'd  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven- 
rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved 

us  a  nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "In  Gon  is  oui* trust," 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


JOSEPH  HOPKINSON.* 


HAIL,  COLUMBIA. 

HAII,,  Columbia !  happy  land ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes !  heaven-born  band ! 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause,' 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoy'd  the  peace  your  valour  won. 
Let  independence  be  our  boast, 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 
Firm — united — let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  Liberty ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  join'd, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 


*  With  the  popular  national  songs,  "  The  Star-spangled 
Banner"  and  "  Hail, Columbia,"  I  bring  to  a  close  this 
volume  of  specimens  of  American  poetry.  These  lyrics 
have  not  much  poetic  merit,  but  they  are  as  well  known 
throughout  the  United  States  as  the  Rhine  Song-  is  in  Ger- 
many, or  the  Marseilles  Hymn  in  France.  The  late  excel- 
lent Judge  HopKiNsoN,ta  few  months  before  his  death, 
addressed  to  me  a  letter  from  which  I  quote  the  following 
account  of  the  circumstances  attending  the  composition 
of  "  Hail,  Columbia :" 

"It  was  written  in  the  sumnterof  1798,  when  war  with 
France  was  thought  to  be  inevitable.  Congress  was  then 
in  session  in  Philadelphia,deliberating  upon  that  important 
subject,  and  acts  of  hostility  had  actually  taken  place. 
The  contest  between  England  and  France  was  raging,  and 
the  people  of  the  United  States  were  divided  into  parties 
for  thn  one  side  or  the  other,  some  thinking  that  policy 
and  duty  required  us  to  espouse  the  cause  of  republican 
France,  as  she  was  called;  while  others  were  for  con- 
necting ourselves  with  England,  under  the  belief  that  she 
was  the  great  preservative  power  of  good  principles  and 
safe  government.  The  violation  of  our  rishts  by  both 
lii'lllL'iTi'ntsj  was  forcing  us  from  the  just  and  wise  policy 
of  President  WASHINGTON,  which  was  to  do  equal  justice 


tThe  Honourable  Joseph  Hopkins'in.  LI,.  D.  Viee-Preiidtnt  of  (he  Ame- 
rican Philosophical  Society,  and  President  of  ih-  Pennsylvania  Academy  of 
Fine  Arts,  etc..  (tie!  in  PhiUlelphia  on  the  fifteenth  of  January,  1S42,  iii'tho 
.•ii-l  ye.ir  of  his  aji:     He  u i,  .1  s»u  of  Fnii.cis  Hopkinson,  one  of 
the  most  distinguished  patriots  of  the  Revolution. 

Sttreotvped  by  L.  Johnson,  Philadelphia. 


Immortal  patriots  !  rise  once  more  ; 

Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore; 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 

Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 

Of  toil  and  blood  the  wcll-earn'd  prize. 
While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just, 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 
Firm — united,  &c. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame ! 

Let  WASHINGTON'S  great  name 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 
Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause: 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 

With  equal  skill,  and  godlike  power, 
He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war ;  or  guides,  with  ease, 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 
Firm — united,  &c. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country,  stands — 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat : 
But,  arm'd  in  virtue  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fix'd  on  Heaven  and  you. 
When  Hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
And  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty. 
Firm — united,  &c. 

to  both,  to  take  part  with  neither,  but  to  preserve  a  strict 
and  honest  neutrality  between  them.  The  prospect  of  a 
rupture  with  France  was  exceedingly  offensive  to  the  por 
tion  of  the  people  who  espoused  her  cause,  and  the  vio- 
lence of  the  spirit  of  party  has  never  risen  higher,  I  think 
not  so  high,  in  our  country,  as  it  did  at  that  time, upon  that 
question.  The  theatre  was  then  open  in  our  city.  A  young 
man  belonging  to  it,  whose  talent  was  as  a  singer,  was 
about  to  take  his  benefit.  I  had  known  him  when  he 
was  at  school.  On  this  acquaintance,  he  called  on  me 
one  Saturday  afternoon,  his  benefit  being  announced  for 
the  following  Monday.  His  prospects  were  very  disheart- 
ening; but  he  said  that  if  he  could  get  a  patriotic  song 
adapted  to  the  tune  of  the  "President's  March,"  he  did 
not  doubt  of  a  full  house;  that  the  poets  of  the  theatrical 
corps  had  been  trying  to  accomplish  it,  but  had  not  suc- 
ceeded. I  told  him  I  would  try  what  1  could  do  for  him. 
He  came  the  next  afternoon  ;  and  the  song,  such  as  it  is, 
was  ready  for  him.  The  object  of  the  author  was  to  get 
up  an  Jlmfrirnn  spirit,  which  should  be  independent  of, 
and  above  the  interests,  passions,  and  policy  of  both 
belligerents:  and  look  and  feel  exclusively  for  our  own 
honour  and  rights.  No  allusion  is  made  to  France  or 
England,  or  the  quarrel  between  them  :  or  to  the  ques- 
tion, which  was  most  in  fault  in  their  treatment  of  us: 
of  course  the  song  found  favour  with  both  parties,  for 
boll)  were  Americans  ;  at  least  neither  could  disavow  the 
sentiments  and  feelings  it  inculcated.  Such  is  the  history 
of  this  SOUL',  which  lias  endured  infinitely  beyond  the  ex- 
pectation of  the  author,  as  it  is  beyond  any  merit  it  can 
boast  of,  except  that  of  being  truly  and  exclusively  patri- 
otic in  its  sentiments  and  spirit. 

"  Very  respectfully,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

"JOS.    HOPKINSON. 

"Rev.  RUFUS  W.  GKISWOLD." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   i  IPU  A..V 

University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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A    001347617    1 


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